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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘Director of fund-raising,’ I tell her, remembering how my job impressed Eve. Peggy smiles, seemingly impressed too. Am I the only one who thinks I’m a fraud? ‘To be honest, I’m not sure I’m making a good job of it—’

  ‘And I’m the one who’s supposed to be losing the plot?’ Peggy interrupts. ‘Max, I can’t stop the staff at the care home from singing your praises. And believe me, I’ve tried,’ she smiles, rolling her eyes in fake disdain.

  ‘Yeah, I think I’m all right at the day-to-day stuff, pretty good at managing Paddy—’

  ‘Which sounds like no mean feat,’ Peggy points out, but I know she likes the sound of him; she likes the sound of anyone who reminds me that it’s important to laugh.

  ‘It’s the new projects thing that I’m struggling with. I need to come up with some big fund-raising event. Developing new ideas doesn’t always come that easy to me.’ I remember how easily new ideas sparked with Becky, even with Eve. Why can’t I do it by myself?

  ‘And they won’t,’ Peggy says, ‘if you’re always in here with me. You should be out there making memories.’ I hate myself for thinking of Becky. ‘Just make sure you’re not spending so much time with the dying that you forget to actually live.’

  ‘You’re not dying.’ I squeeze her hand a little tighter, heart prickling at the thought.

  ‘I’m nearly a hundred . . .’

  ‘You’re eighty-four.’ I shake my head.

  ‘Exactly, get some friends your own age.’

  ‘You’ve met Tom,’ I say, deciding not to tell her about Becky. She’ll ask too many questions, see right through me. ‘Plus, I’m happy keeping you company.’

  ‘I don’t need company,’ Peggy objects, and for a moment she reminds me of Eve, rejecting my offer to walk her home before she realised she actually didn’t mind.

  ‘Everyone needs company,’ I say. ‘Don’t you get lonely?’

  ‘Don’t you?’ Peggy’s eyes sear into my soul and for a moment I feel exposed.

  Of course I’ve felt lonely. When I was a little boy and my grandma used to scoop me up and tell me everything would be okay. When I was a man and she wasn’t there to do it any more. I was gutted when I found out she was leaving the UK, but I never for a second thought she’d be leaving this life so soon.

  ‘Sometimes,’ I say, surprised to feel a lump in my throat.

  ‘Me too,’ Peggy admits, and I feel awful. She’s watching her friends pass away, of course she feels lonely, but what’s my excuse?

  ‘It’s just sometimes everyone in this city seems to have it all together,’ I sigh. Just look at Tom and Becky, and Eve.

  Peggy smiles, her kind eyes on me. ‘Everyone struggles beneath the surface.’

  ‘Do you think?’ I say, attempting to keep the quiver from my voice. The last time I opened up like this was with my grandma. She always knew how to traverse the depths of me, probe in places few would ever go. I was my parents’ only son, I needed to show them I was strong, that I’d always be okay, but my grandma had always been my safe place.

  ‘I know.’ Peggy squeezes my hand. ‘And I know what you’re going through.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Grief.’

  The weight of the word hits me as soon as she’s said it.

  ‘You do know it’s okay to miss her?’ Peggy asks, and for a moment I think of Becky. ‘Your grandma,’ she says. ‘I know she means the world to you.’

  ‘She did.’ I nod.

  We’ve not talked about her much, not really. But I guess that’s why I like being around Peggy; even without saying anything, I know she understands. I had the same bond with my grandma. The kind where you say little but communicate so much. Grandma loved me not because of what I could be, but because of who I was.

  ‘She does,’ Peggy corrects. ‘Edwin still means the world to me too.’

  ‘Of course he does,’ I say, trying to deflect the attention away from me. Peggy raises an eyebrow like she knows what I’m doing. ‘You’re so strong, Peggy. I can’t even . . .’

  ‘Do you know the hardest thing about living with dementia?’ she asks, if only to quell the lump in my throat. She knows when to push, and this isn’t it. I can’t deal with her illness and my grandma all at the same time. ‘A lot of it is just so hidden. It’s not always the dramatic parts.’ She holds her free hand out to the hospital beds around her. ‘It’s the quiet times, the moments in the care home where it’s just me and my thoughts, trying to make sense of them, wondering what will happen next.’ Tears spring to her eyes as I try to gulp back my own; she needs me to be strong. ‘I don’t want anyone to try to fix it, not really. I just want to know other people feel the same way. Sometimes I imagine it, Max.’ Her eyes glimmer with hope. ‘I imagine every person living with dementia, and all their friends and families, coming out of their houses and lining the streets of London, together and proud, like “here we are, we struggle, and we’re not ashamed”. I’d have loved to have seen something like that.’

  I look at her, her hand still in mine. She said loved, past tense, as if all her dreams are now somehow behind her. But I can do this, the charity can do this. A sponsored walk, shutting down the streets of London and then bringing them alive with people, helping them feel a little less alone.

  ‘I think it’s a great idea,’ I say, and Peggy smiles, closing her eyes as if she can see it inside her head. ‘But it’ll make an even better reality.’

  ‘This,’ I look up from my reading to see a piece of paper held in front of me, ‘is brilliant.’ The page drops to reveal Heather’s face beaming back at me. It’s been less than a week since Peggy and I first came up with the idea, but already it’s starting to cement in my mind. ‘I think you should go for it.’

  ‘So what are we going for?’ Paddy asks as soon as Heather is out of earshot. I turn to him, and he looks so eager I swear he might explode.

  ‘I’ve been thinking about a new fund-raising event.’

  ‘About bloody time,’ he laughs, perching on the edge of his chair.

  ‘I can’t help it if you’re a handful,’ I quip, but we both know that the real reason I’ve been distracted lately is Becky – no, wait: Peggy. ‘When I chat to our service users, one thing comes up again and again,’ I explain. ‘Beyond dementia itself, everyone just feels so lonely, like they’re the only ones going through it. Even for family and friends, it’s as though prolonged illness is a thing you can talk about with people once or twice, but then that’s that.’ A little like grief. ‘So people just stop talking about it, and carry around this loneliness and . . . Do you know what I mean?’ I know I’m not explaining it very well, but Paddy seems to be nodding along.

  ‘Totally,’ he says. ‘Loneliness is pretty universal.’ He shrugs. Does he feel it too? We’ve never really talked about stuff like that. ‘So what’s the idea?’

  ‘A sponsored walk around central London, where people can join for a little bit or for a lot. Some people might just read about it in the media.’ I break off to jot down that we’ll need a way to make the housebound feel included, and we’ll need to talk about press coverage as well, get some newspapers on board. ‘Either way they’ll be able to see how many people have been struggling with this behind closed doors and it’ll finally be in the open.’

  I pause, trying to gauge his response. I know I’m doing it for Peggy, so that she can see this one last dream of hers become a reality, but surely if it’s a good idea for Peggy, it’ll be a good idea for others like her.

  ‘Max,’ Paddy says, and I’m almost stunned to hear him say my name properly. ‘It’s sick.’ I know him well enough to know this is Pads for great. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘Oh man, we’ve got loads to do,’ I sigh. We’ll have to bring the whole team in on this. ‘We need route confirmation to secure a temporary traffic regulation order . . .’

  ‘On it,’ Paddy
scribbles it down before firing up his screen to start the search.

  ‘We’ll need a temporary events notice, a safety advisory group liaison with emergency services, first aid cover . . .’ Oh crap, there’s so much that could go wrong. ‘But there’s also so much that could go right,’ I say out loud.

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Oh, it’s just . . . something Becky says,’ I explain, even though I have no idea why Becky’s messages keep shooting into my mind. I really needed to cool off on pretending to be Tom. It’s confusing enough navigating my own emotions. And we have too much to do. For Grandma – no, wait: for Peggy.

  ‘You really like her, right?’ Paddy raises an eyebrow.

  ‘For Tom.’ I force a smile. ‘The walk?’ I remind us both of the task in hand.

  ‘How should it end?’ Paddy asks.

  ‘I’m not sure. Maybe just try and find a few alternative routes . . .’

  ‘No, I mean how should it end? Like, you’re inviting all these lonely people out onto the streets to show them they’re not alone, and then what? They just go home?’

  ‘I’m not sure.’ I don’t mean to look so worried. It’s just that now that I’ve said it out loud, I feel like I’m actually going to have to pull this off. Though to be fair, that ship kind of sailed around the time I promised Peggy I would do it. ‘Any ideas?’

  ‘Well personally,’ Paddy says, putting a hand to his chest, ‘if I was lonely and isolated and got the courage to force myself outside, I’d want to go somewhere where I could chat to people, have a drink, maybe a dance, make me feel connected.’ I know he’s thinking out loud, but he’s making a lot of sense. ‘To be honest, I’d probably just want someone to invite me to a big fucking party.’ He laughs.

  ‘Well in that case,’ I laugh with him, ‘let’s throw a really big fucking party.’

  ‘Who is that?’ I look up to follow Paddy’s gaze across the office and over to a figure I’ve seen countless times before but rarely here in our headquarters.

  ‘That’s Amy,’ I turn back to Paddy, whose jaw is pretty much on the floor. I forget that he only joined the charity towards the end of last year; that although he’s heard Amy’s voice down the phone plenty of times, he’s never seen her in the flesh.

  ‘That’s Amy?’

  ‘Put your tongue back in your mouth, dude,’ I say.

  ‘Why the hell haven’t you asked her out yet?’ Paddy slaps me on the shoulder.

  ‘I’ve told you before . . .’ I begin my usual excuses: I don’t think she’s interested, she’s not really my type. And if she knew how pathetic and lonely I was, I wouldn’t be her type either. Leading ladies are drawn to leading men, just like Becky with Tom. ‘And anyway, I’m pretty sure she fancies Tom.’

  ‘You think everyone fancies Tom,’ Paddy says accusingly. ‘And I know I’ve heard your explanation before, but if I’d known she looked like that . . .’

  I look across to Amy’s slight figure, her long curly hair cascading down her back, trying to see her with fresh eyes. She’s brilliant, sure. But I’ve always imagined the woman I’ll end up with won’t be a caring blonde but a small and feisty, opinionated and funny, seriously smart brunette – and I’ll be a slightly more together version of me.

  ‘She’s fit, man.’

  ‘She’s also coming this way,’ I hiss. ‘So shut up and pretend to look busy.’

  ‘Hard at work?’ She arrives beside my desk. I look up, and out of the corner of my eye, I can tell Paddy is doing the same. ‘No women twice your age to chat up?’ she teases.

  ‘Try three times my age. How is she?’

  ‘Yeah, she’s doing a bit better now.’ Amy smiles before clocking Paddy. ‘Hi, I’m Amy.’

  ‘Patrick.’ He smiles back. I’ve never heard him refer to himself as Patrick before.

  ‘Nice to meet you,’ she says. His mouth is still hanging open. Keep it together, Paddy. ‘Anyway, I’m meant to be in this meeting.’ She turns away.

  ‘Good luck,’ I say as she sashays over to the other side of the office.

  ‘Good luck finding a woman hotter than that,’ Paddy says as soon as she’s disappeared.

  ‘I’ve told you she’s not my type,’ I retort, bringing my attention back to the task in hand. Who in this office would know about safety advisory group liaisons?

  ‘I think we might need to clone this Becky girl.’ Paddy shakes his head.

  ‘Why?’ I choke on my coffee.

  ‘Your type is pretty narrow.’ He laughs, his eyes thankfully not on me but on the route he’s mapping on his monitor. ‘And it seems to me she’s the only one that fits the bill.’

  Chapter Fifteen

  Eve

  Becky: Last night was really fun. New favourite movie for sure.

  Tom: Becky, you didn’t have the foggiest what was going on.

  Becky: What, unlike you?

  Tom: I’d say I got a good ninety per cent.

  Becky: Of the pizza?

  Tom: Hey! You had your fair share.

  Becky: Still maintain we should have got them to cut it in half for us.

  Tom: We’re not animals, Rebecca.

  Becky: No, but I’m doing a good impression of a sloth right now.

  Tom: Thought you were going to smash a 10K before work?

  Becky: Just warming up.

  ‘Yeah, warming up your croissant,’ I say, reading Becky’s screen over her shoulder. She jumps out of her skin, phone still clutched in her hands.

  ‘I could have done a 10K,’ she objects, glancing up from her chat. ‘Hey, you look nice.’ She eyes my flower-dotted maxi dress. I fully intend to reclaim my leather jacket from her and throw on some biker books to match now it finally feels like winter is over.

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile at her. I only get to make an effort for work. Becky gets to get ready for Tom now. Note to self: do not be jealous of your best friend. ‘How was it?’ I ask, looking at my watch. I needed to leave for work about three minutes ago.

  ‘How long have I got?’ She laughs, rolling her eyes at my timekeeping.

  ‘That depends. Haven’t you got a class to teach?’

  ‘Oh crap.’ As she jumps to her feet, a ginger flash darts across the room. ‘I got distracted.’

  I know. She’s been distracted a lot over the month she’s been seeing Tom, but then again, so have I. With every message I send him on her behalf, I think about my dad’s messages, his letters, just a little bit less.

  ‘Need any help this morning?’ I ask, not sure why three minutes late is turning into three minutes more when it comes to messaging Tom. No doubt I’m drawn to feeling useful, needed.

  ‘There was this one bit.’ She scrolls back through the chat. ‘Something about the film we watched last night, and before you ask me the title, it was long and it was in French . . .’

  It was one Tom had suggested a couple of evenings ago, when he and Max were in the pub together. Just when I thought he’d stopped surprising me. Not only had he found an outdoor screening, but it was being shown in its original subtitled black and white. I knew Becky was going to hate it.

  ‘He said he liked the subtle use of the fourth wall, how they broke it beautifully . . .’ Confusion laces through her dark brows. ‘But we were outside, Eve, outside.’ She fixes her gaze on me. ‘There were no walls anywhere.’

  ‘Oh Becky.’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘It’s a performance convention . . .’

  ‘In English, please?’

  ‘It’s where the actors address the audience directly, breaking down the wall between them,’ I explain. Becky nods along, but I know she’s not taking it in.

  ‘Okay, well next time I can look a little less confused.’ She smiles. For a moment, I feel as warm as the weather.

  ‘How did you handle it this time?’ I think about Becky looking around her at all the non-existe
nt walls. About Tom watching her like: what did I say?

  ‘Oh, I just kissed him,’ she says, brown eyes shining. ‘Works every time.’

  I don’t even bother to look up at the News Building as I tap my security card at the gates in reception and make my way into the body of the beast. Emerging from the lift and onto our floor, I try to tell myself today will be different. Again.

  Note to self: that’s what you’ve been telling yourself for years.

  And yet the rumours about Angela’s pregnancy are now in full swing. I need them to be true. The newspaper’s editorial team is as static and impenetrable as a brick wall. If I was waiting for a space to step up, I would be waiting for one of them to retire or die – or go off on maternity leave.

  ‘Hey, Ken.’ I greet Makena absent-mindedly as I flick through the new post on my desk at speed. Bills. Junk mail. No sign of the handwriting I’ve tried and failed not to think about ever since I first saw it.

  ‘Do not call me Ken.’ She fixes her eyes on me, dramatic; daring me to do it again. ‘It makes me sound like a middle-class white man.’

  ‘Speaking of which,’ I mutter as we both clock Taren walking our way.

  ‘Ladies,’ he says as he strides past in the direction of the commercial director’s office. Again. At least our commercial director Celia is a woman, even if she thinks and talks like a man. It’s how you have to act if you want to get ahead here.

  ‘It wouldn’t surprise me if they were related,’ I say as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  ‘Or shagging.’ Makena’s eyes follow mine all the way to the closed office door.

  ‘Maybe both?’

  ‘Eve!’ She laughs. She may have arrived in the office before me again, but she’s still in no rush to get started. ‘I think even our management team would draw the line at incense.’

  ‘Incest,’ I correct. ‘Incense is that stuff you burn that smells nice.’

  ‘Do you know what, that might make a good article idea,’ she muses out loud. ‘Incense,’ she says again before I can ask her which one. Pieces on incense over reporting on incest; kind of has our roles down to a T. ‘What are you working on right now?’