cocktail dresses and saris. Others are pretending not to care, in leather jackets and designer jeans.
There were always tribes at Oaklands. The whites were a minority. Most of the students were Banglas (Bangladeshis) with a few Pakis and Indians thrown into the mix.
I was a “curry,” a “yindoo,” an “elephant trainer.” Brown Indian in case you’re wondering. As defining details go, nothing else came close at Oaklands—not my black hair, braces or skinny legs; not having glandular fever at seven, or being able to run like the wind. Everything else paled into insignificance alongside my skin color and Sikh heritage.
It’s not true that al Sikhs are cal ed Singh. And we don’t al carry curved blades strapped to our chests (although in the East End having this sort of rep isn’t such a bad thing).
Even now the Banglas are sticking together. People are sitting next to the same people they sat alongside at school. Despite everything that has happened in the intervening years, the core facets of our personalities are untouched. Al our flaws and strengths are the same.
On the far side of the hal I see Cate arriving. She is pale and striking, with a short expensive haircut and cheap sexy shoes. Dressed in a long light khaki skirt and a silk blouse, she looks elegant and, yes, pregnant. Her hands are smoothing her neat, compact bump. It’s more than a bump. A beach bal . She hasn’t long to go.
I don’t want her to see me staring. I turn away.
“Alisha?”
“Sure. Who else?” I turn suddenly and put on a goofy smile.
Cate leans forward and kisses my cheek. I don’t close my eyes. Neither does she. We stare at each other. Surprised. She smel s of childhood.
There are fine lines at the corners of her eyes. I wasn’t there to see them drawn. The smal scar on her left temple, just beneath her hairline, I remember that one.
We’re the same age, twenty-nine, and the same shape, except for the bump. I have darker skin and hidden depths (like al brunettes) but I can categorical y state that I wil never look as good as Cate. She has learned—no, that makes it sound too practiced—she was born with the ability to make men admire her. I don’t know the secret. A movement of the eye, a cock of the head, a tone of voice or a touch of the arm, creates a moment, an il usion that al men gay or straight, old or young buy into.
People are watching her now. I doubt if she even realizes.
“How are you?”
“I’m fine,” I answer too quickly and start again. “I’m al right.”
“Just al right?”
I try to laugh. “But look at you—you’re pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“When are you due?”
“In four weeks.”
“Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
The questions and answers are too abrupt and matter-of-fact. Conversation has never been this hard—not with Cate. She looks nervously over my shoulder, as if worried we might be overheard.
“Didn’t you marry—?”
“Felix Beaumont. He’s over there.”
I fol ow her eyes to a tal , heavy-set figure in casual trousers and a loose white shirt. Felix didn’t go to Oaklands and his real name is Buczkowski, not “Beaumont.” His father was a Polish shopkeeper who ran an electronics shop on Tottenham Court Road.
Now he’s deep in conversation with Annabel e Trunzo, whose dress is a scrap of material held up by her chest. If she exhales it’s going to be bunched around her ankles.
“You know what I used to hate most about nights like this?” says Cate. “Having someone who looks immaculate tel ing me how she spent al day ferrying children to bal et or footbal or cricket. And then she asks the obvious question: ‘Do you have any kids?’ And I say, ‘Nope, no children.’ And she jokes, ‘Hey, why don’t you have one of mine?’ God that pisses me off.”
“Wel , it won’t happen anymore.”
“No.”
She takes a glass of wine from a passing tray. Again she glances around, looking distracted.
“Why did we fal out? It must have been