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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘Gym.’ He nods again. It was before Yvonne, anyway.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I put one hand up in surrender. ‘That can be how you start your day. But then you like to spend your afternoons going for long walks around Tooting Common and having a coffee and cake in Mud with nothing but your book.’

  ‘I do?’ Tom grins. ‘I do,’ he confirms with confidence. ‘You sure this is going to work?’

  ‘If it’s not broken, don’t fix it?’ I say, as we both recall the shit-show that was this evening.

  ‘Oh, it’s broken all right.’ Tom laughs, but I know he’s tired of this, tired of swiping through shallow women who could never measure up to what he had with Yvonne. Well, what he thought he had with Yvonne. She broke his heart. But hopefully this – pimping his profile to attract the perfect woman – will fix it.

  Chapter Five

  Eve

  Buster stalks along the back of the sofa, wild, majestic against the background of mould. He pounces on a sparrow cushion, then an elephant one, and then nestles into Becky’s lap, confident that he’s the king of the jungle – or of this one, at least.

  ‘Right, when are we going to attack these walls?’ I ask Becky, who’s swiping on her phone. She’s hardly moved all day.

  ‘I’m busy,’ she says.

  I open my laptop. Her busy looks a lot less frantic than my chilled. I’ve already been for a run, read the weekend newspapers and written an article. But we’ve got another hour or so before we’re meeting the girls for drinks; there’s still time to attack the marks climbing like damp ivy up our walls.

  ‘You’ve been “busy” all day,’ I say, looking down at my first paragraph afresh. If we’re not going to spruce up our living space, I may as well freshen up this copy. It’s only been an hour since I wrote it, but it’s already feeling tired; or maybe that’s just me.

  ‘Hey, put your air quotes away.’ Becky yawns. I’m not sure why she’s tired: she’s still in her pyjamas and it’s almost 6 p.m. ‘I’m busy trying to find a good guy.’ She looks at me accusingly. Ever since I helped her revamp her profile, her swipe-right traffic has seemingly slowed. I’ve tried to tell her it’s a quality-not-quantity thing, but what do I know? I turn back to my article.

  ‘I need to move.’ Becky jolts to life and Buster bolts for cover. ‘I need to get out.’

  ‘I invited you on my run.’ I try to remind her she has options, even though I’m pretty sure she thinks I’ve edited them away. ‘You used to like the idea of running together.’

  ‘I did.’ She nods, making her way to her bedroom. ‘I do,’ she shouts from within it as I hear her wardrobe doors open. ‘I like the idea of running with you . . .’

  I know what she’s getting at: our ideas of running together are miles apart.

  ‘I had visions, Eve, visions,’ she says, like I’ve dashed her dreams; ever the dramatist. ‘Of us running side by side, the wind in our hair . . .’

  ‘In slow motion?’

  ‘. . . running all the way to the high street, all the way to our favourite coffee shop . . .’ Our favourite coffee shop is approximately one kilometre away. ‘. . . laughing over our lattes in Lycra . . .’

  I repeat her alliteration under my breath. Note to self: laughing over our lattes in Lycra. Good copy. Human interest feature?

  ‘That’s kind of nice,’ I say, opening a new document, scribbling the sentence down.

  ‘That’s what I thought.’ Becky materialises holding up two very short skirts.

  ‘I meant your sentence.’ I nod to the skirt on the right.

  ‘But you just want to go fast and get sweaty and . . . well, I’m not about that life.’

  ‘Hey, less of that.’ I point to the long-sleeved black top she’s silently showing me. It’ll offset the shortness of the skirt, and if there’s anything working on the Thursday supplement has taught me about style, it’s balance. Which is ironic, given that the newspaper cares little for balance in every other area of women’s lives. ‘We’ve put on your profile that you enjoy some light exercise.’

  ‘Heavy on the light,’ Becky quips. ‘I’m not sure it’s working. I got loads more matches before your edit.’ She sits back down on the sofa, her make-up bag now in her lap, looking across to the laptop on mine.

  ‘That’s because you were half-naked, remember?’ I laugh. ‘Quality not quantity.’

  ‘Well right now I’m getting neither.’

  ‘Let me have another go,’ I suggest. I’m in need of inspiration, and swiping through strangers’ profiles always sparks some sideways thoughts.

  ‘Sure thing.’ She chucks her phone onto the cushion next to me. Stashing my screen, I look at hers. Yes, there are fewer matches, but at least the guys who swiped right seem to be moving in the right direction. At least they’re wearing clothes. I scroll down the screen, mentally editing each profile as I go. Maybe if the journalism career doesn’t work out, I can provide some kind of dating app service? Not that I have a proven track record with my current client. I look from Becky – applying her eyeliner with precision – to her potential suitors on the screen. ‘Oliver, thirty-four, consultant, nice green eyes, seems to have friends, five foot three.’ I read his credentials out loud.

  ‘Too short,’ Becky says.

  ‘Coming from you?’

  ‘We can’t both be short, we’ll look like hobbits.’

  ‘Speaking of hobbits . . .’ I display the next digital date before her. ‘Tony, twenty-eight, teacher, incredibly hairy face.’ And visible through his flip-flops, incredibly hairy feet.

  ‘Ew,’ Becky rolls her now perfectly made-up eyes. I watch as she brushes her hair, taming it into place with a pink satin headband. Her eyes fix on me for a moment as I look up from the screen. ‘Are you sure you don’t want your own profile?’ she asks. ‘You look like you’re enjoying it.’

  I shake my head. ‘I just find it therapeutic,’ I explain.

  It’s not like I don’t want a boyfriend one day; I just need to get my career in place first. There’s too much I want to do, too much I want to achieve. And, well, relationships just seem to make everything so complicated.

  ‘Are you sure?’ Becky presses, entirely unconvinced.

  Yes, I may want a partner in the future. A family even. But it’s not like my own family worked out that well. I don’t want to get it wrong. I don’t have the time or the energy to hold it all together again. If I swipe right, I want the time to get it right.

  ‘Yes.’ I nod. ‘Honestly, it’s like my Headspace app, just with guys.’

  ‘Datespace?’

  ‘That’s quite good actually.’ Note to self . . .

  ‘Eve, not everything has to be an article idea.’

  I move across the living room to our stack of shoes by the redundant front door. I find one biker boot and search for the other: why the hell do they not just stay together? Becky joins me and finds her shoe boots nestled next to one another in the mess: the perfect pair. Some people are meant to come in twos.

  ‘Why don’t you just try it, see if you can find some guy who likes Coronas and Malbon too?’ I can tell from Becky’s raised eyebrows that she’s pulling my leg, but not with the try for a guy thing. That she’s been saying for years. But then the course of true love never does run smooth, right? It takes time, time I don’t have. And so many fears resurfacing every time I get close. I push the thought from my mind.

  ‘We’re going to be late.’ I give Becky a playful push in the direction of the door. Buster follows her, weaving within her legs.

  ‘Sorry, dude.’ She picks him up and holds him at arm’s length, not wanting him to leave fluff on her black top. ‘No boys allowed,’ she says before picking up her phone.

  No boys allowed. But looking from Becky’s screen to her teeny-tiny skirt and huge hopeful grin, I know this is one rule made to be broken.

  I se
e them as I follow Becky across the busy bar. Makena is clutching a glass of white wine, which glows against the backdrop of her bright orange top, her braided hair tied up with a blue headscarf. Lola sits with her pint of Camden Hells, a brew as cool and local as she is. Makena stands to throw her arms around me, as if she didn’t see me yesterday and the day before that, and the day before that . . .

  ‘I’ve missed you,’ she whispers into my hair like some long-lost lover before her laughter fills the bar. Heads turn to follow the sound. It’s hard to ignore Makena.

  ‘I’ve missed you too.’ I pull away to look into her eyes. It’s our classic ‘work wife’ charade. Joking that we spend so much time in the office we may as well be married. But then Makena has been as distracted as Becky of late with her maybe-man.

  ‘Well I genuinely have missed you.’ Lola pushes her way to embrace me.

  ‘Me too.’ I grin down at her. She’s actually pretty petite, not that any of us notice that with Becky the Bird in our midst. ‘Sorry, I’ve been so busy with . . .’

  ‘Work.’ She finishes my sentence with a smile.

  Okay, I get it. I’m at work a lot. But I always make time for our spontaneous Saturday nights out, provided they’re scheduled at least a week in advance.

  ‘How’s today been?’ Lola beams across at me as we take our seats at the table. She’s dressed in vintage ripped jeans and an oversized white T-shirt, with a simple gold chain holding a shark tooth. If I wore that, I’d look like an off-duty pirate. Lola looks like she’s on a break from the studio or from designing the next big thing. Bearded hipster types flock to her thinking they’ve got her down, got her number. Then they find out she’s an accountant and realise they’ve got her number – or numbers – all wrong. In any case, it’s not like she’s available; she’s been with her boyfriend Benj for years.

  ‘Good, thanks. Running, reading, writing . . .’ I reply cheerily, as if this isn’t how I spend every Saturday. As if there aren’t fleeting moments where I wonder whether I’m getting weekends all wrong. Where I wonder whether Becky, doing nothing but swiping left, swiping right, isn’t getting it right. At least she puts herself out there, actually believes in love.

  ‘Always so productive,’ Lola groans, as if I make the rest of them look bad.

  ‘Compared to you,’ I say, not meaning to sound so defensive. If my friend’s pace is a samba, mine would be the bass. Steady, reliable, never missing a beat. But I like my beat, I’m good at it. ‘In bed with Benj all day?’

  ‘I swear you think people in love don’t do anything other than swan around on clouds of stardust.’ Lola laughs and I join in, even though it’s far from what I know to be true: people in love lie to one another, they break each other’s hearts, they ruin everything.

  ‘You don’t?’ Makena feigns shock. ‘Then why the hell am I on these dating sites?’

  ‘We don’t,’ Lola confirms, trying not to smile over her pint. ‘But you’re on those dating sites because they are seriously fun.’ She reaches across the table to take Makena’s phone out of her hand, looking down to the screen.

  ‘Hey,’ Makena objects, snatching it back as we all laugh.

  Lola met Benj at university, back in the days when online dating was for the desperate and deluded. Back when men and women would cross bars and oceans (well, clubs called Ocean and Oceania anyway) to find each other. I look around the crowded bar now. There are groups of guys gathered around phone screens, gangs of girls giggling down at their own. People on dates, people in groups. People keeping themselves to themselves because walking over to someone else’s group feels intrusive, unwelcome and, well, a little desperate and deluded.

  ‘Is he on or off?’ Lola asks, smiling at Makena. We all know part of her wants to live vicariously through Makena, through Becky, but they just want what she has. Meanwhile, I’m flying the flag for ambitious career women everywhere. Or trying to, at least.

  For a moment Makena’s eyes seem to say: Lola, you can’t have your cake and eat it too. But then the need to talk about him, analyse him, pick apart his profile, wins the fight within her. ‘Oh, who the hell knows.’ She takes another swig of her wine. ‘One second we’re seeing each other, sleeping with each other, the next he’s silent and I’m left waiting to know what’s next . . .’ She lets out a groan of frustration so loud that the two girls on the next table look up. They smile in solidarity.

  ‘Reckon he’s just in it for the sex?’ Lola asks.

  ‘Maybe,’ Makena sighs. ‘I hope not.’

  ‘But he makes you breakfast the next day, right?’

  ‘Yes.’ Makena reclaims her smile.

  ‘And he’s introduced you to his friends?’

  ‘Not exactly.’ The smile vanishes. ‘He invited me for lunch with his grandma.’

  ‘Well family trumps friends any day.’

  Makena’s face lights up once more, hope restored.

  ‘Becky, any thoughts?’ Lola looks for some backup for Team Happy Ever After. Becky looks up from her screen, caught in her own confusion.

  ‘At least you have an on-and-off,’ she moans. ‘Ever since Eve messed with my profile, I’ve struggled to get even that.’

  ‘Hey!’ I look around at the judgemental jury staring back at me. ‘I just edited out the wasters and the fuck-boys.’

  ‘And now there’s nothing left.’ Makena laughs.

  ‘Maybe all the good ones are taken?’ Becky looks to Lola as if she’s taken them all.

  ‘You only need one.’ Lola smiles back.

  ‘No one’s my type,’ Becky looks down, swiping left and left.

  ‘Maybe that’s a good thing.’ Makena says what we’re all thinking.

  ‘Do you think?’ Becky looks around the table for answers.

  ‘Yes,’ Makena and I shout in unison.

  ‘Hey!’ Lola objects.

  ‘Apart from your brother, obviously,’ Makena says. Becky dated Lola’s older brother for about year. Which is like a decade in adult years.

  ‘Nah, to be fair, he’s a bit of a knob.’ Lola laughs. She loves her brother really, but by the time the break-up came, our friendship with her was already getting serious.

  ‘Agreed.’ Becky nods. ‘I’m so glad we got to keep you when it was over.’

  ‘Me too.’ Lola grins. ‘But Makena’s right. The guys you’re dating are all wrong. They’re online to find company for the night; you’re online to find company for life. You need someone willing to slow down, to wait, to work for you.’

  ‘To let your relationship mature, like a fine wine,’ Makena adds as she drains the rest of her glass. ‘Anyone for another?’ We follow her eyes to the bar, only to find another set of eyes staring right back. ‘Omigod, he’s looking at you.’ Makena traces the stranger’s stare back to Becky.

  ‘I think it’s fair to say he’s looking at you,’ Becky objects. It’s a good assumption when it comes to Makena. ‘Oh no, wait.’ She looks away as though his eye contact burns. ‘He is looking at me. Oh shit, is he coming over?’

  ‘Becky, it’s the 2020s, not the 1920s,’ I point out. ‘He’ll find you on some dating app later anyway.’

  ‘But I hate that.’ Becky bemoans the lack of romance. ‘I want a proper meet-cute.’ She glances across at him, and I know she’s thinking about her parents. She thinks she’s failed because she hasn’t met someone and married young like they did. Whereas failing to follow in my parents’ footsteps is precisely what I have in mind. ‘I’m going to speak to him.’ She squares her shoulders, ready to enter the real-life romance arena.

  ‘No you’re not.’ Makena looks up from her phone.

  ‘Do it!’ Lola hisses across the table.

  ‘I need a backup.’ Becky hands me her phone. ‘Keep swiping,’ she says.

  I look down at the screen, searching for a man good enough for my best friend. My best friend who just hap
pens to be chatting another man up at the bar.

  Okay. Here’s one. I read his details out loud to Makena and Lola. Could this be Becky’s backup? ‘Mike. He’s twenty-seven, five foot eight, works as a teacher—’

  ‘Match!’ Makena grins, as if having the same profession is a match made in heaven. Has she seen the men we work with? The only half-decent one there is Taren. And she knows better than to go fraternising with the enemy.

  ‘No,’ I object. ‘Becky needs someone different, someone to balance her out.’

  I keep swiping. Matt, twenty-six, actor, self-confessed attention-seeking middle child. He looks cute, all Bieber floppy hair and dimples. But does our drama queen really need a king? I swipe on, looking for someone calmer, sensitive, deep enough to balance her in the best way. ‘How about this one?’ I glance up from the phone. Lola and Makena are grinning at me, and for a moment I worry I’m having too much fun. If I give them an inch, they’ll take a mile and get me making my own profile in no time. They nod me on with eager eyes. I guess this part is pretty fun at least.

  ‘Tom, twenty-eight, personal trainer . . .’ That would be good for Becky, get her out of the house, finally get her doing that light exercise. ‘Spends his weekends mooching around Tooting Common . . .’

  ‘Wrong side of the river.’ Lola shakes her head like it’s a deal-breaker.

  ‘Yeah, but on the right line,’ I argue back. What London lovers have to think about. ‘I think she’ll find it romantic. North meets south, line-crossed lovers from the wrong side of the tracks . . .’ I know for a fact now that I’m having too much fun. Keep it together, Eve. ‘He spends his time drinking coffee and eating cake . . .’

  ‘She’ll like that part.’ Lola nods.

  ‘Oh, and he’s a big reader.’ I look down at his broad shoulders. He sounds more like my type. But Becky needs something different, something to complement her energy. And this guy? Confident not cocky, strong and sensitive, rooted and well-read; different in all the right ways. ‘Ladies and erm . . .’ I look from Lola to Makena. ‘Ladies, we have a swipe right.’