Page 19 of Little Miss Fortune

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.