What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year!

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  Copyright © 2020 Lizzie O’Hagan

  The right of Lizzie O’Hagan to be identified as the Author of

  the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the

  Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be

  reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission

  in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance

  with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  First published as an ebook by

  Headline Publishing Group in 2020

  First published in paperback by

  Headline Publishing Group in 2020

  All characters – apart from the obvious historical figures – in this publication

  are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Cover illustration © © Yeti Lambregts

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 7504 2

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title

  Copyright

  About the Author

  About the Book

  Dedication

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgements

  Keep in touch with Lizzie O’Hagan

  About the Author

  Lizzie O’Hagan studied Law and Australian Law before going into publishing, where she now works as a commissioning editor at an independent press. She writes and paints in her spare time and though she can usually be found drinking coffee near her house share in central London, Derbyshire will always be home.

  About the Book

  Everyone gives their friends advice when it comes to dating, but what happens when it all goes wrong?

  Eve doesn’t have time for dating, but having watched her best friend and flatmate have her heart broken one too many times, she reluctantly volunteers to play her Cupid.

  Max is too much of a hopeless romantic to find the algorithms of online dating anything other than clinical, but he lives with his romantically-challenged best friend who desperately needs his advice.

  And after all, what are friends for?

  As Eve and Max become more involved in their best friends’ relationship, they quickly realise there is a fine line between instruction and imitation, especially when they find they can’t stop thinking about their best friend’s date . . .

  To Grace –

  For all the adventures we’ve shared

  and the ones still to come.

  Prologue

  Becky: I’m quite small actually, like 5ft1. Why? How tall are you?

  Adam: Eight and a half inches.

  Becky: Huh?

  Adam: ;)

  Becky has gone offline

  Giorgio: Hi, I’m Giorgio.

  Becky: Hi, Giorgio, your name is actually on your profile, but hi.

  Giorgio: Your photo is lovely.

  Becky: Not too bad yourself.

  Giorgio: Ah yes. Took that one in ’82. A full head of hair then!

  Becky has gone offline

  Emma: Hey.

  Tom: Hey, Emma. How are you?

  Tom: You have gorgeous eyes btw!

  Emma: I know. You told me on our date.

  Emma: And again the morning after.

  Tom: Oh Emma! I’m so sorry. I remember now, the artist, right?

  Emma: Nope. The officer.

  Tom: Any chance you’d believe me if I told you I’d lost your number?

  Tom: Have you got Mum a birthday present yet?

  Lucy: Tom, stop using Tinder as our primary source of contact.

  Lucy: It’s weird.

  Tom: But you never answer your phone.

  Tom: Besides, you swiped right too.

  Lucy: Thought it would freak you out.

  Tom: Same. Guess you’ve always learned from the best.

  Lucy: Not when it comes to dating.

  Lucy: Now piss off.

  Chapter One

  Eve

  Shit. What was that?

  I hear a crash from the next room. My heartbeat picks up pace. It’s probably just Buster. But as fat as he is, can a cat really make that much noise? And my flatmate Becky will definitely still be in bed, refusing to surface before 7 a.m. My mind sifts through the options.

  One: switch on the kitchen light, let the murderer know I’m standing, Lycra-clad and defenceless, in the next room. Two: swing open the door, wok in hand, and jump-lunge into the living room for maximum surprise. Or three: crouch in the corner of the kitchen, swipe to my Headspace app and lose myself in some guided meditation whilst a thief takes us for all we’re worth. Which to be fair isn’t all that much.

  Slowly I push the door into the living room ajar and peer into the darkness. A meow screeches between my feet and a ginger blur flies past as another thump fills the space before me. Not Buster then.

  ‘Oh crap,’ I hear a man whisper from the darkness. My heart quickens, my breathing follows, and suddenly I’m not sure which is worse: getting murdered in my gym kit or having a panic attack in front of a complete stranger. Breathe, Eve, just breathe.

  The stranger fumbles, a light switch clicks and the living room is flooded with light. Well, I say flooded, but three out of five bulbs have broken in the last two years and we still haven’t got round to replacing them. So not so much flooded as dampened with light. Note to self: dampened with light. Could make good copy. Maybe local nature piece? My heart thumps, so does the stranger, and I’m back in the room. Well, kind of. Peering into it at least. In the low light, I trace the man’s movements, trying to place a face I’m almost positive I’ve never seen before. He stumbles across to the sofa, reaching behind its cushions and retrieving a black leather belt. My life flashes before my eyes. But wait, why would a murderer do that? Through the gap in the door, I watch him thread the belt back through his trouser loops, hands shaking, symptoms clear: here we have the hung-over man.

  I b
reathe a sigh of relief so heavy I’m sure it’s audible, but Becky’s latest conquest carries on regardless. I allow the door to creak open a little further as he spots one shoe on the window ledge. A little further as he almost stumbles into our boarded-up fireplace to retrieve the other. What the hell did they get up to last night? Further still as he reaches behind the TV, pulling his shirt from the floor and shoving his tattooed arms into the sleeves. I push the door wider as he finds his jumper balled up beneath the coffee table and stand in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glued to my best friend’s date, trying my best not to laugh. Buster appears by my side, the Watson to my Sherlock, as I clear my throat.

  ‘Can I help you with anything?’

  ‘Shit!’ Becky’s date jumps out of his inked skin as he turns from what he thinks is the front door. Clearly, he doesn’t remember that you enter our basement apartment from the back. The front door’s as redundant as the fireplace, and the microwave, and the . . . Jeez, I wish our landlady wasn’t so sweet that we don’t have the heart to tell her that her house is a hovel. I watch as the tall, dark but sadly not as handsome as he thinks he is guy looks me up and down, all six foot one of me.

  ‘Cute cat.’ He looks down at my feet as he walks towards the door. Buster growls. ‘Tell Bex to call me?’

  I nod. Even though she hates being called Bex. Even though I know she’s not going to call.

  I slam our back-front door shut behind him. Mostly because it needs a good thump. A little because I’d like to give him one too. I look down at my watch. Thirteen thousand steps. Thirteen minutes past the hour. And about thirteen new article ideas to type up before they disappear from my memory, forced out by some mediocre piece the newspaper wants me to focus on instead. I walk back through the kitchen and across the living room, Buster still following. I know better than to think it’s because he loves me. It’s almost breakfast time.

  ‘Eve.’ I turn to see a mess of dark hair and pink pyjamas sprawled on the sofa. ‘I snuck out as soon as I heard him leave.’ Becky lifts her head to look at me, her normally olive skin almost as white as his was. She sits up properly, her black hair cascading down her back, her gesticulating arms thrown out in display. ‘I woke up like this.’

  I laugh. Unlike the countless millennials who take hours to perfect the ‘I just woke up like this’ look, when it comes to Becky, I believe her. She hugs a large cushion to her stomach, almost engulfing her entirely. It’s embroidered with an elephant, its swirling oranges and pinks a nod to its Indian roots. It’s one of countless elephants and sparrows scattered around the place, a reminder of the day we met, when Becky found me crying in the toilets of Oceania after he-who-shall-not-be-named called me ‘Eve the Elephant’ and she branded her tiny self ‘Becky the Bird’ in solidarity.

  ‘I’m so hung-over.’ She grabs my arm like a lifeline.

  ‘Sorry, babe, I need a shower.’ I look down at my watch: 7.15. I’m not going to have any laptop time at this rate. I don’t wake up at 5 a.m. to get to work in a rush.

  ‘But I need you to shower me with love.’ She looks up at me, all puffy puppy-dog eyes.

  ‘Don’t you need to get ready for work too?’ I ask, almost scared she’ll say yes. She’s a mess. And I’m guessing the parents of the children she teaches would agree with me.

  ‘Please,’ she pleads. ‘Eve, it was terrible. I need my therapy.’ She groans.

  ‘Okay. I’m going to shower, and then I’ve got a few things to write whilst I have breakfast. You can give me the bullet points then.’ Becky smiles, mission accomplished. ‘We need to talk to Matilda about the mould, too.’

  To be fair, we try to talk to our landlady about all the things that are wrong with the flat. She just force-feeds us Victoria sponge and loveliness and we suddenly feel bad for whatever basic human right we were arguing for in the first place.

  ‘I’m kind of starting to like it.’ Becky smiles. ‘Feel like we’ve got a jungle vibe going on.’

  I pick up a sparrow cushion and fly it across the room towards her.

  ‘Fine, fine.’ She holds her hands up in surrender. ‘Mould and Matthew, both on the agenda.’

  Matthew, I think, rushing towards the bathroom. At least this one has a name.

  I grab my towel and switch on the shower radio, letting the news wash over me as I exfoliate at speed. Note to self: research female police officers working on sexual harassment cases. I race out of the shower into my room – the bigger of the two despite the fact that I rarely have visitors – and switch on the iron. Becky says I’m the only woman in her late twenties who actually owns an iron. Note to self: research the decline of ironing amongst the millennial generation?

  I blow-dry my hair whilst sitting in my towel, eyes scanning yesterday’s Metro. I fold down the ‘Guilty Pleasures’ pages for Becky, then moisturise my hands, circulating my wrists over and over whilst I do. I’m not sure whether the repetitive strain is getting better or I’m just getting better at ignoring it. Either way, it’s not like I can type any less; it’s part of the job. I put on make-up, the same as every day: enough to look pretty, not so much that I look like I’ve tried. Hair in a ponytail, I tuck my now crisp white shirt into dark jeans. Done. I race back into the living room, blood pumping, anxiety surging, wishing I had time for another run. An hour in the morning is usually long enough to keep my anxiety under control; the fresh air on my face, the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. It’s the only reason I sneak out and back into the house before dawn.

  The bundle of Becky is right where I left her.

  ‘Eve?’ I ignore her, heading to the kitchen and returning with two bowls of granola topped with yoghurt and fresh berries. The only food I ever make her.

  ‘You don’t happen to have a full English in there, do you?’ She sits herself up again.

  ‘You get what you’re given,’ I quip, but Becky is already tucking in. I flip open my laptop. ‘Right, we have approximately eight and a half minutes. Shoot.’

  ‘It started well,’ Becky begins as I begin to type up my first article idea.

  ‘It always does . . .’

  ‘He looked better than his photos and the bar he picked was really cool.’

  ‘Shoreditch, right?’ I ask, not looking up from my laptop.

  ‘Yeah,’ Becky says slowly. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Arm tattoos, skinny ripped jeans, floppy brown fringe,’ I recount. ‘It’s textbook.’

  ‘Wow, you were born to be a journalist,’ Becky laughs.

  I usually think that too. I just wish work would give me a chance to be a proper one.

  ‘Okay, so yeah – cool bar, cool boy. But then he just talks about himself all night, so, so self-obsessed.’

  ‘What do you think of this top line?’ I say, thinking out loud.

  ‘Eve, we’re talking about me,’ Becky objects, the irony not lost on either of us. Thankfully, I know she’s joking. Becky may love the drama, but she’s far from self-obsessed. She’s got the biggest heart I know. Which might be why she’s always trying to give it away to someone. Anyone.

  ‘So why did you bring him home?’ I ask, ideas saved, laptop stashed.

  ‘Did you see him?’ Her eyes widen along with her smile.

  ‘Yeah.’ I move across the room to stuff three notebooks into my bag. ‘A lot of him actually. He was okay.’ I shrug as best I can whilst reaching behind the TV to unplug my phones. There are no missed calls, no messages on either. ‘Not good enough for you, though.’ I look over at her. ‘So no second date?’ I ask, already knowing the answer. She wouldn’t have pretended to be asleep this morning if another date was on the cards.

  ‘The sex was good,’ she muses. ‘But you know I’m looking for more. So no. Thank you, next.’ She clicks her fingers, channelling Ariana. Which for someone sharing her height isn’t all that hard. ‘I’ve got another first date lined up for tomorrow night.’ She smil
es, but I can tell it’s not just the hangover wearing her hope thin. She’s been at this online dating game for a while now. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ she asks, her tired eyes struggling to keep up with my movements around the room. I have three minutes until I need to leave for work.

  ‘Becky, you’re not sitting on my book, are you?’ I’ve run out of places to look.

  She reaches beneath the blankets she’s burying herself under and fishes out my thumbed copy of Far From the Madding Crowd.

  ‘For a girl who eats ideas for breakfast,’ she looks down at Buster, his furry face now hidden in my discarded bowl, ‘you sure read that book a lot. I don’t know why you like it so much.’

  What’s not to like? The writing. The romance. The three guys fighting for the heart of one girl. I know better than to say that out loud, though. It’s easier for Becky to think romance isn’t on my radar and I don’t have time for it right now anyway. I don’t even have time for this conversation.

  ‘I read an article that said rereading books is relaxing.’ I shrug. Becky’s brow is still furrowed in confusion. ‘And then I read another saying that being relaxed makes you more productive.’

  She cracks a smile so warm it can’t help but whisper: there’s my friend.

  ‘And I sure as hell need relaxation today, with the shock your near-naked guest gave me this morning,’ I add.

  Becky groans, throwing a hand to her forehead, mortified afresh. ‘I’m so sorry, Eve,’ she says, and though she laughs through her self-inflicted pain, I know she means it. ‘Let me make it up to you. Dinner, Ciao Becca, tonight. My treat.’

  ‘Becky, your parents own it, we eat there all the time and we’ve never paid them a penny.’

  ‘And you think they’d do that if I wasn’t their beloved only daughter?’

  ‘Well, no . . .’

  ‘So technically it’s my treat.’

  I laugh. Becky’s parents are the best. Sometimes, though, I wish hanging out with them didn’t remind me that mine are the worst. I reach down to take the bowl away from Buster – not happy. Then again to kiss Becky on the head – also not happy.