Stephen Leather - False Friends

He’d done as his father had asked and made contact with Jamila on Facebook. She had accepted his friendship within an hour and he’d immediately gone to her page. There were several dozen photographs of her with her family, on holiday, and doing her volunteer work in Pakistan. Most of her friends seemed to be either girls or fellow students at UCL. Her hobbies were tennis and the theatre and she liked listening to Rihanna and Lady Gaga. In none of the photographs did she seem to have a boyfriend and her relationship status was single.

They’d messaged each other back and forth through Facebook and posted stuff on each other’s walls, mainly music videos that they liked or YouTube videos of animals doing stupid things. Then one day she’d said that she was having a boring week and he offered to take her for a meal and she’d accepted. So they still hadn’t spoken, and he wasn’t a hundred per cent certain that he would recognise her in a crowd. The pictures on her Facebook page gave off mixed messages. In Pakistan she was never without a headscarf and had her arms and legs covered, but there were pictures of her playing tennis on a grass court wearing very short shorts.

He swirled the ice cubes around his glass with his finger and when he looked up he realised that he’d been wrong to think that he wouldn’t recognise her in a crowd. She was standing at the entrance, looking around, her chin up confidently, a slight smile on her face. Her skin was a rich caramel colour, her hair black and glossy, longer than it was in her pictures, but her eyes were her most striking feature: so brown they were almost black, with lashes that were so long they might have belonged to a cartoon character.

She was wearing a long coat and had a Louis Vuitton bag over her left shoulder, and as she turned in his direction the coat opened to reveal a tight skirt that ended just above the knee, the legs of a catwalk model and black high heels. As he looked up from the shoes he realised that she was looking at him and he stood up. His hand knocked against his glass and the water spilled over his trousers. He jumped back, cursing, and the glass fell on to the tiled floor, shattering into a dozen pieces. All the diners turned to look at the noise and Chaudhry felt his cheeks redden. He bent down to pick up the pieces of glass but a blonde waitress rushed over and said that she’d take care of it for him. As Chaudhry picked up his napkin and pressed it against the damp patch on his trousers, Jamila walked up to him.

‘Oh dear, are you okay?’ she asked, and Chaudhry was amazed to hear a Scottish accent until he remembered that she was from Glasgow.

‘Sure. Yes. No problem.’ He carried on dabbing at his groin. ‘I’m such a klutz.’

‘Nice to meet you, Mr Klutz,’ she said. Her grin widened and she held out her hand. ‘I’m Jamila.’

‘Yes, of course you are,’ said Chaudhry. He held out his right hand and then realised that he was still holding his napkin. He apologised, transferred it to his left hand and shook hands with her. Her skin was soft and smooth and her fingernails were bright pink with gold tips. ‘Great to finally meet you,’ he said. ‘In person, I mean.’

The waitress had put most of the pieces of broken glass on her tray. She stood up and smiled at Chaudhry. ‘Why don’t I move you to a table downstairs?’ she said. ‘Save you waiting while I finish cleaning up.’

Chaudhry smiled at her gratefully. She took the two of them down the staircase to the lower floor and handed them over to a tall Australian waiter with a surfer’s physique and sun-bleached hair. He took Jamila’s coat, showed them to a table by the wall and gave them a couple of menus. Chaudhry ordered another bottle of water.

As the waiter walked away, Chaudhry apologised again. Jamila waved off his apology. ‘I’m forever knocking things over,’ she said. ‘I just hope I don’t do it in the lab or thousands of people could die.’

‘Are you serious?’

She grinned. ‘No, they haven’t let me near the dangerous stuff yet.’

‘I never liked microbiology,’ he said. ‘Everything is so. .’

‘Small?’

Chaudhry laughed. ‘Exactly. I prefer patients that I can talk to.’

‘But it’s micro-organisms that’ll be making a lot of them sick. Viruses and bacteria, they’re the big killers.’

‘Well, cancer, heart attacks and strokes are the big killers, but I know what you mean,’ he said. He winced as he realised how he’d managed to be both arrogant and patronising in the same sentence. ‘Sorry,’ he said.

‘Sorry?’

‘I mean, you’re right. It’s an important field.’

‘It can be boring at times,’ she said. ‘My dad wanted me to be a doctor but I told him that I couldn’t face spending the rest of my life around sick people.’

Chaudhry chuckled. ‘That would pretty much rule out medicine,’ he said.

‘I’m not even sure if I want to stay in science,’ she said. She shrugged. ‘Still, that’s part of the reason for being at university, isn’t it? To find yourself.’

Chaudhry nodded but couldn’t think of anything to say. He was finding it difficult to concentrate because every time he looked at her he got lost in her eyes.

‘Do you drink?’ asked Jamila, looking up from her menu.

He frowned, wondering if it was a trick question. He was a Muslim and Muslims didn’t touch alcohol. ‘Not really,’ he said. He grimaced. ‘Actually, not at all.’

‘Never? Not even a taste?’

Chaudhry chuckled again. ‘It would be like eating pork,’ he said. ‘I wouldn’t even want to try.’

She put down the menu, looking uncomfortable.

‘What’s wrong?’

‘Would you mind terribly if I had a glass of wine?’

‘Of course not.’

‘You’re sure?’

‘Sure I’m sure.’ He held up his hands. ‘Just because I don’t drink doesn’t mean others shouldn’t.’

The Australian waiter returned with the bottle of sparkling water. He poured it for them and Jamila asked for a glass of white wine. As he headed off she smiled at Chaudhry and his stomach turned over. She did have the most amazing smile.

‘So you don’t drink because you’re a Muslim?’ she asked.

Chaudhry nodded. ‘Sure. The Koran says intoxication is forbidden.’

‘Raj, I’m not planning to get drunk.’

‘I know, but that’s not what I meant.’ He felt his cheeks redden again. ‘I don’t know. . it’s just part of me. No alcohol. Pray five times a day.’

‘And one day you’ll make a pilgrimage to Mecca?’

‘Of course.’

‘And you give a percentage of your earnings to charity?’

‘I’m not actually earning yet. But when I am, yes, of course.’

She leaned forward and his stomach turned again as she smiled. ‘I’m making you uncomfortable. All this talk about religion. I’m sorry.’

‘You’re not. Really.’ That was a lie, he realised. But it wasn’t the conversation that was making him uncomfortable, it was her striking beauty. ‘Your father. Does he drink?’

‘He likes wine. But never more than two glasses.’

‘And he doesn’t ask you to cover your head when you go out?’

Jamila laughed, quickly covering her mouth with her hand. ‘Of course not.’ She laughed again. ‘Just the thought of it.’ She shook her head. ‘My dad’s not like that. He’s been in the UK since he was ten. And my mum was born here. I’ve never seen her wear so much as a headscarf.’

‘What about when she goes back to Pakistan?’

‘She’s never been,’ said Jamila. Glasgow’s her home. If you think I’ve got an accent, you should hear Mum. You couldn’t get her to Pakistan if you paid her.’

The waiter returned with Jamila’s wine. Chaudhry caught him smiling at Jamila in a way that made him want to grab him by the throat and slam him against the wall. He shook his head, wondering how she’d managed to provoke such strong feelings in such a short space of time. He’d been in her company for barely ten minutes and he was already jealous when another man even looked at her.