False Friends by Stephen Leather

afternoon and Chaudhry had cycled from Stoke Newington to his parents’ house, a neat four-bedroom detached house in Stanmore. It was the house that he’d been brought up in and as he looked around it he felt as if he’d never left. At the far end of the room was the piano on which he and his brother had practised for half an hour every night; through the French windows he could see the garden where his father had taught him the finer points of spin bowling; he knew that at the top of the stairs was his bedroom, pretty much exactly as it was the day he’d left to go to university three years earlier. Leaving home had been symbolic rather than a necessity. He could have commuted back and forth from Stanmore but Chaudhry had wanted to be independent; plus, he’d become bored with life in the suburbs. His elder brother had studied for his degree at Exeter so it hadn’t been too much of a struggle to persuade his parents to al ow him to rent a place in Stoke Newington.
    ‘It’s getting harder, but you know what med school is like,’ said Chaudhry. His father was an oncologist at Watford General Hospital, and had been since before Chaudhry was born. ‘Third year was much better because we had the attachments, so you actual y got to deal with patients. The fourth year is al bookwork and the supervised research project. It’s a grind.’
    His father nodded sympathetical y. ‘It’s a grind al right, but we al go through it. Just take it one day at a time. Once it’s done and you’ve passed the exams you get your degree and then you can real y start to learn about medicine.’
    ‘Fourth year’s the worst, right?’
    ‘Every year’s tough, Manraj; they’re just tough in different ways. But it’s when you start working as a junior doctor that the pressure real y starts.’
    ‘The kil ing season, they cal it at King’s.’
    ‘They cal it that everywhere,’ said his father. ‘Just don’t ever let the patients hear you say that.’ He smiled over at his son. ‘I’m real y proud of you, Manraj. I hope you know that.’
    Chaudhry nodded. He knew. And he could see it in his father’s eyes.
    ‘So, are you seeing anyone?’
    Chaudhry frowned, not understanding what his father meant, then realisation dawned and he groaned. ‘Dad . . . Please . . .’
    ‘I’m your father and you’re my only unmarried son, so I’m entitled to ask.’

    ‘You have only two sons and Akram got married last year.’
    ‘I’m not getting any younger and I’d like to be able-bodied enough to play cricket with my grandchildren.’
    Chaudhry laughed and slapped his own thigh. ‘You’re crazy. Now you want me to be a father and I haven’t even graduated. What’s the rush?’
    ‘There’s no rush, it’s just that I’ve found what I think might be the perfect girl for you.’
    ‘Say what?’
    His father looked at him over the top of his spectacles. ‘What’s the problem? I thought you’d be pleased.’
    ‘You thought I’d be happy because you’re fixing up an arranged marriage for me?’
    ‘Who said anything about marriage? I was at an NHS conference last week and I met up with an old friend who works as a cardiologist in Glasgow. He was talking about his daughter – she’s a second-year microbiology student at UCL – and I mentioned you were at King’s . . .’
    ‘And the next thing you know you’ve got us married off. Dad, I’m more than capable of finding my own girlfriend.’
    ‘Which is why I asked you if you were seeing anyone.’ He pushed his spectacles higher up his nose. ‘Her name’s Jamila, and she’s from a very good family. According to her father, she hasn’t had a steady boyfriend. He was very impressed to hear that you’re at King’s.’
    ‘You didn’t show him my CV, did you?’
    ‘I might have mentioned a few of the highlights, yes. Look, no pressure, but why don’t you at least get in touch, maybe ask her out?’
    ‘It’s not going to be one of those chaperoned things, is it? With