Boyfrenemy

by Catherine Rull

  “Do not call me sweetheart!” she says through clenched teeth, shouldering her bag, eyes like lasers on his. I’ve never seen her this mad before. “I have to go.”

  He doesn’t budge. Eyes on the tiled floor, she tries to step around him but he blocks her. It’s a small move for him considering their height difference.

  “Isabella…” Keats begins.

  “Leave me alone, you crazy fuck!” she snaps, looking up at him. “I’m marrying your brother in nine days. Now, this,”—she gesticulates wildly towards the pool and the two of them—“did not just happen. You hear me?”

  “Isabella, I think I’m still in lo—”

  She smacks him in the chest with her gear bag before storming out of the public pool complex.

  “Dammit!” he says, following her with his gaze.

  She seems to have forgotten to wait for me.

  “Smooth, Keats,” I say before chasing after the bride.

  Chapter 28

  “Be good, okay?” Isabella gives Byron’s cheek a lingering touch.

  Outside, a car horn beeps. It must be Keats, getting impatient. I don’t know whether he tried to contact Isabella after the pool fiasco last night but it seems he’s back to his best man duties twenty-four hours after stealing a kiss from the bride.

  Byron cups Isabella’s face and kisses her softly on the lips before shouldering his backpack and heading out the door.

  Honestly, I am so sick of these two. Talk about being co-dependent. Yeah, you’re in lurve. We get it. Isabella catches me rolling my eyes.

  “Men are notoriously stupid in big groups,” she justifies, mistaking the source of my dissent.

  “He’ll be fine. It’s a stag night. They won’t lose him like in The Hangover.”

  Her breath hitches at the mention of that wedding disaster movie.

  “Anyway, at least your wedding’s next week, instead of tomorrow,” I continue. “Plenty of time to find him, if he got lost…” I realise I should’ve stopped talking about thirty seconds ago, and wish the others would get here already. I’m just not a natural at throwing a party. “You ready for your hens’ night?”

  “I just hope Keats looks after Byron, you know? After last night—what was he thinking? I thought I’d made it clear it was over between us. I mean, this is going to be so awkward—he’s going to be my brother.”

  “In-law,” I add, though maybe I shouldn’t have. It’s actually a good thing that Isabella is completely off her ex-boyfriend. Sometimes my compulsion to correct people is faster than my sense of self-preservation.

  “It’s so weird that we’ve just kissed again.” Her hand unconsciously touches her lips. “I haven’t told Byron yet. It’s already bad enough that Keats was my boyfriend first.”

  “What, um, base did you get up to with Keats?”

  Isabella blushes. “I don’t want to think about it.” She dramatically shivers.

  I don’t either, but I’m sure my imagination is far worse than what they probably did. At least I hope so, considering I write erotic fiction. Oh, God. My mind went there. A lump of bile forms in my throat at the thought of Isabella and Keats making out. Last night was a nightmare that I’m still trying to gouge out of my mind’s eye.

  The doorbell rings. I answer it and find a tall, buff police officer, carrying a large, flat rectangular bag. He’s wearing Ray Ban aviator sunglasses, and a big smile beneath his fake tan.

  “You the bride?”

  “In there,” I motion behind me.

  He touches the bill of his cap at me and walks further into Isabella’s apartment.

  “Is Byron okay?” There is a catch in Isabella’s voice.

  “I would worry about you, ma’am,” the cop says as I join them in the living room.

  Isabella looks at me, then back at the tall guy whose very presence seems to fill the lounge area. I take a photo of her expression for posterity. She’ll appreciate the moment later.

  “What’s going on?” Isabella asks, using her “lawyer voice”.

  “Hi. I’m Will. I’ll be your naked masseuse this evening.”

  I’m a bit disappointed that Will doesn’t continue the ruse longer. He could’ve pretended to arrest her, at least. Though Ms Goodie-two-shoes lawyer has behaved impeccably in living memory, so any charge wouldn’t have fazed her. Unzipping the large bag he’s brought with him, Will extracts a foldable table from the fitted cloth cover.

  The doorbell rings again while he is locking the table leg joints.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” Penny’s loud voice muffles the softer greeting from Mia right behind her. “Sorry we’re late. The guy here yet?”

  I’m so glad he is, or Penny would’ve just ruined the surprise.

  “Woo!” She whoops at the sight of the buff man in the living room. “Hey, Will, right? When do you take your shirt off?”

  “As soon as the bride helps me,” he says, with a wink and grin at Isabella. He’s pretty cute, making me wonder if he has a worried girlfriend somewhere who secretly wishes he didn’t strip for a living.

  “No way.” Isabella looks horrified. “Penny, you booked this?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “You’re doing the unwrapping then.”

  Penny’s features break into a grin. Mia turns on some party music and I take photos as Penny scrunches Will’s shirt front and tugs the hem out of his black uniform pants. Mia joins Isabella on the couch, watching the show with a yearning that makes me wonder when her single-mother friend had sex last.

  “Are these Velcro or buttons?” Penny wonders out loud, bringing the material close to her face for a closer look. She so needs glasses.

  “I’ve got Velcro on everything,” Will says with a wry grin.

  “Cool. Including your pants? Do they come away like in those shows?”

  “Yep.”

  Penny grabs both sides of Will’s shirt in her hands then pulls them apart so suddenly, I make a mental note never to ask her to take a Band-Aid off me.

  “Oh, my God!” she says chuckling, staring at Will’s sculpted abdomen and chest. Personally, I find the fake tan, and greased up waxed chest too cheesy to admire. “Is that real? How much time do you spend at the gym?”

  Will raises a brow at her as if unused to her frank line of questioning.

  “I’m actually a personal trainer, too,” he admits. “Shall we get started? Who wants a massage first?”

  “I’m not nearly drunk enough to get naked yet,” Isabella declares, tucking a leg beneath herself on the sofa.

  “I’ll go!” Penny volunteers, raising her hand like she’s still in class at school.

  Will passes her a pink cotton robe and instructs her to come back in just her knickers.

  “You guys are crazy!” Penny says excitedly as she disappears into Isabella’s bathroom.

  “This works better after a few drinks,” Will tells us. “You ladies want a glass of something?”

  He looks at me, probably because I was the one who opened the door. It reminds me that I haven’t offered anyone anything to drink—that whole growing up in a barn thing again.

  “Um, yes. Right. We have champagne, real champagne,” I specify, sick of Isabella saying, “It’s not champagne unless it comes from a certain region in France.”

  “We also have red wine, white wine, vodka, rum, and juice. What do you guys want?”

  “I’ll help you,” Isabella offers, starting to stand up.

  “No, sit,” Mia insists. “You’re queen for a day today. And on your wedding day, of course. Might as well enjoy it.”

  “Okay. In that case, I’ll have champagne. Will, you want anything?”

  “I don’t drink on the job. Water would be great though.”

  By the time Mia and I get back from the kitchen, Penny has just lain face-down on the massage table. It took us a while to figure out how to take the cork off the champagne bottle without breaking a window or other glass in the kitchen. I was more of an alco-pop kind of drinker when I used to drink. Wine
had seemed too grown up and reminded me of my father who tried to kill himself with the cheapest, strongest grog he could afford—usually out of a wine box.

  Mia carries back her drink and Isabella’s. I have two champagne flutes in one of my giant hands (one with champagne for Penny and the other with orange juice for me), and Will’s big glass of water in the other.

  “Mimosa?” Penny asks, lifting her head slightly to look at me while I place a drink in one of her dangling hands. Mia was thoughtful enough to put a straw in it so that Penny can get massaged and sloshed at the same time.

  “No. Let’s make a toast,” I say. Again, Mia’s idea.

  They all look at me. Crap. I thought all I had to do was bring up the suggestion.

  “May Isabella and Byron stay happy together, forever,” I say, meaning it. I don’t know when it happened but I’ve realised that Isabella’s happiness doesn’t have to take away from my own. Especially if she finds that happiness with Byron instead of his brother.

  The others all raise their glasses and cheer.

  “All right, let’s get started,” Will says. He puts his hands on his pant legs and pulls. With a quick ripping sound, the Velcro separates on the sides and he’s left in just tight black boxer briefs with what could only be a large avocado and a hefty salami stuffed inside them.

  “Sorry. I forgot to wear my cup,” he says to Mia and me when he catches us ogling his package. He squirts massage oil onto his palm, then rubs his hands together vigorously to warm it, before touching Penny’s back.

  “You guys are crazy,” Penny says again, her voice distorted by her squished cheeks. “Your girlfriend is so lucky, Will.”

  “She didn’t think so when she dumped me.”

  “You’re single?” Penny lets out an orgasmic-sounding groan that makes me uncomfortable. “I have been so stressed. This is so good.”

  “You need to be alone there, Penny?” Isabella cracks, voicing what I was thinking.

  Of course, I also want to ask what exactly Princess Penny is stressed about. As far as I can tell, she just flits from job to job with her rich parents always there as her safety net.

  “You guys just chat and ignore me,” Penny says, muffling a groan mid-sentence by biting down on her lower lip.

  Either Will has magic fingers or poor Penny has not been getting enough since breaking up with her long-term boyfriend. That reminds me of a possible Miz Peggy blog about vibrators. It’s really about time I updated my comments on that topic.

  “So, we have a naked masseuse, champagne, what else do you have in store for me?” Isabella glances at each of us expectantly.

  “We’re going out later,” I provide.

  “Where are we going?”

  Penny chuckles. “You’ll just have to wait, Bels!”

  “Making me wait is no way to treat a control freak ‘queen’. We are not amused,” Isabella declares with feigned displeasure.

  “Okay. Next,” Will announces a few minutes later when it becomes obvious Penny would not get off the massage table without a little push.

  None of us budge. A massage means stripping down and spending several minutes kneaded by a handsome, buff stranger while sprawled on a slab like a chunk of meat. There’s no way I’m going to let Will see my problem areas under florescent lighting, much less actually touch me.

  “Fine. I’ll do it,” Isabella volunteers.

  “I’m staying here till Bels gets back in the robe,” Penny announces. “Will?” she asks sweetly.

  He smiles and resumes kneading her back fat.

  ***

  It’s almost eight by the time Will drives off, after leaving each of us a copy of his personal training business card. I try not to take this too personally as some kind of comment on our weights. I’m sure he peddles his business to young and old, skinny and fat. Isabella’s turn at getting a massage was whiled away chatting with Will about her travels. Mia agreed to be massaged after her third glass of champagne. The closest I let Will near me was allowing him to give me a hand, foot and scalp massage—the parts of my body with the lowest fat percentages. I have to admit, he was good, and after a while, it wasn’t hard to look at his toned, muscle-bound body anymore.

  “We’ll be heading into town soon,” I remind everyone. It’s my job to keep track of the night’s schedule—all part of my maid of honour duties, and largely due to the fact no one else expects to be able to read the time once the party really gets underway. I’m the only one not drinking tonight.

  “Oh, in my bag!” Penny says, gesticulating wildly with her hand towards the large Louis Vuitton overnight bag on the floor next to my feet. I hand it over to her, and she quickly pulls the gold LV zip. Her hand dives in and comes out with a white boa, and a plastic bag from an underwear store. “You’ve gotta put these on, chick.” She holds both out to Isabella who eyes the package with a guarded expression.

  Mia pulls a red boa out of her handbag, and like a feathered-snake handler, Penny extracts another boa (this one black) from her designer luggage. I retrieve my pink one from the overnight bag I have in Isabella and Byron’s bedroom. By the time I get back to the others, they are all wearing tiny, glow in the dark penis necklaces like the mystery of where Ken doll genitals all over the world have gone has finally been solved.

  “I’m sure I can lose my license to practise if I wear this in public.” Isabella grimaces as she pokes one of the plastic penises with her manicured nail.

  “Only if we post it on Facebook,” Penny assures her but the horror on Isabella’s expression tells us she’s far from assured.

  “Don’t tag me,” Mia says. “Cate looks at Mummy’s Facebook pics all the time.”

  My mobile phone suddenly rings. I pick up and hang up a second later.

  “Our ride is here.”

  Slipping on our heels, we grab teeny tiny clutch bags that are only big enough for folded money and I.D.s. The next obstacle is navigating the stairs from the front door of Isabella and Byron’s tiny flat. On the kerb, double-parked along three cars, is a big, gold stretch Hummer. I come very close to squealing. It’s exactly how I imagined it (except not pink), with multi-coloured lights dancing behind the dark, tinted windows.

  “Oh. My. Godfather.” Isabella looks nauseous, like she’s already had more than her fill of tackiness in one evening.

  Mia has an uncertain smile as she regards my transport of choice.

  “Nice ride, Jess,” Penny says. Sometimes her excitement about everything is a good thing.

  The uniformed driver greets us warmly without batting an eyelid at our attire. He’s obviously used to ferrying groups of women in tarty clothes and R-rated accessories on hens’ nights. He opens the door for us and pop music instantly invites us into the multi-coloured-lit interior of the vehicle.

  The fake leather seat is cool against the exposed skin behind my thighs as I scoot to make room for Mia. Penny and Bels sit opposite us on the bench seats that run the length of the cab of the Hummer. It can fit up to sixteen people, according to the website, but with us in there, I’m glad we only have four more women to pick up—Sofie who’s working late as usual, another of Isabella’s lawyer friends from uni, and two more legal eagles who’ve come all the way from London for the wedding. All the oldies (the bride and groom’s mothers, aunts and grandmothers) will all be joining us for a very civilised high tea at the Stamford Plaza on Sunday afternoon. We need tomorrow, Saturday, to get over tonight.

  “I can’t believe another one of us is getting married,” Penny muses. “Throw the bouquet to me, okay, babe?” She spots me watching and asks, “You want the bouquet, Jess?”

  “Hell, no,” I say, though part of me wonders what it would be like to be as sure as Isabella that her search for her soul mate is over. That she’s found someone who is willing to promise to stick with her through thick and thin. Quite literally.

  “Cool. ’Cause I was going to push you outta the way,” Penny says. “To me, okay, Bels? I don’t care if you have friends that came real
ly far.”

  “I’ll try, Penny,” Isabella says with a laugh. “I’m not sure it’ll work if it’s rigged though. Actually, I’m not sure it works at all.”

  “Don’t care. To me, okay? Oh, and there better not be any kids going for it either. At my cousin’s wedding, all the unmarried girls were allowed to join in and one of my younger cousins got it. She’s eleven. Bloody hell. If she gets married before I do…”

  “All right. I’ll try.” Isabella says, chuckling. “This thing feels like a party bus. But with a lower roof. Do you guys know what other features it has?”

  I studied the website so I take this question. “It’s got chilled booze, karaoke, and a Play Station so we can watch films, too. Actually…” I locate the remote control attached to the side of the Hummer by a thick, spring wire. It’s pretty easy to use, and in seconds, I have a movie playing, My Best Friend’s Wedding.

  It seems apt. Keats is so Julia Roberts in this scenario.

  Chapter 29

  I hear a key scrape and clink against the lock outside the front door before the others do. Isabella’s hen’s night has turned out to be pretty tame. More of a “Fat Chicks’ Club” Only pyjama party than the Girls Gone Wild mayhem I thought it was going to descend to earlier in the evening. We even had Fiona on the phone earlier—she’d called, bored from her hospital bed, wanting all the details so she could live vicariously through us.

  I’ve just mixed another big batch of rum and Diet Coke with lots of ice we bought from the nearest open petrol station. The others are busy chatting about women’s issues and I don’t have a lot to contribute. Or at least, not much I’m willing to share. I may have gone to high school with the rest of the “Fat Chicks” but even now my only real friend in the bunch is Isabella. And I’ve only recently begun to appreciate her friendship.

  “I c-can chake-it from-ere,” a drunken male voice slurs as a key slides into the lock.

  Is that Byron?

  “I better make sure you’re all right.” Either Keats got kicked in the nuts today or that’s a woman’s voice.