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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘I thought we put down Malbon?’

  ‘It’s Mal-bec,’ I say. ‘And not Corona, the Coronas – they’re a band.’

  ‘Never heard of them. What are they like?’

  ‘They’re a cool indie rock band,’ I explain with a smile. ‘I saw one of their really early gigs in a pub in Dublin. Must have been thirteen. Dad took me over there for Paddy’s Day.’ Becky’s eyes widen at the mention of my dad. I haven’t seen or heard from him in years. I’ve not really talked about him much in that time either. ‘I guess taking a thirteen-year-old to a pub was a bit of a sign, right?’ This is why I don’t let myself think about him. It’s impossible to savour the good without the aftertaste of bad. ‘Anyway, the band are really good. Niche, and it might prompt a backstory.’ She can have that one for free. ‘I’d leave out the dad with a drinking problem, though.’

  ‘Sounds good.’ Becky’s smile is a little sad. ‘Are you sure you don’t want to reach out to him?’ she asks as I see Sofia’s diminutive figure bustling across the restaurant.

  ‘Becky, why on earth would I need to hear from my parents when I have a family like yours?’ I say as Sofia arrives to top up our pasta. ‘And you’re about to have a husband like this . . .’ I hold up the phone to show a green-haired rocker with a piercing through the bridge of his nose. Another awful match soon to be a thing of the past.

  Sofia smiles at me, reaching a hand to my arm. ‘At least this one doesn’t have a face tattoo.’

  Chapter Four

  Max

  Tom: Dude, she wants me to meet her family.

  Max: Who?

  Tom: Ruby!

  Max: Going to go?

  Tom: No!

  Max: But you are going to tell her you don’t want to see her again, right?

  Tom: Of course.

  Tom: Was going to leave it a day or two. Soften the blow so it’s doesn’t seem so sex-and-go.

  Max: Sounds good.

  Tom: Yeah, apart from she wants to come round tonight.

  Tom: Says she’s forgotten her bra.

  Max: Just tell her she can’t.

  Tom: She said she’s passing by.

  Tom: Told her we were out.

  Max: Are we?

  Tom: We are now. I’ll message you the details.

  I look up from Tom’s messages. He doesn’t need to send me the details; it’ll be the same pub we always go to. Part of me is annoyed – I’ve just got into a really good book, In Search of Lost Time by this French novelist I’ve wanted to read for ages; another part thinks maybe it’s a good thing. The guys at work are always telling me I need to get out more. Looking around the office, at the heads-down hive of activity, I could tell them the same. But that’s what I love about the team here: no one is scared of putting in the hours, pushing up their sleeves, getting stuck in.

  ‘Max, can you just help me with this copy?’ I follow the voice back to the face of Heather, our head of communications.

  ‘Heather,’ I say, pleased to see her. ‘You know you don’t need my help.’ Heather has just come across to us from a senior position at Cancer UK. She’s been in her line of work for decades; she could write a press release or solve a media scandal in her sleep.

  ‘I just want you to give it a once-over to check I’ve got the tone right. You know, from someone on the ground.’ Her eyes seem to scan down to my shoes, the soles of which have walked every inch of the care homes the patients we help find themselves in. She may be an expert in media, but I guess I’ve become something of an expert in coming alongside people living with dementia. I’m not sure Heather knows that being on the ground isn’t technically in my job description. I just struggle to see how you can fund-raise for causes you don’t actually care about. Surely the people you’re trying to reach would see through you in a heartbeat?

  ‘Sure thing, leave it with me.’ I smile at her as she stifles a yawn. ‘You do know you can always join me on a visit sometime?’

  Heather smiles back but looks a little weary at the thought. She’s in her sixties, wears a wedding ring and has grown-up children; apart from that, I don’t know anything about her – except that she works really hard and my suggestion is making her feel a burden I didn’t mean for her to carry.

  ‘Thanks, Max,’ she sighs. ‘That would be nice when I have the time.’

  ‘No rush.’ I take the printout from her hands. ‘How was your weekend?’

  ‘Busy.’ She isn’t saying much, but I can tell she wants to share more.

  ‘Oh yeah?’

  ‘Yeah.’ She exhales. ‘I’m pretty much a full-time carer at the moment.’ I nod, inviting her to go on; creating a safe space. It’s what we do here.

  ‘My husband,’ she goes on. ‘He’s fighting cancer.’

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry to hear that.’ I offer her a little smile. Hopefully not in that pious head-tilt sympathetic way, the one that makes worn-out family members want to punch you in the face. Heather smiles again, in a way that tells me this is the first time she has confided in anyone here. ‘When do you need this for?’ I ask, tapping the papers in my hand.

  ‘End of the day?’

  ‘You got it.’ I nod.

  ‘Thanks, Max.’ She beams. ‘You’re the best.’

  ‘Just doing my job.’ She begins to walk back to her desk. ‘And Heather?’ She turns to face me. ‘You’re doing an incredible job too.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Her face dimples and she stands a little taller. ‘I needed that.’

  No fewer than five colleagues come up to ask for my help before I’ve even grabbed a coffee. This new role has definitely upped the ante, increased my visibility here. And man, it feels good. I never get those managers who say they’re too busy to help: isn’t that the point? Most of the time it’s just pointing people in the right direction anyway.

  ‘One flat white for you, Maxy.’ Paddy slams a takeaway cup on my desk.

  ‘Thanks, dude. I owe you one.’

  ‘Great. In which case, that means I only owe you five.’

  ‘Who’s counting?’ I shrug. ‘What I am counting is how many times you call me Maxy.’

  ‘Still not sold on it?’ Paddy asks, working his way through his emails. ‘I think it makes us sound like a double act. Maxy and Pads, putting the fun in fund-raising . . .’

  ‘Dude, it makes us sound like a sanitary product.’ I shake my head. ‘Stick to the projects.’ I nod him back to his screen.

  There are a number of projects we centre our campaigns around, but now I’ve got the opportunity to come up with something new. At the same time as managing Paddy’s projects and Tom’s In Search of Lost Bras love life.

  ‘Hello?’ I pick up the phone as soon as it rings.

  ‘Max?’ A sweet voice says my name. I recognise it instantly.

  ‘Amy. How is she?’ I swear I can hear her sigh at the end of the line. Amy works at one of our care homes. I used to try and divide my spare time equally between them, but that was before I fell for Peggy, the woman who stole my heart. She’s feisty and intelligent, knows all the best books, all the best films, tells all the best stories. Oh, and she’s eighty-four.

  ‘She’s good today, yes,’ Amy says. ‘Don’t you care how I am?’ She laughs down the line.

  ‘Of course, sorry,’ I say, clicking open a new email at the same time. ‘How are you?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks for asking.’ She’s kind enough to pretend my question’s off the cuff.

  ‘How are you? What did you get up to this weekend?’

  I think of my walk around Tooting Common, my coffee and cake in Mud with nothing but my book. I can imagine Amy would be more impressed by a weekend like Tom’s.

  ‘It was pretty chilled,’ I reply, really wanting to know about Peggy. How she seems in herself, whether there’s any change in her colour, whether she’s eating properly.
r />   ‘How’s Peggy’s weight?’

  ‘You can’t ask a woman that.’ Amy laughs again. ‘But yeah, it’s stable. Are you visiting tonight?’

  ‘Great, great,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I . . .’ Dammit, Tom’s saga, the forgotten bra, his witness-protection programme. ‘No, actually. I have to hide out in a pub with Tom.’

  ‘Sounds horrible,’ Amy says, as bubbly and sarcastic as ever.

  ‘You’ve not been to the pub,’ I reply. ‘Tell Peggy I’ll see her soon.’

  ‘We can’t wait.’

  As I hang up, Paddy is looking at me, shaking his head.

  ‘Oh Maxy, Maxy, Maxy,’ he tuts.

  ‘What?’

  ‘For a clever guy you can be a bit of an idiot.’

  ‘Why?’ I ask, panic setting in. ‘What have I done?’

  ‘That Amy chick.’ He pauses. ‘She fancies you.’

  ‘How do you know? You weren’t on the call.’

  ‘We’re Maxy and Paddy . . .’

  ‘Stop it,’ I say. Amy doesn’t fancy me.

  ‘I can read you like one of your long, boring books . . .’

  I walk into the Castle a little confused. And not just about the Amy thing. Tom and I usually bag the table for two in the front window. Sometimes they’ll even reserve it without us asking. Between me and Yvonne and his many dates, I’m pretty sure Tom has gained some sort of squatter’s rights here. But not today. Our table is empty. Scanning around the pub, I see his broad figure sitting in a booth, muscular arm reaching along the back of the bench occupied by a petite brunette. Across from him sits a pretty blonde woman cradling a glass of wine, a pint standing before the only space at the table. A drink and a date I assume is reserved for me. Thanks for the heads-up, mate.

  ‘Here he is now.’ Tom holds his free arm out to me. ‘This is Max.’

  The petite brunette says hello, and then the blonde. I stand for a second, not knowing what’s going on, whether Tom knows them from the gym and is just saying hello.

  ‘Well sit down then . . .’

  I slip into the booth beside the blonde – my date for the evening?

  ‘This is Dani.’ Tom gestures towards the brunette, as if that explains everything. ‘And Kimberly.’ The pretty blonde smiles up at me. ‘Dani and I matched on Tinder earlier this week,’ he explains.

  I do a quick calculation. I swear this is his fourth date in as many nights.

  ‘And Kimberly—’

  ‘Just got stood up,’ Kimberly says, taking another gulp of her wine. A really big gulp.

  ‘It’s a funny story actually.’ Tom looks at me as my eyes try to warn him, darting across to Kimberly: it doesn’t sound very funny, dude. ‘Dani messaged me earlier today to check we were still on for tonight.’ Now it’s his turn to warn me: I forgot about it, bro, just play along. ‘And I say, of course we are, and I come into the bar and slide into a booth next to Kimberly by accident.’ He laughs as if that isn’t the most awkward thing in the world. ‘Then Dani turned up, and I was like, of course it’s you.’ He laughs again. So not only did he forget he had a date, he forgot what she looked like. I know he’s trying his best to get over Yvonne, but this is getting out of hand.

  ‘My date never showed.’ Kimberly necks her wine. Oh man, I feel bad for her.

  ‘So I told her not to worry and that I’d invite you along.’ Tom beams, as if he hadn’t invited me to the pub this morning; as if my being here was the afterthought.

  ‘Well in that case . . .’ I look to Kimberly’s empty glass and stained-red lips. ‘Another?’

  ‘Dude,’ I hiss at Tom as soon as we’re at the bar and out of earshot. ‘What the hell?’

  ‘I’m sorry, I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I know it looks bad . . .’

  ‘That’s because it is bad.’

  ‘But I just see so many faces at work and online that everyone kind of looks familiar after a while.’ He brushes a hand through his hair, picking up his freshly poured pint. ‘But they seem really cool.’ Kimberly seems really drunk. ‘And I guess it could be worse, right?’

  ‘How?’

  ‘At least Ruby isn’t here . . .’

  Tom gets to his feet to head to the toilet, leaving me alone with the girls. Shit, shit. Okay, I can do this. Just keep the conversation going. I refocus my attention on Kimberly, who is telling me about her master’s dissertation. To be fair, she’s struggling to focus herself.

  ‘What a unique lens to view anthropology through,’ I say, as she views me through the bottom of her glass.

  ‘I’m glad someone thinks so,’ she says. I read between the lines: you’re the only one. She looks so sad, and not just because she’s finished her fifth glass of wine. This is the problem with online dating. It makes people feel distant, disposable; so removed from the realities of life that you forget the people on the other side of the screen have real feelings.

  ‘I can’t believe I got stood up,’ she sighs.

  ‘Nor can I,’ I smile. No one deserves to be messed around. Time is precious, especially in this city, especially at this life stage. ‘I’m going to be really honest with you,’ I begin; it’s what this other guy should have been. ‘I’m not really looking to date anyone at the moment . . .’ well, I’m not looking to date anyone online. It’s not really where age-old love stories are born, and I should know, I’ve read most of them. ‘But you clearly have so much to offer a guy – make sure you offer it to a good one.’

  She grabs my hand and looks into my eyes and for a moment I think she’s going to kiss me. But then she starts to cry, at first just a little bit, and then a bit more, and then a lot. Oh shit, she’s crying a lot.

  ‘You really do.’ Dani reaches her hand across the table to rest on ours. ‘I know I don’t know you, but you seem like a lovely girl. It’s obvious Tom would rather be here with you.’

  ‘But you’re gorgeous,’ Kimberly tells her, and now Dani’s eyes start to well. Oh crap, oh crap. Please don’t cry, please don’t cry.

  ‘You both are,’ I say, our hands still resting in the middle of the table. ‘And fun and interesting.’

  Oh shit, this was meant to stop the crying.

  ‘And you both deserve guys who can’t wait to meet you on your dates.’ I look between them, their wide eyes still on me.

  ‘You’re right,’ Dani says. ‘I’ve been dating guy after guy like I’m just after someone, anyone – but I deserve someone special.’

  ‘You do.’ I nod as she cries even harder. ‘You both do.’

  ‘So what have I missed?’ Tom appears by our table to see both girls sobbing and clutching my hand. ‘Told them about your grandma?’

  ‘I’m leaving.’ Dani gets to her feet defiantly, looking at Tom with tear-stained eyes.

  ‘Me too.’ Kimberly steadies herself enough to stand. ‘Thanks, Max.’

  ‘Yeah, thanks, Max,’ Dani says, giving me a hug before tottering away.

  ‘Thanks, Max?’ Tom turns to me, his voice spiked with sarcasm. ‘What the fuck was that?’

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shrug as I slide back into the booth, feeling more than a little bamboozled. ‘I just encouraged them a bit, told them they were special.’

  ‘Oh Max.’ Tom shakes his head. He hardly looks heartbroken. ‘It’s not your fault,’ he says. I might believe that if I hadn’t just made two grown women cry. ‘I keep finding these desperate . . .’

  ‘Insecure?’ I suggest, searching for a better word.

  ‘Vulnerable . . .’

  ‘Sensitive?’

  ‘. . . women who just want to find a husband. I want to meet someone strong, someone with something about them . . .’ He means someone like Yvonne.

  ‘Give me your phone,’ I say, thrusting my hand out. ‘If you keep attracting the same kind of girl, maybe it’s something to do with your profile.’

 
With no better ideas and absolutely no desire to go home and risk a run-in with Ruby, Tom obliges. I swipe through his three photos: all at the gym, all topless, all barely fitting in the frame. Man, the guy is huge. No wonder I don’t really get a look-in. I scan down his answers: the only thing small about him: Eating. Biking. Gym.

  ‘Favourite book: Men’s Health magazine?’ I raise an eyebrow.

  ‘Just being myself, mate,’ Tom replies, taking another swig of his beer. Before Yvonne, he was confident that was enough.

  ‘Yeah, I get that . . .’ I don’t want to depress him further. I’ve already ruined two people’s nights; let’s not make it a hat trick. ‘But this isn’t you, not really. The answers, the photos . . . It’s all a bit shallow.’

  ‘I’m not shallow,’ Tom objects, draining his pint.

  ‘You’re not, not at all,’ I assure him. He’s not, but this profile makes him sound as deep as a puddle. ‘But why don’t we give a bit more detail, paint you as a three-dimensional guy, find you a three-dimensional woman?’

  ‘That’s how I like ’em,’ Tom laughs. ‘Okay.’ He nods.

  ‘So your favourite book,’ I begin. ‘Needs to appeal to the kind of woman you want to meet.’

  ‘What’s Margot Robbie’s favourite?’

  ‘I think she’s taken.’

  ‘Okay, how about that thing I was pretending to read this morning; what kind of woman would that attract?’

  ‘Smart,’ I say, sure of it. ‘Complex, layered . . .’

  ‘Like onions?’ I know Tom is trying to quote Shrek.

  ‘No, we’re not putting that as your favourite movie,’ I say before he even has time to suggest it. ‘Your favourite writer is Thomas Hardy, and now your favourite movie is . . .’ I scan mentally through my shelves back home. ‘Lion.’

  ‘The one where the kids go through the wardrobe?’

  ‘Bro,’ I shake my head, ‘you’re better than that.’

  ‘Fine, Lion. I’ll watch it as a refresher.’ He nods.

  ‘Favourite way to spend a day?’