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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  At least that makes one of us.

  ‘I know that.’ I look up from my phone and back to Makena. ‘But equality is about choice, right? It might not be sit down, shut up any more, but is stand over there any better?’

  ‘Eve, it’s a great idea.’ Her face can’t help but fall. ‘But they’re not going to go for it.’

  ‘I know,’ I sigh. It’s too close to home, but I have to keep trying, to keep pushing. ‘I’m going to keep speaking up,’ I tell myself and Makena at the same time, heart hammering. ‘To the whole room. Even if they’re not listening.’

  Makena forces her smile wide. I know my chances of being heard here are slim, but I have to keep trying. My phone buzzes again, shaking us both from the thought.

  ‘That guy still messaging Becky?’ Makena asks, in no hurry to start work.

  ‘Yep.’ I nod as I return to my inbox, an email Everest to climb.

  ‘Least someone is communicative,’ she sighs, looking down at her phone. ‘Boy dramas,’ she shrugs, her maybe man still blowing cold and but-omigod-he’s-so-hot.

  ‘Is nobody immune?’ I laugh; it’s my turn to be dramatic. Clicking open an email, I find what I’m looking for: the agenda for this morning’s meeting.

  ‘You are,’ Makena points out.

  I wouldn’t say immune. Quarantined perhaps. Keeping myself a safe distance away until I have the time to invest in something real. I don’t do things by halves, and it’s not like I have the time right now anyway. I look at the clock on my computer, counting down the minutes until the meeting. Fifty emails in fifteen minutes after being up since 5.15. You can do this, Eve. You can do this.

  ‘Did you hear the rumour?’ Makena pushes her feet off her desk, wheeling her chair closer to me. Clearly she has other ideas for the next fifteen minutes.

  ‘This better be good.’

  ‘Oh it is,’ she says, her hushed tone laced with glee. ‘Angela is pregnant.’

  ‘No! Angela who is thirty-four, has been married for three years and has been talking about babies for two? Alert the media.’ My words drip with sarcasm.

  ‘Eve.’ Makena raises her eyebrows again. Note to self: book eyebrow appointment. ‘You’re missing the point.’ But I never miss the point. ‘What will Angela need now?’

  ‘Elasticated waistbands?’

  Makena rolls her eyes, then lowers her voice again. ‘Maternity cover.’

  Maternity cover. I taste the two words on my tongue. Angela Baxter, features editor – not just of the supplement, but of the whole newspaper – is going to be taking months off work, maybe more. This is my chance to step up. To keep her seat warm whilst showing everyone I deserve my own place at the table.

  ‘Think I stand a chance?’ I can’t help but ask. Even if I don’t, I have to go for it.

  ‘For sure.’ Makena nods. ‘If they hire internally, I’d say it’s between you and—’

  ‘Taren,’ I say, now my turn to fill in the blanks. I follow Makena’s gaze over to his six-foot figure, leaning against the doorway into the commercial director’s office; he certainly knows who holds the purse strings. Although for a man who spends his winters skiing in the Alps and who summers in Monaco – for a man who summers full stop – is it really that surprising?

  ‘I work twice as hard as Taren,’ I say, not meaning to sound so childish. ‘And surely hiring a woman would be better for their diversity quota?’

  ‘Babe.’ Makena looks me in the eye. ‘I’m a young African woman who’s just spent her weekend writing a piece on the world’s largest tub of mayonnaise. Trust me, they don’t care.’

  Becky: Okay, I told him I don’t need the lipstick.

  Becky: And he replied: you might not miss your lipstick but I’m missing your lips.

  Becky: That’s cute, right?

  Eve: No, it’s creepy.

  Becky: I thought it was sweet.

  Eve: It sounds like he wants to sever them and store them in a jar.

  Becky: You’re being ridiculous.

  Eve: May I take this opportunity to remind you . . .

  Eve: YOU DON’T EVEN LIKE HIM.

  Becky: Good point. So what should I reply?

  Eve: How about you don’t?

  Becky: But I need to say something.

  Eve: Just hold on for a bit. I’m going into the pitch meeting.

  Becky: Pitch, please.

  Eve: You don’t have to say that every time.

  Becky: Fine.

  Becky: Just give them hell.

  Give them hell, Eve. Just give them hell. I follow Makena into the board room and we stand around the edge of the table in its centre. Standing is meant to make the meeting shorter, but it just makes me feel taller. And it means Taren and I are standing eye to eye. Which is pretty ironic given the circumstances.

  ‘Hello, hello,’ Richard, the ‘big boss’, says to no one in particular. ‘First on the agenda is . . .’ He looks around the room for someone who actually knows what’s on the agenda.

  ‘Gareth,’ I prompt.

  ‘Gareth,’ Richard repeats as if he’s plucked the name from thin air.

  We turn to Gareth as he pitches at speed. The story: an investigative piece on the radicalisation of a schoolgirl from south London. How it relates to our readers: current issue, strong personal narrative, locally sourced. What adverts might run alongside: higher-education courses? Local MP event? Everyone nods. It’s a good piece for the newspaper. It’s a piece I’d love to write.

  ‘Up next is . . .’ Richard looks round again.

  ‘It’s me.’ Taren puffs out his chest. How can two small words carry so much weight? Like, it’s me you want. It’s me for features editor. It’s me for prime minister.

  Taren works on the sports supplement, but everyone knows he wants to be a director. A features editor on the newspaper would be a good next move for him. But it would be a good next move for me too.

  ‘The idea I had was for a . . . well, it’s the one I told most of you about last night, when we were watching the game?’ In reality, ‘most of you’ amounts to about three people. But they’re the three that matter most. ‘We were in the pub last night . . .’ He smiles at us. It doesn’t help that his pitches are set against a backdrop of swoons. Why do women lose their minds when there’s a good-looking man in their midst? Makena’s is on this not-so-new guy. Becky’s boy dramas are still buzzing through my phone. But I have to keep my mind here, in this moment, in this room: if I keep pitching my ideas, keep my head in the game, they’ll have to let at least one through the net. It’s the law of averages, right?

  ‘Great, yes. Let’s run with that on Friday.’ Richard’s voice rings through my thoughts. Did Taren even present his idea, or did the late-night schmooze session suffice? Well, that’s fine. Taren can play his game. But I’m not going down without a fight. Note to self: get into football?

  ‘Great, great meeting, all,’ Richard says.

  What? No, wait. I have something to say. Makena shoots a smile my way: maybe next week? But no, I’ve worked hard on this. And if we don’t run it now, someone else will run it soon.

  ‘Richard, I have a—’

  ‘It’ll wait until next week, Eve.’ Richard smiles, and all thoughts of running the story turn to thoughts of running away. Heart hammering, hands clammy, my legs start shaking beneath me; all classic symptoms that I need to grab my trainers and force these feelings into the pavement, strong and steady beneath my feet. The perfect stress relief. But it’s not like I can do that here.

  Just breathe, Eve. Breathe, I tell myself as I hurry from the meeting room to the bathroom. This is okay, I remind my reflection in the mirror. I can present my story next week. But that’s what they said last week and the week before that and the week before that. I’m good at my job, aren’t I?

  I’ve never been a relationship girl. So if I’m n
ot a smash-it-at-work girl, then what the hell am I? It’s fine. If I don’t get a step up, I’ll step out, into something else, something new. But you said that last week, and the week before that, and the week before . . .

  Sitting on the closed toilet lid, I swipe to Headspace. I might not be able to run, but I can still escape. Breathe in, breathe out. In, out. In, out. In . . .

  Buzz. Buzz. Buzz . . .

  Becky: Okay, it’s out with Matthew.

  Breathe out.

  Becky: And it’s in with Connor.

  Breathe in.

  Becky: He seems nice from his profile. There’s just one tiny thing wrong with him.

  Breathe out.

  Becky: When I joked about him not having a third nipple or a mum who’s actually an aunt or a girlfriend hiding in the closet, he said ‘the girlfriend thing is complicated’.

  Becky: What do you think that means . . . ‘the girlfriend thing is complicated’?

  Breathe in.

  Eve: I think it means he has a girlfriend.

  Becky: But not like a proper one.

  Eve: Becky, you don’t want him to have any kind of one.

  Becky: I know, but he’s cute. And he’s nice. And I’m starting to think that’s like gold dust on these dating apps.

  Becky: I can’t expect every single thing to be perfect.

  Eve: No, but you can expect him to be perfectly single.

  Becky: I just want to meet a nice guy. Is that too much to ask?

  And I just want my work to mean something. Is that too much to ask too?

  Eve: No, it’s not.

  Becky: How did your pitch go, by the way?

  It didn’t. But I don’t want to talk about that right now . . .

  Eve: We just need a new game plan.

  Eve: Leave your phone alone for the rest of the day.

  Eve: Let’s look at your profile over dinner. A few tweaks and we’ll try again.

  We’ll try a-fucking-gain.

  I gaze up at the sign of Ciao Becca, such a contrast to how I began my morning. Where the News Building stands tall, ambitious, intimidating, the restaurant at the end of our street is small, warm, welcoming. As I push open the door and see Becky sitting at a checked-cloth-covered table, messy hair in her hands, a pocket-sized parent on either side, I can’t help but feel out of place. But crossing the restaurant, I feel the buzz of the News Building begin to fade away as I settle into the only other place I truly feel at home.

  ‘Ciao, Eve!’ Becky’s dad gets to his feet as he sees me arrive. He wraps his arms around me, which due to our height difference pretty much has him nestling his head in my chest. But there’s nothing creepy about Leonardo Amato.

  ‘Eve.’ Becky’s mum stands to join us and for a moment I am in an Amato sandwich.

  ‘Eve.’ Becky echoes her mum, her tone less of a welcome, more a plea for help.

  ‘Our little Becca is having a bit of a breakdown,’ Sofia explains.

  ‘Another one,’ Leonardo mouths behind her. I can tell from his rapper hand, thrust forward as he says it, that he’s channelling DJ Khaled, but I know better than to laugh. When Sofia is in the restaurant she insists on playing nothing but traditional Italian music. But when Leonardo is left to his own devices, everyone knows he switches to the charts.

  ‘I just want to meet someone great, fall in love, live happily ever after . . .’ Becky sounds like a Disney princess. Before they became Tangled and Brave. ‘Is that too much to ask?’

  ‘Not at all, sweetheart.’ Leonardo takes his seat beside her and I sit opposite. ‘These things just take time.’

  ‘Not for you guys,’ Becky sobs back. ‘You were like Romeo and Juliet – just set in Italy.’

  My eyes shoot to Leonardo, who grins. Sofia shakes her head. Now isn’t the time to tell Becky that Romeo and Juliet actually is set in Italy.

  ‘You fell in love as babies.’ Well, teenagers, but it’s not the time to point that out either. ‘You knew you were made for each other, and you swanned to England to get married and then made the best decision of your life . . .’ We all know she means her. I laugh at her dramatics, but to be fair, I think Becky is the best decision they made too.

  ‘Yes, but the course of true love never did run smooth.’ Sofia thinks she’s quoting Romeo and Juliet, but I can tell from Leo’s expression that he knows it’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream too. ‘We lost our families over it; you know your grandparents never approved.’ The fact that Sofia doesn’t refer to them as her parents only makes their distance more palpable. Leonardo was from a poor family; Sofia was seemingly a princess – which to be fair might be where Becky gets it from. ‘So love, yes, but a love that cost us our parents.’

  ‘I’d love to be so in love that I’d be willing to lose my parents,’ Becky says with a little grin.

  ‘Fine.’ Leonardo laughs, their relationship strong enough to take even the harshest of jokes. Unlike me and my dad. Not that we had that much to laugh about anyway. ‘Just make sure he’s worth it. And don’t trade us in for one of your men with the face tattoos.’

  ‘Men?’ Becky looks at him incredulously. ‘There was only one.’

  ‘That’s one too many,’ Sofia says as we all laugh. The woman has a point. ‘And before you trade us in, ask yourself, “Who is going to make my carbonara for me now?”’ That, Sofia, is another very good point. ‘Two plates, I assume?’

  ‘Three, please.’ Becky smiles at the thought of her mum’s cooking. ‘One for me, one for Eve and one for my misery . . .’

  ‘Oh please.’ Sofia rolls her eyes. We know Becky wants to meet someone, but now she’s acting up for our entertainment. ‘Two carbonaras coming right up.’

  ‘How was the pitch?’ Becky asks.

  ‘It’s all in hand,’ I say, not wanting to deal with the disappointment right now. My palms start to sweat. It didn’t happen. But my idea was good. I’ll have a chance to share it one day. And if the rumours about Angela are true, there may be a perfect place for me to step into soon.

  ‘Eve?’ Becky raises her eyebrows. ‘Don’t make me bring in the big guns.’ Her eyes dart across the restaurant to her parents. The three of them have a habit of getting the truth out of me, probing my defences until they finally crumble.

  ‘Okay, well there wasn’t really time to pitch it today,’ I say, trying to stay positive.

  ‘Again?’ Becky asks. ‘They should be listening to your pitches first.’

  I smile at my best friend, feeling warmed by her support. But enough about me. This evening is about one thing only: pimping Becky’s profile. At least I can add some value there.

  ‘Now let’s see this profile.’ I push away the pitch as Becky connects to the seriously patchy Wi-Fi and Sofia materialises with our plates.

  ‘Ooh, let me see.’ She gestures at Becky’s phone.

  ‘Mum, this restaurant isn’t going to serve itself,’ Becky jokes, moving her phone away and looking around the now crowded room. I dread to think how many covers they’ve lost as we sit in this corner night after night, covering every topic known to man – well, usually men. Sofia moves away and Becky fixes her attention back on me. ‘It might not be a problem with my profile. It might be a problem with me.’

  ‘It’s a problem with your profile,’ I say, not even entertaining the thought. ‘Let’s have a look. What kind of guy do you want to attract?’ I ask. Even though I already know.

  ‘Tall, dark, handsome.’ Becky starts to rattle off her list. ‘Kind, intelligent, talkative.’

  I scroll down her profile of soppy essays, mirror selfies and bikini body shots.

  ‘Well, with this,’ I hold out a photo of her in a cut-out bikini that belongs only on Love Island, ‘you’re going to attract stupid men who are only after one thing.’

  ‘I paid good money for that bikini,’ Becky moans, stuffing a f
orkful of pasta in her mouth. ‘Well okay, wise one, what do you suggest?’

  She looks at me, eyebrows raised. She knows I’ve never made a dating profile. Apart from a few drunken snogs in the Lockside, the last real date I went on was at uni. I’ve spent all my time since then becoming independent, completing internships, writing stories. That’s all we need to do here: tell a really irresistible story.

  ‘You’re wonderful,’ I say. ‘Your family is wonderful.’ My heart jolts with jealousy at the thought. ‘We just need to get that across on here.’

  One by one I delete the bikini shots, then I look through Becky’s camera roll. There’s a photo of her in this very corner of the restaurant, the light hitting her just right. One of her posing near Camden Lock. Another of her lifting a glass of champagne in the air in my favourite bar, bubbly personality clear to see.

  ‘Right, that’s that part done,’ I say. ‘Now for the questions. Man, there’s a lot of them on here. What’s your favourite way to unwind?’

  ‘Watch movies at home and eat cheese on toast with you?’

  ‘Ah fanx.’ I give her my best teenager response; I’ve never been great with compliments. ‘But if you want to attract someone you can have a connection with, I suggest we go a little deeper. Favourite type of movie?’

  ‘Funny ones?’

  ‘How about French? It makes you sound sophisticated and complements the cheese.’

  ‘I’ve never really watched one.’

  ‘Oh, they’re great.’ I grin, trying to remember how many times I’ve watched Amélie. ‘Might prompt a romantic trip to Paris?’

  ‘Well why didn’t you say so.’ Becky laughs. ‘Write it down.’

  ‘Done,’ I say. ‘And how about we tweak cheese on toast to cheese and wine? What’s your favourite type of cheese?’

  ‘Grated?’

  ‘Becky, I’m being serious.’

  ‘So am I.’

  ‘Well now it’s Camembert – and Malbec’s your wine of choice.’ She mouths the word back at me. ‘Now, music. What’s your favourite band?’

  ‘Calvin Harris?’

  ‘That’s not a band, Becky.’ I know she would love to date a musician – I mean, who wouldn’t? Best get some instruments in there somewhere. ‘How about the Coronas?’