Page 37 of Behind Frenemy Lines

Hey, Charlie, all well? Shaw Boey here. My dad passed me your number. Might have a job for you. In Provence for the weekend, but give me a bell on Monday, will you?

Gave me a start to see Shaw’s name. Haven’t seen him in years. Not in touch with anyone from school except the Odds & Sods (name of WhatsApp group), bunch of foreign misfits everyone else hated. We meet biannually, which means either twice a year or once every two years, depending on how busy people are.

Shaw was foreign too—Malaysian, but his family was based in Hong Kong for a while. His dad was a friend of Ba’s in the old days. Ba used to ask after Shaw, as though we were mates.

He didn’t understand that Shaw was different. People at school liked him. He kept well away from the rest of us. Couldn’t blame him, considering. It was understood among the Odds & Sods that nobody spent time with us unless they had no choice. Strange to hear from him like this, out of the blue.

Put away my phone without answering. I’d find out what it was all about on Monday. In the meantime, I had other things to worry about.

Regent’s Park is the second-least-used Tube station in Zone 1. (Least used is Lambeth North.) Went up a narrow passage with green-tiled walls, up a flight of stairs, and into the sunshine. Kriya was waiting by the cream wall by the station exit.

She was wearing a sleeveless green dress with a square neckline, a shawl draped loosely over her arms. Dress fabric was some sort of satin, draped around the bust, nipped in at the waist and hugging her hips. Lower-cut than anything she’d ever worn to work. Hair loose over her shoulders. She was wearing earrings like gold bells with small white pearls hanging from them, and her lips were dark red, like the flesh of a black plum.

She looked incredible.

Stopped so suddenly the bloke behind me walked into me and shouted, inexplicably: “Fuck off! Wee Willie Winkie!”

Kriya looked around and spotted me. Her jaw dropped.

CG: “Hi.”

Kriya was wearing a thin gold chain around her neck, with a crescent-shaped gold pendant that drew the eye down to her frankly amazing breasts. If you were so incautious as to let the eye be so drawn. Which I was not.

Kriya: “Charles, what are youwearing?”

Right. Forgot about my outfit.

Kriya looking anxious: “Am I going to be overdressed? You said it was standard wedding attire, so I went with this.”

Charles: “No, it’s fine. What you’ve got on is perfect. You look really, really good.”

Shut my mouth, two seconds too late. Should have cut it off at the first “really.” Should have avoided intensifiers altogether. Not appropriate language to be using with a colleague. All your office roommate wants to hear from you is unadorned adjectives.

CG, hurrying on: “It is standard wedding attire, for most of the guests. I’m just matching the theme.”

Kriya staring at me like I was an alien. “You look like you’re about to play badminton.”

I was in a blue jersey, white shorts with black stripes, and blue trainers. Could have been dressed to play anything from table tennis to squash, but the badminton racquet I was holding was probably a giveaway.

CG: “Yes. It’s based on the Japanese national men’s team uniform for the 2012 Olympics.”

Kriya: “So… it’s a badminton-themed wedding?”

CG: “Not quite.” Paused. “Have you ever heard of a TV series calledThe Duke of Badminton?”

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Kriya

Charles was luckyit was a warm, sunny day. I stuffed my shawl in my tote as we walked along the elegant curve of Park Crescent, lined with a semicircle of cream-coloured Regency-era houses.

I wasn’t sure I was so lucky. Charles’s top was sleeveless—presumably it was the Japanese national men’s badminton team summer uniform. It was the first time I’d ever seen his upper arms.

I’d thought his forearms were good when I’d seen them at the pub, but that was before I’d been treated to a sight of his biceps. They made me feel slightly faint.

His shorts also revealed far more of the thigh than was comfortable in a colleague. Not to mention his calves. Charles was evidently not in the habit of skipping leg day.

Stop perving on the poor man, Kriya.

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