Page 24 of We Three Kings

‘But what if someone starts talking to me in random languages? I have an A Level in French and can order a beer in Spanish.’

He shrugs his shoulders. ‘The main language base of the room is English, Mandarin, Malay and Punjabi, you’ll be fine. I did my research,’ he says confidently.

‘Except inform the test subject of your plans,’ I chastise him. ‘What languages do I speak then?’

‘English, of course…And French, German and Icelandic.’

‘Icelandic?’

‘I panicked when asked. Your grandmother on your mother’s side is Icelandic. Her name is Johanna.’

I pull a face to hear my rather improved back story. Frankstarts to look at me, clearly a little worried that this information might scare me off. I only came along to be a good mate, to attend a fancy Christmas party and enjoy a good meal. Now this day will involve a strange charade of having to play girlfriend and remembering I have a cat.

‘I am sorry. Everyone was asking questions last night at a family dinner. They were mean and I don’t know what came over me. I couldn’t hack the judgement so I reinvented our relationship. I really am sorry.’

I break off a bit of cupcake and place it in my mouth. ‘I guess it could have been worse. Maybe. You’ve not given me a new name or anything?’

He shakes his head.

‘And no kissing but I want to put some boundaries in place. Maybe we could hold hands, link arms and stuff. Will we have to dance?’

‘I can’t dance,’ he tells me.

‘Well that solves that problem. You’ll owe me after this though, yes? Whatever you bought me for Christmas, make it bigger,’ I inform him.

‘As in get you a bigger cat?’ he says, laughing.

‘You are not allowed to make jokes now. Plus, I am a dog person through and through.’

‘So you’re in? I haven’t scared you off?’ he asks me, worry still framing his eyes.

The problem in the back of my mind is that I have to make a difficult decision when it comes to Frank and, deep down, I’m racked with guilt. I know how hard his family criticise him at times and I don’t want to make things worse for him. He still needs to know that he has people on his side too. I put my hand out so he can shake it. ‘I’m in.’

He takes that hand, his shoulders relaxing and he takes a deep cleansing breath to hear it. ‘Thank you, Maggie. You’re a good friend.’

I try. The moment is suddenly interrupted by Stella who appears behind us with a cookie in one hand and a coat tucked under her arm. ‘I couldn’t help but eavesdrop,’ she explains. ‘The cookie’s a gift but people leave stuff in here all the time and so I dug through lost property and found you a coat. I think it will fit,’ she says, holding it out to Frank.

Frank looks at her in confusion. I don’t think he has a lot of this in his life – pure goodwill – and he doesn’t quite know how to handle it.

‘Oh my god, Frank…Stella, that’s very kind. Thank you,’ I say, putting an arm around her.

‘I’ll take an excellent rating for the café on Google, please,’ she jokes.

‘Come on then, Frank. Stand up, try it on,’ I instruct him.

He stands in the middle of that coffee shop, shifting the black wool overcoat over his shoulders. It’s a little Mafioso but an improvement. Dare I say it, he looks very grown up for a change. I get up off my seat to help him dust off the shoulders. Once I put some concealer on this man, this might very well work. I take a step back and clap excitedly. It’s only then that I see it. Frank’s eyes dropping down to my dress, almost with confusion. The dress was too much, wasn’t it? I should have gone for a hint of red, maybe some red floral print, red handbag. It’s too in your face. Either that or he thinks I look terrible which doesn’t fill me with confidence.

‘What are you wearing?’ he asks me.

‘A dress,’ I tell him. ‘Does this not fit in with your backstory?’

‘No, it’s just…it looks just like the bridesmaid’s dresses.’

NINE

‘Bride or groom?’ I ask a small woman with a silver bob in a bouclé tweed red suit with fascinator and black wrap.

Her withered face looks up at me. ‘I’m the bride obviously. Who am I marrying again? Is he here yet?’ I smile, hoping some form of dementia isn’t at play here, but she smiles broadly at me. ‘Don’t worry, I wouldn’t have anyone in here. They wouldn’t be able to keep up with me,’ she says cackling. I like her energy, the sing-song timbre of her accent. I give her an order of service.

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