Chapter 5 Sometimes Fuko needs to make a mess
Sometimes Fuko needs to make a mess
Steven calls me the next day to inform me that the office has become a no-nut zone.
I am very adult about it and don’t giggle at the name.
Some could say my allergy connotes big misfortune because of the high likelihood of dying from a common food; however, I am only allergic to one nut.
Plus, both the UK and Japan are good at listing almonds as an allergen, so I am usually quite vigilant.
This was just slightly unfortunate.
‘In my defence, who puts almonds in cheesecake?’
My sister and dad sit on my bed, watching me eat plain white toast. Hannah is still in her sixth form uniform, looking at me with a lot of judgement for worrying her during her exam period.
My sister has big luck. She has always been at the top of her class despite never really doing homework and has won a few awards for maths.
She’s pretty and popular despite her lack of sleep from watching let’s plays on YouTube.
And she got her driver’s licence after only two lessons.
I’ve lost count of how many times she’s won an online lottery for a stationery giveaway or K-pop tickets.
‘You know you need to be careful with desserts, you twat,’ she snaps at me.
‘Oi, Hanako, enough,’ Dad says, shaking a cross finger. ‘Go do something more useful for once.’
‘Roll your skirt down. You go to a Catholic sixth form, for god’s sake.’ I use the Lord’s name in vain, annoyed at being told off by my younger sibling.
Not that I actually care what length her skirt is. I used to roll mine up.
Luckily, her presence is fleeting Dad kicks her out and clicks his tongue when the girl pulls a reverse peace sign at me, which has a very different meaning in this country.
I would normally run after her to show dominance, but the adrenaline shot really takes it out of you.
Steven gave me tomorrow off, so I can rest over the upcoming weekend.
‘I have made some miso soup as well. Give me a shout, and I’ll get you a bowl.’
‘Thanks, Dad,’ I say, rolling my face deep into the pillows.
This isn’t how I wanted this to go. My first day was meant to be normal: sitting at the desk, filling out some forms, doing online training about phishing e-mails and scam links. Instead, I’ve spent eight hours at the hospital, vomiting my guts out with an IV drip in my arm.
Sashka and Leon sent some messages on the group chat earlier, but I don’t have the energy needed to respond to any of them. The messages keep coming through. After another notification interrupts my mindless scrolling, I cave.
Rice box from Leon: Ladies, not to alarm you, but I think I have found Shirt-Man’s LinkedIn.
Borsch is Ukrainian: Omg, go on, what’s the damage?
Rice box from Leon: Linked.in
I click on the link and scan through. Bloody hell!
FUK yo self: Fucking hell, an Oxford boy.
Borsch is Ukrainian: Fuko! You’re alive!!!
Borsch is Ukrainian: WTF, I think his dad is in big oil.
Rice box from Leon: Well, that’s a step up from your usual programme, Sashka. He is definitely not ketchup.
Ketchup is a group term derived from a time I forgot the English word for stingy and instead said the Japanese ketchi, which both misheard as ketchup.
FUK yo self: Oo-la-la, no more artists or DJs.
Rice box from Leon: I liked Sven.
Borsch is Ukrainian: Please don’t.
FUK yo self: Shirt-Man’s mum is on some charity trust.
Borsch is Ukrainian: Where did you see that?
FUK yo self: Found her Facebook
She looks good for her age, possibly because she checks into a dermatological clinic that advertises fillers, dermarollers, and laser skin resurfacing once a month.
What the fuck is that, and when will I need to do it?
Thank you, Facebook, for being so public with information.
There is a picture of three of them and another girl, who I assume is Toby Lewis’s sister.
The children look more like their father, but the bottom parts of their faces look more like their mother’s.
Toby’s dad’s hair is grey; mum’s is dyed warm brown, so it is hard to tell who is responsible for the strawberry-blond gene.
Hanako and I look very different. She is a head taller than I am and looks so much like our mother.
Dad notices it too, because sometimes when he looks at her a tear forms in the corner of his eye.
Never quite escapes but is always there.
I look nothing like either of my parents but also comprise random scraps from the two, like an old Suzuki wagon that was rebuilt from other Suzuki models.
The car parts back then all fit together to save customers a lot of money in repairs.
I feel like one of those cars—perhaps not the prettiest, but with so many things fitting in, I will find a way to drive off into the sunset, eventually.
Rice box from Leon: Sashka, who do you think is richer, Mr. Big Oil Senior or your dad?
Borsch is Ukrainian: It’s not about the money.
FUK yo self: No, but can you imagine the wedding?
Rice box from Leon: Hmm, do you think it would be more or less extravagant than Harry and Meghan’s?
Borsch is Ukrainian:
FUK yo self: Depends, how many boats are going to get involved?
Rice box from Leon: Boats? Pfff, please. Peasant talk, Fuko. Planes.
FUK yo self: Tanks?
Rice box from Leon: Now we are cooking with gas, which is lucky for Sashka. She will have an endless supply of it thanks to Big Oil.
Borsch is Ukrainian:
FUK yo self: Praise to Big Oil!
Rice box from Leon: Down with the polar bears and the penguins.
FUK yo self: Let us know how the date goes, ha ha.
Borsch is Ukrainian: You two are so annoying.
I am about to return to watching a rogue TV show episode split into forty-seven parts for a dopamine hit, but something in my drugged-up brain wants to find out more about Toby Lewis’s luck, for Sashka’s sake, of course.
I suspect it’s in the positive region, as his passing comment potentially caused my hospital trip.
Private Instagram, private Facebook. I guess LinkedIn and his mother’s socials will have to do.
Oxford and rich parents could mean good luck, but it might be like Sashka’s situation, so I disregard that for now.
His swimming team won a gold medal. Again, that could just be skill.
Got a job straight out of Oxford, two promotions within three years (that I already knew, thanks to Steven), but is that luck or is that being a capable young man from Oxford?
I need something more random, like ‘Toby got stuck on the ski lift’, or ‘Toby’s aunt died and left him this mansion in the South of France’.
I guess there are limits to what you can post when you are the head of a trust.
But there are a lot of posts of Toby, from a very young age, and fewer of his sister. Do children really need to learn wind sailing, attend French choir, and learn to ballroom dance? I think I would’ve collapsed from exhaustion if I were a Lewis.
Sashka: Hey Fuko, want to come round mine after the date? X
Fuko: To deliberate? Of course. I’ll bring some doughnuts and gifts from Japan.
Sashka: Yay! See you tomorrow. Try not to die.
We always have a breakdown of our dates, mainly Sashka’s, to be honest. It started in school, two foreigners who couldn’t speak English well.
Bottom set English, top set Maths. Then separate universities but still together in London.
She and her mother stayed with us whilst her father was finalising an apartment in Chelsea.
It’s been a lifetime, and I am thrilled to say that we haven’t changed one bit.
We might possess misfortunate traits, but I have never felt luckier than when this pretty girl sat next to me in school and began communication via gestures and memes.
Except when Saturday evening rolls around, instead of resting after the anaphylaxis comedown, I obsessively check my phone until the I am on my way home xx text from her pops up on my screen. I hope for some hint on the quality of the date in the texts, but Sashka betrays nothing.
Do I want it to go badly?
Surely not.
It would just be such a pain in my bum if it didn’t work out. Or worse if it worked out and then didn’t. I hope that wouldn’t affect my work.
About an hour later; a loud doorbell buzzes, announcing my arrival with goodies in tow.
Sashka is dressed up in a white top and low-rise jeans. Damn, effortlessly chic, she is too pretty for that man. Her face is not giving anything away. Perfect conditions must be met before she spills anything.
With tea, dried fruits, open cheese-and-kovbasa sandwiches (like smorrebrod, but an ex-USSR version called buterbrod), and five Sainsbury’s jam doughnuts laid out on the dining table, we are now ready.
‘First, here you go, some souvenirs from Japan.’ I hand her all the cute stationery I found.
One set is a red plastic see-through sheet with orange and green pens.
If you write something with an orange pen, the red sheet makes it look invisible, and the green highlighter hides everything under the red completely.
It’s an excellent tool for someone who is studying languages by using cloze deletion to memorise vocabulary. She only spoke Russian before the war but is now determined to swap to Ukrainian, so I thought something that could help her learn the language quicker might be of use.
‘Fuko, this is so cool. What the hell?!’ She plays around with writing her name on a paper towel.
‘I thought you might like it. It’s big in Japan for learning English.’
‘Thank you.’ She hugs me and gawks at the different fine-tip pens, inflating my ego. I know how to please my lady.
‘So, tell me about the date with my supe.’ Short for supervisor.
Be nonchalant, Fuko... But maybe you’re overdoing the nonchalant-ness.
I round my back a bit too much, and now it looks like I’m too keen to hear about the date. Luckily, Sashka doesn’t seem to have noticed.
‘Well...’ She requests an impromptu drumbeat, and I commit. ‘I think I’m in love with him.’
She always says that when a date went well, or she asks me to hide the body with her if it went badly. My face is carved into the most celebratory smile that doesn’t budge when I lift my mug for an overly joyful ‘cheers’ with too much vigour and spill a bit of hot tea on myself.
‘He was so polite and smart. But not in a show-offy sort of way like you’d expect from someone who went to Oxford. And he is really charming.’
He was charming before he poisoned me with a cake. ‘What did he wear?’
‘Really nice trousers and a tight polo. He looked delectable.’
‘Did he give you any compliments? What did you do?’
‘He said I looked lovely and smiled.’
We squeal with excitement. I always squeal in solidarity. That’s what a good friend does. I am a good friend.
‘And then we grabbed a coffee and had a walk in the park.’
‘What did you talk about?’ That’s right, Fuko, just keep the conversation going.
‘You and your health, his trip to Japan, work.’
Me? ‘Nothing about a chapel wedding?’ I ask, and she slaps my shoulder.
‘He told me some crazy stories from uni. I told him I was arrested.’
‘The hooker costume incident,’ we say in unison and nod.
Sashka got caught with weed once but was also mistaken for a prostitute because of the Sports Society Social’s theme—thoughts and thots, where you dressed up either as a philosopher or a slag. Ironically, Sashka was taken in dressed as slutty Kant (pun intended).
‘He just feels like a solid, decent guy. There is an air of peace around him. He is a once in a lifetime kind of man.’
He is quite nice to be around... despite his murder attempt and inability to read door signs. And being my supervisor.
‘Aw, that’s so great for you, Sashka!’ She doesn’t need to know my inside thoughts.
‘We are going to go on another date next week.’
Wow, already? But I say, ‘I’ll try to feel him out on the luck front before then.’
‘Thanks, babe.’
‘Anytime, babe.’
We cheer. If Sashka can turn her luck around and find a decent guy, then all that’s needed from me is to be a good friend to her.