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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘Remember you can always text me to stage an emergency if your next date is a dud,’ I shout back to her from the kitchen. God knows I’ve had to do it before.

  ‘Thanks, babe,’ I hear her smile. ‘But next time don’t go so big, okay? Almost killing off my Uncle Frank in a car accident nearly gave me a heart attack.’

  ‘You don’t even have an Uncle Frank.’ I open the back door. ‘And what can I say? I don’t believe in doing things by halves.’

  ‘Evelyn,’ she sighs, forcing herself to stand and tracing my steps across the room to lean on the door frame into the kitchen. ‘You don’t believe in doing anything but completing the whole fucking circle then lapping it ten times before breakfast.’

  I laugh. Walking out into the sunlight, I hear her sigh behind me.

  ‘Sometimes I think I have more in common with you, Buster . . .’

  I turn back to see her stroking my fat cat, who has found his way back to my bowl in record time. Maybe she does, but that dogged determination to get exactly what he wants? That he shares with me.

  Chapter Two

  Max

  I wake up to the high notes of Sam Smith’s ‘Stay With Me’ not so much floating as forcing themselves through my bedroom wall.

  I’m not even joking when I say my best friend Tom sounds like a girl. And never have lyrics been more ironic. As Sam and Tom cry out that they’re no good at one-night stands, I can’t help but snort into my pillow. The fact that Tom is singing this morning is because he is impossibly good at them, or trying to be at least. They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, don’t they? I don’t really buy that, but Tom’s certainly been giving it a good go recently.

  I was in bed, halfway through the film Lion, when I heard him come in from his date. From his drunken crashing around the kitchen, I’d say he’d had a good night, but I’d take the orange and pinks of India’s skyline and a multilayered love story over a pint on the common and a quickie at some stranger’s house any day. Plus, if Dev Patel can go from the gangly kid in Skins to that powerhouse of a protagonist, well, there’s hope for us all.

  I stretch my limbs to reach the four corners of my bed as Tom soars up an octave before his singing stops altogether and I hear the sound of our sticky bathroom door being thrust open and slammed shut again. When you’ve been living together for as long as we have, you learn to read each other’s movements. This one screams: shower’s free, dude.

  I force myself out of bed, replacing my bed sheets for a towel, wrapping it around my waist. Walking down the corridor, my mind runs through the thousand things I have to do today. Tom might get to rock up to work late, but I’ve waited too long for this step-up in the charity not to give it my best now.

  Just as I open the door to the bathroom, I hear the shower turn on – and it sure as hell isn’t Tom going in for round two. Shit.

  As the steam starts to dissipate, I’m left like a deer in the headlights, blindsided by the fully naked figure of what I assume is Tom’s latest date, from her dampening hair, past her bare back to her tiny waist and, well, beyond. I stare on, fixed to the spot, as she reaches for the shampoo, singing under her breath, serenading the shower tiles. Any second now she’s going to turn around and see me standing here. Me, in just a towel, watching her, in even less. Shit.

  I hear the door shut behind me. No, no, no, NO. It’s the kind of old wooden door that expands in the heat. Tom and I know to do our three-minute bathroom routines after we get out of the shower just to give it time to cool down. I yank on the doorknob, trying to use enough force to open it but not enough to make a noise. It’s jammed shut. This is bad. Please don’t turn around, please don’t turn around.

  I look round the bathroom for a towel, a loofah, anything, just to cover my eyes so she can see I’m trying not to perv. There’s nothing. Nothing. Not for the first time, I wish we didn’t live like such boys. She’s not even brought a towel in with her. I bet Tom hasn’t told her he has a flatmate. Great, now she’ll be even more thrilled when she turns off the shower to meet me for the first time. I can’t imagine it will bring her much comfort to know that her being here is as much of a shock to me. Thanks for the heads-up, Tom.

  With nothing left for it and the steam evaporating any hopes of a better idea, I take off my towel, holding it as a wall between the two of us. Then I hear it. The scream.

  ‘Aargh!’ she cries, and even though I knew it was coming, I can’t help but join in.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ I feel a gush of cold air as Tom pulls the bathroom door open to be greeted with my bare arse, me holding a towel out like a father about to swaddle his child. ‘Mate, what the fuck?!’

  I turn around so that the towel is facing Tom, and now my arse is facing her whilst his everything is staring at me. He’s as naked as the girl behind me, every part of him so big that he has nothing to hide. Not that he’s even trying to.

  ‘Tom, what the hell?!’ she yells at both of us.

  ‘This is not okay!’ I shout at Tom. It’s not the first time his lack of communication has led to an unwanted run-in, but this is by far the worst.

  ‘You can say that again,’ the woman cries from behind me.

  ‘Ruby, meet Max.’ I catch the glint in Tom’s eye and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Max, meet Ruby.’

  She screams again as I push past Tom, wrapping the towel around any last shred of dignity I have.

  Which right now isn’t all that much.

  ‘Why can’t your dates use a damn lock?’ I walk into the living room to find Tom, long legs crossed, sipping a freshly brewed coffee with one hand and holding a book in the other.

  ‘It’s no big deal, she’s probably already forgotten.’ He grins, but we can both hear her ranting into her phone from his bedroom. I’ll be on some kind of blacklist in no time.

  ‘I wish I could forget about it.’ I accept the coffee cup Tom points to on the side.

  ‘I’m sorry, Max,’ he says into his book, trying his best not to laugh. ‘Maybe I should have messaged you to let you know we’d come back here instead. It was late and she didn’t want to scare her housemate by bringing some stranger home.’

  ‘How considerate of her.’ I narrow my eyes in his direction before noticing what book he’s holding; it’s one of my favourites. ‘Dude, are you even reading that?’

  ‘I thought it would make me look sensitive.’ He peers over the top of it to see my rolling eyes. ‘Didn’t know he could write, though.’ He shrugs.

  ‘Thomas Hardy?’

  ‘Yeah, the hard one from Peaky Blinders? He can act, he’s got that face and now he churns out this Madding Crowd thing. The guy’s got it all.’

  I’m mad at him for letting me scare Ruby like that, but I can’t help but laugh. Literature isn’t one of Tom’s strong points.

  ‘Dude, Far From the Madding Crowd was written in 1874, a hundred or so years before your Tom Hardy was even born . . .’

  ‘And the dude can time-travel.’ Tom laughs too. ‘So it’s proper old then,’ he continues as I feel the caffeine hit my system and my startled heart begin to settle. ‘I don’t know why you like it so much.’

  The writing. The romance. The fact that all three guys know they’re willing to fight for the heart of one girl. I can only imagine what it’s like to know you’ve found something worth putting it all on the line for.

  ‘Tom, this is not acceptable.’ Ruby storms into the living room, now thankfully fully clothed. ‘I’m there grabbing a quick shower and your housemate thinks it’s okay to let himself in, nakedly watch me shower and then offer me a towel as if that’s totally normal . . .’

  ‘Classic Max.’ Tom shakes his head, amusement written over every inch of him. ‘Here I am trying to look sensitive and you’re holding a bloody towel out for the girl. Give a guy a chance, bro.’

  I risk sacrificing my c
offee to punch my best friend on the arm, my clenched fist just hitting hard, dense muscle. Tom doesn’t even feel it.

  ‘Look, I’m so sorry Ruby.’ I turn to Tom’s date, still standing, arms folded, in front of us. ‘I had no idea you were in the shower, I had no idea you were even in the flat.’

  Ruby looks from me to Tom and back again. Tom sips his coffee. I can tell he doesn’t really like her. If it was Yvonne, he’d be up by her side staging a united front by now. Ruby seems to relent, collecting her coffee from the side. Tom’s made it in a keep cup that must have come back with her last night; to her it might look thoughtful, but to me it’s another clear sign: anyway, last night was fun, you mustn’t be late for work now. Ruby doesn’t take the hint, coming to sit next to Tom.

  ‘So you’re not some pervert?’ She looks at me, softening.

  ‘No, I promise.’ Even though I can tell Tom isn’t keen, I wouldn’t want her to leave feeling disrespected. ‘No one has a claim to a female’s body but the person who inhabits it.’

  ‘You quoting that Hardy guy?’ Tom looks at me, darting his eyes back to the book.

  ‘Nope.’ I take another sip of coffee, embarrassed again. ‘That one was just me.’

  ‘Good.’ Ruby snuggles into Tom’s side, and he looks at me desperately over the top of her head. Help. ‘I’ve only got room for one peeping Tom in my life.’

  ‘Anyway,’ Tom says slowly, starting to unpeel himself from Ruby’s grip, ‘it was really great to meet you but I should be getting ready for work . . .’

  ‘Yeah, I had a really good time.’ Ruby gets up too, gazing hopefully up at him. Even at around five foot eight, she looks small beside him.

  ‘Me too.’ Tom nods, moving not so subtly towards the front door.

  ‘Like really good,’ she repeats, pressing a hand to his broad chest.

  ‘Me too.’ He nods again. She’s baiting but he’s not biting.

  ‘Like maybe we could do this again good,’ she says, as Tom takes another step towards the door with her hand still against him, shepherding her out.

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ He bends down to give her a peck on the cheek. It’s a brush-off, but she still smiles at the chivalry. It’s painful to watch. Still, no one really goes on those dating apps for love, do they? What did she expect? ‘Last night was fun,’ Tom says, as I mouth the lines behind my mug. ‘You mustn’t be late for work now.’

  ‘Good date?’ I ask as Tom thrusts a hand to his hung-over head. He groans. Tom is a great conversationalist when he wants to be, but sometimes takes a little prompting. Usually in the morning. Usually hung-over. As a personal trainer, he spends most of his time teetotal, so when he does let himself drink, it’s a t-total disaster. Tom doesn’t appreciate this joke.

  ‘Okay, let’s make it easy,’ I coax as he fills up his coffee. ‘Marks out of ten.’

  ‘Not like you to grade a woman, Max.’ Tom shakes his head.

  ‘I’m not saying grade Ruby,’ I object. ‘But I need to get to work and want to know you’re okay before I do – so grading the date it is. So, conversation?’

  ‘A strong two and a half.’

  Ouch. That bad?

  ‘Attraction?’

  ‘Four and a half.’

  ‘But you had sex?’

  ‘Five and a half.’ Tom either ignores my question or doesn’t realise it’s there.

  ‘The AL?’ I ask. The Awkwardness Level was something that came up often enough during our grad scheme at the bank that we deemed it worthy of abbreviation. To be honest, the highest AL ever registered was around the time we both quit.

  ‘High.’ He nods. ‘She’s a nice enough girl—’

  ‘Woman.’

  ‘Sorry, woman. She just didn’t get my pulse racing . . .’ The sex must have been mediocre. ‘. . . didn’t keep me on my toes like . . .’ He doesn’t need to finish his sentence for me to hear it: like Yvonne. His ex-girlfriend. The one he realised he had given his heart to around the time she broke it into a million pieces.

  ‘It’s okay, mate.’ I sigh, standing up to gather my rucksack, packed ready for work. ‘There’s someone out there who’s perfect for you.’ I smile. ‘And she won’t shag another PT like Yvonne did.’

  Tom’s laugh shakes off any sombreness. That’s one thing I love about Tom. It’s never too soon to laugh.

  ‘You’re right.’ He smiles, but there’s a hint of sadness within it. For all his bravado, I can tell he’s getting worn down and worn out by all these online dates. He’s been on loads lately and it’s still not filling the cracks Yvonne left. ‘I feel like I need another shower after all that.’

  ‘And I need to get to work.’ I nod, opening the door to leave.

  ‘But Max,’ Tom stands in the doorway as I step out onto the busy pavement, ‘who’s going to hold my towel?’

  That’s one thing I hate about Tom. It’s never too soon to laugh.

  Chapter Three

  Eve

  Becky: Matthew just messaged. What should I do?

  Eve: Who?

  Becky: From this morning.

  Becky: Shoreditch?

  Eve: Sure-ditch him already.

  Becky: Were you just setting yourself up for that?

  Eve: Yup.

  Becky: Well played, my friend.

  Becky: That’s why they pay you the big bucks.

  Eve: Ha! Now who’s the funny one?

  Looking up at the iconic News Building thrills me every time. Sometimes in an ‘I can’t believe I actually get to work here’ way. Other times in an ‘I can’t believe I actually have to work here’ way. Anxiety and adrenalin shoot through my body, tingling all the way to my fingertips. Note to self: you are good at your job; one day people are going to see you are good at your job. No, correction: today is the day they are going to see you are good at your job.

  Breathing deeply, I channel some calm against the backdrop of suits striding into the building, forcing my heart to match the click of my heels as I walk confidently into my day. Note to self: fake it till you make it. A buzz fills my back pocket. Becky with more post-date updates. But she’ll have to wait. Right now I need to get my head in the game. The ‘allow me to introduce you to your future features editor’ game.

  As I walk out of the lift and onto our floor, hardly any heads look up from their hot desks or hot drinks. After decades of people looking at me – or rather, up at me – as I walked into classrooms, parties, even sodding doctor’s appointments, it still surprises me how invisible I am here.

  ‘Eve!’ Makena beams at me as I plonk myself down at the desk beside her and begin to sift through my post. At least one person appreciates me here. I went into journalism to write stories that matter, only to have my status as a tall blonde female steer my long legs in the direction of the Thursday supplement. After all, Thursday is the new Friday, and my oh my, what would women do with their weekends if they weren’t told what shade of lipstick was hot to trot this week? I tried to tell our features director that lipstick didn’t technically trot. He politely told me to trot the hell on. And I would, if I didn’t get my perfectly framed teeth sunk into something meaty soon.

  ‘You’re early,’ I say. Our desks, like our outfits, stand in contrast to one another. Mine: neat, minimalistic, utilitarian. Hers: cluttered, colourful, a little too much.

  ‘And you’re late,’ she grins, looking at her designer watch dramatically. Unlike me, Makena was born for fashion. If only she could get to write something serious about it. Instead, we were both stuck covering quick trends and clickbait.

  ‘I know, my morning got off to a weird start. Beck—’

  ‘I know.’ Makena guesses my excuse before I can even say her name. ‘She told me.’

  I’ve told Becky countless times that it would be more efficient to share her dating dilemmas in the group chat. But then she wouldn’t be able to
talk about them countless times.

  ‘He sounded like a good one.’ Makena shakes her head, glancing down at her phone. She’s been dating someone for weeks, and is still none the wiser as to whether he’s a good one.

  ‘Trust me,’ I sigh, switching on my monitor, ‘he wasn’t.’

  My phone buzzes again as I rest it next to my post, an angry water bill demanding my attention from the top. Note to self: tell Becky to stop brushing her teeth in the shower.

  ‘I don’t know why you still get your post delivered here; you’ve been at your flat for such a long time.’

  ‘Have you tried to find our front door?’ I look at Makena and laugh. We both know she has. And not always successfully. Not always soberly.

  I scan the emails in my inbox. PR mail mergers mingle with junk as my eyes make a beeline for internal senders. It’s our weekly staff meeting this morning and I don’t want anything taking me by surprise. I want to appear in control, ahead of myself. So that they might just let me get ahead.

  ‘Women are standing up, but are they standing over there?’ I read the top line of my pitch to Makena; I’ve been planning to present this story for weeks.

  ‘Tell me more,’ Makena says.

  ‘The piece will look at the advancements in equality we’ve made over the past decade but will also dig deeper into whether women are being siloed into speaking only to and for other women in the process. Speaking engagements – but only at women’s conferences. Senior leadership roles – but only at women’s magazines . . .’

  ‘Some people like women’s magazines,’ Makena objects, eyebrows raised.

  Becky: Matthew still has my lipstick in his back pocket. Should I go get it back?

  I look down at the messages coming through from Becky, her lipstick laments perfectly timed as if to back up Makena’s point – some people do like women’s magazines. Ever since I introduced the two of them, they’ve been in cahoots.

  Eve: Absolutely not.

  Eve: I’ll get you another one. They send loads of samples.

  Becky: Man, I love your job.