Boyfrenemy

  This book is a work of fiction. References to people, events, establishments, organisations and locations are intended to provide a sense of authenticity and are used fictitiously. All other names, characters, places, incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.

  Boyfrenemy. Copyright © 2020

  Catherine Rull Villalobos

  www.catherinerull.com

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN 978-0-6487628-3-6

  Cover by Elise Lewerenz of Peachy Art and Design in consultation with Catherine Rull

  No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned or distributed in any printed or electronic form without the author’s written permission.

  First published by Wolfhaus Press in April 2020

  Brisbane, Australia

  To my vivacious, inspirational and super-fun critique partner, Heather Ashby, who is nothing like the “Heather” in this book. Thank you for your friendship, encouragement and feedback over the years. Your generosity with your time and your positive attitude helped me finish and refine twelve manuscripts in six years ♥ Thank you, Pete for sharing her—I’m not sure you had a choice!

  Acknowledgements

  Boyfrenemy (Book 2 of The Fat Chicks’ Club Series) is my seventh completed manuscript but my second published work. I originally wrote it in 2013 after completing The Fat Chicks' Club

  I’d like to thank my awesome critique partner and Firebird sister, Heather Ashby for her encouragement and feedback during the writing and editing process of this book. She read this a chapter at a time, and helped to keep me on track and believing in the story. To top it off, she’s come out of writing retirement to critique this book for me one more time before publication! You’re a legend, Heather!

  I’d also like to thank “Sandy” for lawyering advice, and my Portuguese/Brazil expert, AJ Dalmaso—all mistakes are my own; my beta readers, Joanne Lockyer and Thorndyke Law for their feedback; Lykke MKT for the series logo; and Elise Lewerenz of Peachy Art and Design for making my cover concept a reality.

  Thank you as always to my wonderful husband, Mao Che for his belief in me, and for going with me to research my many scene locations. To my children, Atticus and Alexandra, thank you for your love and support, and for sharing Mummy with her book children. ♥

  Last but not least, to my readers and social media supporters, THANK YOU! You are the next stage of this dream. I hope you enjoy, Boyfrenemy, and write a review to keep this dream going.

  Prologue

  “ …if you can’t handle me at my worst, then you sure as hell don’t deserve me at my best.”

  -- Marilyn Monroe

  Sturdy. Stocky. Big-boned. Big. Curvy. Full-figured. Plus-sized. Plump. Baby fat. Water-weight. Bloated. Unhealthy. Heavy. Chubby. Flabby. Chunky. Chonky. A big girl. Overweight. Food addict. Battling the bulge. Obese. Behemoth. Whale. Tank. Fat.

  I’ve heard them all before—mostly from the “popular” kids in high school who’d apparently found it too hard to pronounce my actual name, Jess.

  The worst of my nicknames were “Miss Piggy” and “Hog-gen”. All because of my weight and long blonde hair, and my family name is Haugen.

  I only ever had one friend at Bridgewater High. And unbeknownst to Isabella Harper, she’s always been my frenemy—a friend who is really an enemy. Is it because she’s smarter, thinner and has an ideal family?

  No. It’s more embarrassing than that.

  My grudge can be summed up in two words: Keats McAllister. He’s been the secret love of my life since I was twelve, when his globetrotting family decided to settle in my little corner of Australia.

  I saw him first, but their parents were friends, so Isabella saw him more. And that was how she got dibs on him. Not that I ever told her how I felt about Keats. But as my best friend, she should’ve guessed.

  I’m glad Isabella’s gone back to work in England. Her charmed life always makes mine suck by comparison. And something I learnt while she was in England the first time was it’s so much easier to shine when I’m not in her shadow.

  Chapter 1

  14 February

  Penny Chen opens the wooden door of her townhouse with a welcoming smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. It could be because we’ve been quietly competing to be Isabella’s best friend since high school—or maybe it’s just the fact I’m half an hour late.

  Ah. The joys of using public transport in Brisbane—you miss one bus, and it’s a bloody long wait for the next one. I may have also missed my stop because I was too busy checking my website on my mobile phone to notice I’d gone too far.

  “Hey, Jess. Glad you made it. The others bailed on us,” Penny tells me above the yapping of the tiny Chihuahua dancing at her feet. She leads the way into her sparsely furnished home with its eclectic collection of décors from Hello Kitty figurines to a large colourful painting of fat people dancing. It looks like an original, and it looks expensive.

  I’ve never been in Penny’s home before. Ever. We’ve both been friends with Isabella since Year 8, but not really with each other. I always got the feeling that Penny and the rest of our group never liked me, so I kept to myself and none of them ever bothered to get past my barrier.

  Penny goes directly to the laptop on her designer coffee table—she has very simple tastes but if you take a closer look, her things are all top of the range. Tonight, she’s laid out some freshly cut celery and carrot sticks on a platter with a puke-green dip of some sort. Beside this is a bowl of seasoned potato wedges. It looks like Penny’s vegetarian again.

  I decide not to eat. The meals for my eating plan are all bagged up in my fridge. I don’t dare consume anything other than what I’m rationed. It’s so easy to fall off the food wagon. And I’m actually sticking to this diet for a change. “Think of your knees,” my food consultant likes to remind me. Apparently, other than the fact it can send you to an early grave, too much extra weight is also hell on your joints.

  The wedges are still steaming, their deep-fried aroma intermingling with the scent of sour cream and the sweet chilli sauce. I tear my eyes away and focus instead on Penny’s Chihuahua who’s watching me with ears perked up.

  “So, do you know why Isabella called an emergency meeting?” She’d messaged me from London earlier, asking me to come here after work.

  Penny shrugs. “You want something to drink? I’m having Skinny Bitch cocktails.” She offers me a glass which, on this sweltering summer evening, temptingly has condensation on it.

  I take a step back. “Just water or a diet soft drink, please?”

  She purses her lips, raising a brow at me. “Last time I saw you, you were drinking like a fish. You pregnant or something?”

  “No. Just a new New Year’s resolution. Got on the wagon.” And started a new diet, of course. It’s already February and I’m still on track for both—so I’m doing better than I ever have before.

  “Diet Coke okay?”

  Penny goes to the little kitchen near the front door and pours me a glass of the fizzy drink. Handing it to me, she heads straight for her expensive laptop. She taps the touch pad and within moments, Isabella’s smiling face fills up the screen.

  “Hi, guys! Anything new in Australia?” Her British accent is stronger than ever. Behind her, I spot a pile of rumpled pillows, and an antique-looking headboard of wrought iron and dark wood. “Hey, where are the others?”

  “It’s the middle of the week, and it’s Valentine’s Day, chick,” Penny says. “Mia and Fiona have lives.”

  “Oh right.” Isabella looks to the right, arms outstretched. “Babe, come here. Say hi to the girls.”

  A few seconds later, the gorgeous Byron McAllister is beside her on their bed. His wavy blond hair is short all over
except on top, his beard-slash-face-fuzz closely trimmed. Half-British and half-American, he grew up in sunny Australia, and looks ready to freeze in London’s February temps in a green, heavy woollen jumper that makes his eyes even greener.

  “Hi, ladies,” he says with a wave, and the easy smile of the in lurve.

  “Hi, Jail Bait,” Penny and I chorus his nickname.

  Byron blushes as we chuckle, and Isabella clamps her lips together to supress her own smile. It’s a running joke we’ve had since high school because Keats McAllister’s brother is two years younger than all of us.

  “You guys will have to stop calling my fiancé that!” Isabella scratches the bridge of her nose with her left ring finger, flashing us an antique-looking engagement ring with a little solitaire, heart-shaped diamond.

  “Wow,” I say through my shock. Isabella and I never had boyfriends in high school. How can she be engaged again already?

  Penny squeals and starts asking questions. I barely pay attention to what she’s saying. All I can see is Keats’ brother with his arm around Isabella, smiling ear to ear as he watches her tell us the details of how they got engaged this morning, London time.

  “Are you pregnant?” I ask. She looks tired and plumper than the last time I saw her.

  “No. At least I don’t think so.”

  Byron sits up and looks at her, but instead of a head-for-the-hills cringe, he actually smiles like the prospect of having little rug rats is a good thing.

  “So, we’re thinking of getting married the day after Byron’s uni finishes for the year. It’ll maximise our time together before I head back here for work.” Isabella touches his cheek gently. Her eyes and expression go all soft before she refocusses on us. “Anyway, that makes it Saturday the sixteenth of November this year! And you guys, as well as Mia and Fiona, will be my bridesmaids, of course!”

  Excitement floods me—a chance to dress up—mixed with a sense of pride that I made the cut. But then reality sets in, and bursts my bubble when I realise I can’t attend her nuptials.

  “I can’t afford to go to England,” Not if I want to put a deposit down in time for a house.

  Isabella’s grin grows wider, if that’s possible. “That’s okay. We’re getting married in Brisbane, then honeymooning in Vanuatu,” she explains, and the tightness in my chest loosens.

  Penny awws and does a little fingertip-clap, while I start breathing normally again. I can’t believe how much I want to be part of this wedding. Probably because I don’t know anyone else who’d make me a bridesmaid in her Big Day. This is a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity for me.

  “I’ll be returning to Australia a couple of times before the wedding to prepare for it,” Isabella tells us. “But I can’t really quit my job here till at least the end of next year.”

  Oh yes, the blacklisting of Isabella Harper for consorting with Keats McAllister—a rep for the other side of an acquisition deal they both worked on last year. When the deal went sour, Isabella was made the scapegoat and lost her job in corporate law in Brisbane. And that’s what she’s doing now in London—rebuilding her reputation while the heat dies down here.

  “Byron’s flying home next week to start his Vet Science course at uni, but since he’s at Gatton, he won’t be in town to organise the wedding either,” Isabella tells us.

  Byron gives us a little wave before kissing his fiancée’s temple and walking away. I wonder how he feels about their soon-to-be long-distance relationship.

  “Anyway, that’s where this whole bridesmaids’ duties thing becomes important.” Isabella flashes us a hopeful smile, her dark eyes wide and pleading. “I kind of need you guys to help me organise wedding stuff because I’m all the way over here. I promise you can have large input into your dresses.”

  Princess Penny blanches at the mention of work. After all, if Isabella is the take-no-prisoners queen of our group, Penny has always been the pampered princess. I’m not so excited by the idea myself. Lady in waiting on the day, I can do, but organising the wedding?

  “I thought you guys would be more excited about being bridesmaids.” Isabella’s washed out image looks disappointed. I can only imagine how much worse my pale skin appears on her screen.

  “We are, chick,” Penny says through a stiff smile. “It just sounds a bit complicated.”

  “Yeah. I know it’s crap I can’t be there to do more. But I’ve got an idea of what I want. It’s just different seeing it all in person and actually being there to check out the reception venue, the church, and the florist etcetera. So, are you guys in?”

  “Yes,” we say.

  Is it ever okay to say no to being asked to be a bridesmaid?

  “Great.” A relieved smile. “Now the tough part. I need a maid of honour—just to keep everything on track.”

  I would’ve expected the bride to choose either Mia or Penny for the top bridesmaid job but maybe she doesn’t want to offend one by choosing the other.

  “I couldn’t decide…” Isabella says, peering into our image for a sign.

  We don’t say anything. It’s like that last chip in the bowl. No one wants to grab it even though they all want it—except me, of course. What a nightmare. I can’t think of anything worse than putting all that work into a wedding. Knowing Isabella, there’ll be a lot more to the day than the big, “I do.”

  “Okay,” Isabella continues when we don’t speak up, “so I thought I’d put your names in a hat and pull one out. Are you fine with that, or do either of you really want to be maid of honour?”

  For a second Penny seems on the verge of piping up. But she just nibbles on a carrot stick dripping in dip while Isabella writes our names on four small slips of paper. Scrunching these up into balls, she puts them into a Brisbane Broncos supporter cap.

  “Babe, can you pick a name out of this hat for me, please?” she calls off screen.

  “What are you doing?” We hear Byron’s voice as his hand dips into the cap. He gives the scrunched up piece of paper to his fiancée.

  “Thanks, babe.” Isabella unfolds the little ball and reads out the name. “Jess.”

  I cringe. This is what I get for not speaking up to pull out of the running. I don’t usually “win” anything. If you can call this winning—I just got drafted against my will.

  “I could draw again,” Isabella offers.

  I smile in relief. She was probably hoping to pick either Mia or Penny’s name anyway. Honestly, I know myself enough to be sure I would suck at organising her wedding. The petty side of me would probably sabotage her big day.

  “The choice was much easier for Byron. The obvious person to pick for best man is his brother,” Isabella says, dipping her hand into the cap again.

  I lose my hearing like I’m underwater, and nothing else she says filters through.

  “I’ll do it,” I say quickly. It’s sad but I changed my mind as soon as I heard Keats is going to be involved. If he’s the best man and I’m the maid of honour, that means we get to walk down the aisle and have our photos taken together. And maybe I’d finally get to know him in the process. With luck, he won’t be as great as I’ve fantasised about all these years, and I can finally, finally, get over him.

  “Are you sure?” Isabella asks in a way that sounds more like, “Please change your mind.”

  “Yeah. I have a lot of free time. Receptionist, remember? I can make calls for you all day.”

  “Okay. Great. Well, your first call is to Keats. Maybe you guys can meet and talk about the wedding. Do you have your phone? I can give you his number now.”

  Hells, yeah! I try to hide my smile while I fish for my mobile in my bag. This must be what it’s like to get the private number to the Bat phone.

  Talk about instant good karma.

  Chapter 2

  Mid-April

  He stood me up. My first non-date with Keats McAllister and he never showed. No texts or missed calls. I never imagined dating him would include waiting around nursing water during my lunch break. But I g
uess fantasies of relationships when you’re twelve aren’t very detail-oriented. Not that today was supposed to be a date.

  Around me now, the early evening crowd of the bar laughs and continues their excited conversations mixed with the thuds of glass hitting wood as orders are placed. It’s the perfect place to whinge after work.

  “You know what gets me?” I accidentally spit on Jillie—my nineteen-year-old workmate—with that statement but she’s either too polite or too drunk to show it. The spittle hits her right in the middle of her forehead and I look at it instead of her bleary eyes.

  “He didn’t even let me know he wasn’t coming,” I continue. “What? I’m not worth a text message? Doesn’t he check his voicemail?”

  I rang him at lunchtime the day after Isabella’s big news—my self-control could only wait that long. I would’ve called him that same Thursday night but I couldn’t leave Penny’s house till nine p.m., and I learnt from Isabella a long time ago that it was rude to call people’s homes after eight. Actually, I learnt a lot of what families are like from sleepovers at her house, and from my babysitter, the television.

  That was the only time I’d spoken to him. I’d been totally transported back to high school—tongue-tied and talking around the foot in my mouth. I can’t believe the words “second most important couple” had actually left my lips, and he’d heard it. I know because he’d sounded uncertain when he’d replied with an, “Um, sure.”

  Anyway, that phone call was two months ago. We’ve only exchanged emails since—mainly me updating him of my progress and him replying days later with something terse like, “Got it.”

  Apparently, Keats is a very busy guy, who couldn’t fit in a face-to-face planning session till this month. And he’s terrible at answering my calls. The last time I called, I had to leave a voicemail message to remind him we’re meeting up today. He didn’t call me back.

  “Maybe he thinks I’m a freak.” I say, searching Jillie’s face for signs that I’m being paranoid.