Ascending the bookcase-lined stairs, I read spine after spine as I go: Pride and Prejudice, The Great Gatsby, The Catcher in the Rye . . . My eyes feast all the way until a waiter passes me holding two plates piled with food.
‘We’ve got a table booked for four,’ I say to the stunning waitress in front of me. She’s dressed in skin-tight black, attire almost as stylish as the space behind her.
‘What name is it under?’
‘Tom . . .’ My eyes scan the tables, searching for sight of him.
‘Last name?’ She looks at me and I know I should remember. I know his favourite book, his favourite drink, his favourite meal. But I can’t for the life of me remember his last name. Tonight is going to be weird. Too weird. My anxiety accelerates at the thought.
‘It’s booked for four at seven,’ I say, a little panicked. ‘I know he asked for the table in the window.’ I messaged him about it last night. Well, as Becky.
‘Could it be under a Max Charan?’
Max, yes. Max is the friend.
‘That’s it, yes.’ I smile, trying not to look so worried.
Tonight will be fine. Tonight will have to be fine.
I follow the waitress across the floor towards the window. Pulling out a velvet-covered chair, I gaze over a traffic-twinkling Farringdon Street. I’m surrounded by dusty old books. And house plants, illuminated by fairy lights twisting through their branches. Famous quotes are scribbled on all sides. The ethereal atmosphere starts to slow my heart rate. Maybe tonight will actually be okay. Maybe meeting Tom is exactly what I need to make sense of the space he’s occupying in my mind. Note to self: you’re only thinking about him to force out thoughts of your dad. Well, maybe that’s right. I still haven’t told Becky about his letter. And if I tell her now, she’ll wonder what took me so long.
What’s taking her so long? I look around the restaurant, then down at my phone. No messages from Becky, but a hundred between her and Tom on the app. Note to self: you promised you wouldn’t read them without her here. Just ignore them, Eve.
As I’m about to lock my screen, a new email flashes across it. It’s from the cystic fibrosis foundation. I emailed them to ask if they could connect me with this bereaved family who I thought might be ready to talk about their experience to bring the issue to light. And to publicise the incredible fund-raising efforts they’re making to fight it. I read the message under my breath: We love what you’re doing, Eve, but the family have informed us they don’t want to speak to the media. I sigh. All the best human-interest stories seem to find their way onto personal blogs rather than into the national papers, where they could reach a wider audience. But these stories are still out there, I just need to find one – one family turning heartbreak into something magical, something that matters. Then I need to convince the management team that these stories matter too.
‘Oh man, I’m so late,’ Becky says, make-up smudged under tired eyes, her hair a bird’s nest. ‘I forgot I had detention.’
‘What did you do now?’ I laugh.
‘Well Homework Club, but it’s essentially the same thing,’ Becky says, ignoring my joke completely.
‘They’ve not arrived yet,’ I say, beckoning her to sit down, to breathe, just breathe.
‘I know.’ She clutches her tote closer to her chest. ‘Tom’s been messaging me the whole way here. He’s just said something about a new study on running and mental health that Nike have just brought out. Can you say something about your experience?’ She holds her phone out to me.
‘Becky, you’ve been on a run before.’ I really shouldn’t be playing the role of Tom’s online lover any more. Especially now that I’m about to meet him in the flesh.
‘The only place I need to run is the bathroom to sort this mess out.’ She pushes the phone across the table, smudged eyes filling with fear. ‘Please?’
‘Fine, fine,’ I say.
‘Or you could just log on to my profile on your phone?’
‘No, no, it’s okay. Just go.’
I don’t know why I’m reluctant to log on to the app on my phone. Why all of a sudden I feel like I need the boundary. Why I feel like for the first time in a long time I may be tempted to cross it.
Max
‘Crossing the road, dude,’ I say, ushering a phone-holding Tom away from the oncoming traffic. I quite literally don’t know how he survives without me. ‘And now a lamp post.’ I grab his shoulder to steer him right. Just like I steered him right towards Becky. She’s about to become a reality to me, rather than just a nice idea for my friend. My heart starts to race as we get closer and closer to the glass walls of the Fable.
‘Bro, can you help me with something?’ Tom asks, still staring at his screen.
‘I’ve saved your life about three times in the last three minutes,’ I point out, and it’s only then that he bothers to look up.
‘Becky’s just mentioned something about a sport initiative I’ve never heard of.’
‘I thought sport was your specialist subject?’ I say. Mine would be nineteenth-century literature. Either that or Great British Bake Off trivia that no self-respecting twenty-seven-year-old man would ever need to know.
‘I think this falls more into the charity category.’ Tom looks out of his depth. ‘Something about a girls’ football scheme. Didn’t have her down as a football fan.’
‘I don’t think she is,’ I muse, mind filtering through my Becky trivia; I’m surprised to find there’s quite a lot of it stored in there. ‘She just keeps abreast of current affairs.’
‘Who said anything about her breasts?’ Tom looks startled.
‘No, abreast,’ I correct, though I can tell his mind is elsewhere, racking his brain for what he knows about charity schemes. ‘We’re nearly at the restaurant; can’t it wait?’
‘And risk having to fumble through this face to face? Please, dude?’ he pleads.
‘Fine, fine,’ I say, taking the phone from him.
Tom: Level Playing Field? Yeah, it’s a great scheme. Did you hear they got funding?
Becky: Yeah, read it this morning. It’s amazing. Business bods using the pitch paying for schoolgirls from disadvantaged backgrounds to play for free? It’s bloody genius.
Tom: Yeah. Wish I’d thought of it.
Becky: And the name? Brilliant.
Tom: Yeah, it works on so many levels.
Tom: Pun not intended.
Becky: Provided you’re not playing the field. Becky doesn’t introduce her bestie to just anyone.
Tom: Did you just refer to yourself in the third person?
Becky: Maybe. So what?
Tom: Ha! Just one player in my sights at the moment.
Becky: Well I can’t see you right now. And Eve hates people being late. ETA?
Tom: Just walking in now.
I look up from Tom’s phone to follow him into the fray. The Fable is as lively as ever, a low hum of activity matching its sultry hues. Climbing the stairs to the main restaurant, I look up at the large purple sign suspended from the ceiling – Once in a while in the middle of an ordinary life, life gives you a fairy tale – before we’re ushered towards my favourite table in the window.
A single figure sits there smiling into her phone, and I know it’s not Becky. Light blonde hair falls poker straight, framing a fair-skinned face warmed by rose-kissed cheeks. Even sitting down she looks tall, one milky-white leg folded over the other, but she wears her height well. Just like the red fabric falling loose down her arms, floaty hemline folding flirtatiously around her thighs. She must be six foot, but in the flickering fairy light she could still pass for a pixie. As we walk closer, she lifts her chin, her green eyes scanning the sheer size of Tom before settling on me.
Eve
I look up from messaging Tom to see him in the flesh. All of him. And there’s a lot. Six foot three or four. Muscles f
or days. He’s exactly like his photos, but bigger. And those blue eyes? No photo could ever capture them. He fixes them on me, and I panic. This is Becky’s date. Becky’s date, I repeat to myself, forcing the beat of my heart to steady. Forcing my eyes to the friend.
Max is smaller than Tom, but he’s still tall, probably as tall as me. He’s good-looking too: a messy mop of dark hair, stubble lining his sharp jaw. Deep brown eyes and a strong nose and lightly tanned skin. He’s looking at me too. But of course he is; I’m sitting at Tom and Becky’s table, typing to Tom on Becky’s phone. I reach to turn it face down as they approach. Stop staring, Eve. Just smile. Or stand. Just do something.
‘You must be Eve?’ Tom opens his arms a little and I stand to kiss him on the cheek. He goes in for a second, catching me completely unawares, my greeting croaking in my throat. He’s here. The man I’ve been messaging night after night. I move to welcome Max, nailing the two-kiss routine second time around. ‘I’ve been stood up?’ Tom looks to the empty space around our small circular table as they both sit down.
‘I’m here, I’m here,’ Becky arrives behind him, leaning down to embrace him. Max shoots up beside her to shake her hand, formal and awkward. But Becky ignores the handshake and throws her tiny arms around him. Max’s outstretched hand is trapped between them.
‘What took you so long?’ I mutter as soon as she’s beside me. But I can already tell. Her face is freshly made-up. Hair slicked back in a high pony. Perfume spritzed in all the right places.
Tom overhears my question. ‘It’s my fault,’ he says apologetically. ‘I’ve been distracting her with messages. We both saw that this social enterprise we’ve been following finally received funding today. We were just too excited about it to wait – plus we didn’t want to bore you with it.’ He looks at me earnestly. He has no idea the only person he’d be boring with that is Becky.
I look at her now, a deer in the headlights: What? What initiative? She leans her elbows on the table, subtly reaching for her phone.
‘Level Playing Field?’ I say before she has a chance to incriminate herself. ‘Yeah, Becky was telling me all about it too.’ I will her to focus on the next words to fall from my mouth. ‘An initiative to empower schoolgirls to play football in their own community – it’s brilliant! Plus we love the name.’
‘Right, what are we having?’ Max says, changing the topic abruptly. Maybe he’s hungry, I think. Skipped lunch at work. What is it he does again?
‘My head says duck salad,’ Becky speaks into her menu, ‘but my heart says sticky ribs.’ Her eyes widen, guilty as sin. Mine dart from Tom to my menu, trying not to look guilty myself. Panic starts to rise before I sip it back into place with my drink.
‘Well, you did run this morning,’ Tom assures her with a smile as big as the rest of him. I choke on my water and all eyes look at me.
‘Went down the wrong way,’ I mumble.
‘Anyone want to share small plates?’ Max searches for takers. Classic millennial. Struggling to commit to just one thing.
‘What do you fancy?’ Tom asks me.
Sickness churns in my stomach and I have a horrible feeling it’s more than just hunger. I can’t fancy Tom. It’s just our messages. I search the menu, struggling to read the words. I usually know exactly what I want, but right now? Oh God, I really don’t know.
Max
As I reach to the charcuterie board in the middle of the table, Becky’s hand touches mine, both of us going for the last slice of salami. For the briefest of moments our eyes meet, and I wonder whether she has any idea that these are the hands that have messaged her so often. It’s strange seeing her in the flesh. She seems pretty nervous too. Not nearly as natural and quick-witted as her messages, but then I for one know just how easy it is to come across better on the page, when you have more time to think, the freedom to say exactly what you feel. Well, not how I feel but how Tom feels. She’s here for Tom. And I’m here for Tom too; yet another thing we have in common. I surrender the salami and her beautiful smile spreads even wider.
‘How great is this place?’ I look at the quotes on the walls and the books beside us. There was a reason I picked it: I knew Becky would be on her best form when surrounded by books.
‘I love it here,’ Eve agrees, as if the restaurant has been on her radar for some time.
‘It’s amazing,’ Becky hums back at me, eyes wide. ‘Like a proper fairy tale.’
‘But not like a proper fairy tale,’ I laugh. ‘They were never this nice.’ Becky looks at me as though I’ve just killed Christmas. ‘Society seems to have sanitised the stories along the way.’ Even though I’m sure I’ve talked to her about this before as Tom, she looks completely lost. ‘Not many of them were set in an enchanted forest like this one,’ I add.
‘Shrek is set in an enchanted forest,’ she says, and I laugh hard over my lager. She, on the other hand, is deadpan. Clearly Tom has shared his love of that stupid movie with her, and now she’s pulling his leg. I knew her humour was dry, but she’s not even cracking a smile.
‘But back in the day, fairy tales used to be pretty grim,’ Eve says, and I know she’s referencing the Brothers Grimm; that she and I are on the same page.
‘Like Hansel and Gretel kidnapped by a cannibalistic witch,’ I agree.
‘Though she lived in a house made out of gingerbread,’ Becky points out.
‘Still not sweet enough to satisfy her hunger for children.’
Eve laughs. ‘How about the Pied Piper of Hamelin?’ she says, while Becky and Tom look confused.
‘Eurgh, yeah, leading children away like rats with his pipe. All pretty grim, to be honest. But then loads of the children’s classics are.’
‘Yeah, Lewis Carroll always freaked me out as a child,’ Eve says, her eyes now on mine. I can only imagine the chats she and Becky have about this kind of stuff around theirs.
‘Lewis Carroll?’ Becky interjects, keen to chip in. ‘You’re entirely bonkers . . .’ She begins to quote from Alice in Wonderland, then stutters to a halt like she’s forgotten what comes next.
‘But I’ll tell you a secret,’ I prompt, feeding her the next line.
‘All the best people are.’ She beams at me as she finishes the quote, and for a second, I see a glimpse of the Becky I’ve been talking to this whole time. Well, that Tom has been talking to.
‘Alice?’ I can’t help but laugh, keen to discuss the book further.
‘Becky.’ She looks a little taken aback. It was much easier to keep up with her offbeat humour onscreen.
‘Good one, Becky!’ Eve gives her a playful nudge. ‘We all know you were quoting Alice in Wonderland.’
‘I was?’ Becky looks confused; White Rabbit caught in the headlights. ‘I was!’
Eve
‘What was all that about?’ I turn to Becky as soon as Max and Tom are out of earshot, checking out the draught beers at the bar.
‘What?’ Becky looks nonplussed.
‘Alice?’ I say, trying not to laugh. Why was she quoting books she doesn’t know?
‘Oh, I read the quote on the mirror in the toilet earlier. You and Max were chatting all that fairy-tale malarkey, and Tom thinks I’m good at that stuff so I thought I’d say it, and then . . . then I totally blanked and forgot how it ended, and I had no idea what book it came from.’
My mouth hangs open, ready to say something, anything that will make her feel like being herself is okay. But then aren’t I the one who helped her be more like the person Tom would want to be with? Before I can think of anything decent to say, our mains materialise, and so do our men. Well, not our men, the men. I watch as Tom takes his seat next to Becky and smiles at her. He’s a lot shyer than I imagined him. He reaches out and picks up a nearby book, turning it over in his big hands.
‘Oh I love this one,’ he says. He sounds a little wooden, as if he’s reading a script. But
then maybe Becky has that effect on him. Wasn’t that what he said in one of his messages after their first date: I think you make me shy.
I clock the book: George Orwell’s 1984. Man, I love that one too. I love how Tom looks holding it.
No, Eve, no. I force myself to look down at my food. What the hell am I thinking? I’m not sure I’m thinking at all. I’m just so tired post-work, post-letter, in need of that promotion, in need of something else. Note to self: do not fixate on the one thing you cannot have.
‘It’s such a commentary for where we are now, Big Brother’s constant surveillance,’ Tom is saying.
I push my food around my plate, feeling a little sick. Part of me loves that Tom is perfect. He’s with my best friend after all. Another part of me can’t help but feel he’s pretty perfect for me.
‘Oh man, talk about drama.’ Becky looks up from her sticky ribs. I try to catch her eye, to warn her. When she ignores me, I kick her under the table. Big Brother is not a TV show. It’s an idea. In a book. Surely she knows that?
‘Ow.’ Max nurses his leg.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I mouth across to him, but he’s already smiling, shaking my apology away.
‘I know, the depiction of sex throughout . . .’ Tom says, self-conscious with Becky’s eyes on him.
‘Series Three? I know, but it was after the watershed . . .’
‘Animal Farm!’ I shout over Becky to no one in particular. All three of them look at me like I’m mad.
‘Now that’s a good book.’ Max saves me. Oh thank God. I glance at Tom; he looks confused. To be fair, it took me a long time to digest that book too. ‘All animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others,’ Max says.
Opposite me, Tom cuts into his chorizo. A chunk flies across the table, leaving a mark on my dress.
‘I’m so sorry, Eve.’ He looks mortified for a moment.
‘It’s okay,’ I laugh. ‘It’s good to know the pigs are still on top.’
Max
I brush a stray tear from my eye, my body still heaving. I’m trying to pull myself together, but Eve’s Animal Farm joke may have just killed me.
What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year! Page 12