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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘How are things going with Becky?’ I ask him. She’s pushing Eve past another bookshop, an invisible force field inviting her in. Just be yourself, Becky, please. Yourself is brilliant.

  ‘Yeah, really good, thanks.’ Tom beams back at me, his skin a little darker in the sun. ‘Feel like we’re starting to settle into seeing each other, feeling more at ease around each other.’

  Really? I’d not heard Becky mention the kind of things she talks about in her messages all day.

  ‘That’s really good, dude,’ I say, looking at the two girls now in fits of giggles in front of me. Becky’s feisty enough to take on Eve, even though she’s a good foot shorter than her. I guess we’ll have to save the bookshops for another day, which is no bad thing given that Becky and I would be drawn to all the same sections.

  ‘There is just one thing.’ Tom lowers his voice a little and my heart starts to race. What? What has he noticed? ‘It’s just, we’ve not slept together yet . . .’

  ‘What?’ I can’t help my mouth from dropping open.

  ‘Oh crap, it’s bad, isn’t it?’ Tom’s face falls.

  ‘It’s not bad . . .’ It’s just surprising. Ever since Yvonne, Tom has been the king of the one-night stand. And now that Becky is staying over at ours more and more, and they’ve been seeing one another for about six weeks, I just assumed . . .

  ‘Like, I remember you saying to take it slow, at the start, when you helped with the . . .’ He glances at Becky and Eve walking in front of us, clearly nervous about being exposed. ‘When you helped with the messages. And she told me she wanted to take it slowly too, that she was trying to only sleep with people she could see a future with.’

  ‘That’s pretty cool,’ I say. I was fairly sure sex was the only thing people went online-dating for, but clearly she’s different. She wants it to mean something, just like all the stories she’s immersed herself in. All the stories I’ve read too.

  ‘Yeah, that’s what I thought, but now I’m not sure whether we’ve made it mean too much, like put the pressure on so much that to sleep together now will mean we’re getting married or something.’ Tom’s looking at me like I’m the expert again. I keep my eyes on Becky, remembering all the messages we’ve shared back and forth. She deserves something special. ‘Obviously we’ve done other stuff, everything but . . .’ he goes on, and I really wish he hadn’t. Now I can’t stop imagining it, and to be honest, the thought makes me feel sick.

  ‘I’m sure you’ll know when it’s the right time.’ I smile weakly.

  ‘Yeah.’ Tom tries to laugh off his concern. ‘You know when you know and all that.’

  All I know is that I like Becky more than I should.

  ‘Anyone want a coffee?’ I say, looking up from the cobbles of Carnaby Street to see Becky bouncing into yet another clothes shop. ‘We’ve been walking for hours.’

  ‘Better get used to it, bro.’ Tom laughs, glancing over his shoulder to smile back at me, his hand in Becky’s – mostly just to hold her, but also to hold her back. I know he’s had enough of shopping too, but isn’t love supposed to give you strength for these kinds of things?

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘You’re trying to pull off a sponsored walk, aren’t you?’

  Oh yeah. Peggy’s Walk. Seeing her this morning feels like so many miles, so many clothes shops ago. I have no idea how Becky finds the time to feed this habit alongside all her others: running most mornings, cooking most evenings and reading regularly.

  ‘Show . . . me . . . the . . . coffee.’ Eve’s sentence stutters with ellipses. She looks knackered. She’d no doubt rather be researching human-interest stories, far more interesting than this.

  ‘Why don’t you guys grab a coffee and we’ll just dash to one last shop?’ Becky says. She said one last shop four shops ago. Plus part of me is hoping that once we settle down for a stop, she might start feeling like she can be herself again.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want us to come with you?’ Eve’s eyes dart to Tom, along with those of almost every other woman winding their way down the street.

  ‘No, it’s cool.’ Becky smiles. ‘Go get buzzed.’ She fixes her big brown eyes on me and I swear she’s buzzing enough for everyone. All that intrigue and insight inside one tiny body; my heart jolts at the thought.

  ‘Coffee?’ Eve glances at me, and I know I need to turn my head away from Becky.

  ‘So what’s this walk thing?’ Eve asks over her flat white. At our table outside, we’re soaking up the last of today’s sun, and with Becky and Tom a safe distance away, I can finally breathe. It’s only now, seeing Eve stifle a yawn, that I wonder whether she’s been feeling the same, like being around Becky and Tom whilst she’s got so much else on her mind is harder than she’s making it look.

  Before I can stop them, my eyes dart to a small woman in a fluffy pink coat, her fishnet tights visible beneath it. ‘Nursery teacher by day, club dancer by night.’

  ‘For a second there I thought you were talking about Becky.’ Eve laughs, reaching to tie her long blonde hair in a messy bun on her head. She looks effortlessly cool in a light summer coat, white T-shirt and jeans.

  ‘She teaches primary school, though, right?’

  ‘Someone’s been listening.’ She smiles. Little does she know I’ve done more than just listen. ‘Anyway, the sponsored walk?’

  ‘Oh yeah, it’s a fund-raising initiative I’m trying to get off the ground,’ I explain.

  ‘Sounds like you’re doing more than just get it off the ground,’ Eve says, nodding me along, and before I know it, I’m telling her everything. How I moved from banking to the charity sector, about meeting Peggy, getting to know her and the way she lives. And how she suggested something that would make her feel connected, like she wasn’t so alone.

  ‘That’s amazing, Max,’ she says, eyes fixed on mine.

  I wonder whether she feels lonely too. Although I can’t imagine a woman as together as Eve ever feeling like she doesn’t have the world at her feet. She turns away to watch the people walking by, and I know for a fact she’s making up backstories for each of them in her head. It’s what I do too.

  ‘I was going to ask you, the night you walked me home . . .’ she begins. I have no idea where she’s going with this, but I don’t feel on edge with Eve. ‘What made you move from banking to the charity sector – not how, but why?’ She says it like a true journalist.

  ‘The salary,’ I say, deadpan. She stares at me before realising I’m joking and throwing her head back in laughter. ‘Honestly? It’s a long story.’

  ‘We’ve got time,’ she says.

  ‘Do we? I thought Becky said they were just dashing to one last shop?’

  Eve sighs, stifling a smile. ‘I’ve known Becky for years. Trust me, she’s never dashed anywhere in her life.’

  ‘Well okay then,’ I say, even though that doesn’t sound like the busy Becky I’ve spent my evenings talking to. But then maybe my messages, Tom’s messages, make her feel like she can truly be herself. ‘It all started when my grandma got sick,’ I begin, and sitting here with Eve, surrounded by strangers in Soho, I start to share my truth.

  ‘Surely you know that’s not your fault, though?’ Eve says, taking a sip from coffee number two.

  Becky and Tom are still nowhere to be seen, but we’ve stopped clock-watching. Why have I just told her all of this? About my promise to my grandma, to my family. About how letting them down so badly brought me down too.

  ‘Try telling my family that.’ I can’t stop now that Eve’s gentle probing has got me in full flow. ‘I was the only one of them who didn’t make it to see her in time.’

  ‘But are you sure they’re angry at you for that – that you’re not just angry at yourself?’

  ‘I was her favourite.’ I spill the sentence, feeling my throat tighten with tension.

  ‘Maybe you just nee
d to have some grace for them,’ she says, but she’s never met my parents. ‘We need to be careful of how we deal with those about us, when every death carries to some small circle of survivors, thoughts of so much omitted, and so little done . . .’ She speaks softly and I savour every syllable. She’s quoting Dickens.

  ‘And so many more which might have been repaired!’ I finish. ‘Oliver Twist?’

  ‘I don’t think anyone’s nailed writing about grief better than Dickens.’ She smiles.

  ‘Except maybe C. S. Lewis?’ I say, and her eyes widen as if to say: don’t even get me started on Lewis. ‘In any case, I for one am not nailing it. I think about her every day.’

  ‘Do you think about her or about the guilt?’

  No one’s ever asked me that.

  ‘Aren’t they the same?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Eve says, and I know that if we don’t change the subject soon, I’m going to cry, and she really doesn’t deserve to see a grown man cry, especially after a day spent on Oxford Street. ‘So anyway, therein lies the true story behind Peggy’s Walk.’ I laugh, forcing the space between us to feel lighter. How did things get so heavy in the first place? ‘Feel free to publish,’ I add. ‘But in case you think I’m not joking, absolutely don’t.’

  ‘Your secret’s safe with me,’ she says, and I believe her. ‘How does it end?’

  ‘The story?’ I ask. Badly? Depressingly? With the protagonist fancying his best friend’s new girlfriend? ‘I’m still trying to work that part out.’

  ‘No, I mean the walk,’ Eve says.

  Oh. I guess Paddy has sorted the answer to that one.

  ‘With a really big fucking party,’ I say. ‘I’m just not sure where yet.’

  ‘How about here?’ Eve’s eyes trace their way down Carnaby Street, past lovers and friends and tourists with skin of every colour dressed in every colour under the sun. Soho? Isn’t this a place where you can come as you are, just be yourself? I look at Eve, the sunlight illuminating her smile, wide and warm.

  ‘I think that’s a brilliant idea,’ I say. Why didn’t I think of it? ‘Anyway, you’ve heard all about me.’ Too much about me. But just saying stuff out loud has made me feel lighter. ‘Now it’s your turn . . .’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Eve

  I look at Max leaning back in his chair, the last of the sunshine kissing his features. Now it’s your turn. My heart starts to beat faster in my chest, caffeine surging through my veins.

  ‘Well . . .’ I start, not meaning to stall. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘What made you want to go into journalism?’ He smiles.

  It’s a question I’ve heard a thousand times before. But from Max it feels like it carries more weight. Like: what really made you want to go into it?

  ‘Well . . .’ I begin again. For a moment his gaze on mine feels a bit intense. But then I realise he’s just listening, like really listening. Why does that feel so rare nowadays? ‘I guess I loved how journalists search for the truth,’ I explain, not used to being the interviewee. ‘The stories I read in newspapers growing up never seemed sugar-coated or sickly sweet; they felt balanced and a bit more . . . real.’

  ‘Before fake news?’ His laugh is as warm as the evening.

  ‘For sure.’

  In reality, there were other reasons I loved those stories. For starters, reading real-life accounts of the bad stuff as well as the good made me realise that I wasn’t the only child whose home life was pretty fucked up. And then, when a person with a life full of lemons used them to make lemonade, it showed me that the story of your past didn’t have to dictate your future. It could galvanise it instead.

  ‘If anything, fake news just makes me more passionate about sharing the truth,’ I say, my stomach sinking. It’s not like I’ve been telling Becky the truth. ‘I go on social media every day and see story after story about these picture-perfect lives; at least journalism, real journalism, can be a bit more honest.’

  ‘I guess you can be anyone you want online,’ Max muses, clearly worried by the thought.

  ‘Yeah, but I promise you there are real journalists out there who still want to write the truth.’

  And I just want to be one of them. Which is pretty ironic given all the lies I have hidden at home, hidden in my heart. For a moment I think I see Tom, like I have the power to conjure him into being. Max turns his head to follow my distracted gaze. A little smile circles his mouth and I know he’s about to create another people-watching story.

  ‘Quit the high-school football team to become Grimsby’s first male cheerleader.’ He fixes his eyes on the tall, broad torso of a man who isn’t Tom after all.

  ‘Good one,’ I laugh, pretending I was people-watching all along. Like I was making up fake stories about strangers whilst slamming fake stories about strangers. Like I wasn’t trying to fake it in front of a thousand strangers myself.

  Note to self: you do have your shit together at work, at home, with family, with friends . . .

  ‘I wonder where Becky and Tom have got to?’ I say. Sharing time over. Max’s face falls for a moment and I force my eyes from him to my phone. It’s only then that I notice that Becky sent me a text fifteen minutes ago. ‘Oh, she says she found the perfect pair of shoes in Office but they didn’t have her size so they’ve headed over to the one in Covent Garden. She says she’s sorry about a thousand times.’ I leave out the bit about giving me and Max more time together. She’s such a meddler. But then what does that make me?

  ‘The only person I feel sorry for is Tom.’ Max laughs. ‘The perfect pair of shoes?’

  ‘Like freaking Cinderella.’ I shake my head, remembering Max’s fairy-tale chat from our night at the Fable. At least I managed to get Becky through that pretty unscathed. I imagine Tom putting that perfect pair on her feet now, Becky squealing, finally finding her prince.

  Note to self: you do want your best friend to have a happy ending. Yes, but do I always have to make do with happily enough?

  ‘Anyway, where were we?’ Max says, figuring we have a bit more time before the prince and princess gallop back again. ‘Oh yeah, fake news and true stories . . .’

  Fake friends and true feelings? No, Eve, no. You are not a fake friend – even if you haven’t told Becky about your mixed-up feelings after your mixed-up messages. Even if you haven’t told her about your dad’s letters.

  ‘When did you realise that journalism was what you wanted to do?’

  ‘When I was eight,’ I say, too quickly. I regret it instantly. Max seems like the kind to see too much and let go of too little.

  ‘Why?’ He leans forward on his elbows.

  I know the rehearsed answer: because that’s when we had to write like reporters in creative writing class. I also know the real one, and for some reason I can taste the truth on the tip of my tongue. I look at the people strolling, slouching and skipping down the streets of Soho. Out of their days and into their nights. Some dressed in nothing but designer. Others dancing in head-to-toe glitter. This is a place where everyone can be themselves, their full selves. So why am I still trying to hide half of me?

  ‘Because that’s the age I stopped believing in fairy tales,’ I admit to Max, to myself.

  He leans back in his chair. There’s still no sign of the perfect pair returning, but for now it feels like there’s nowhere Max would rather be. His quiet confidence makes me feel comfortable, his softness creating space.

  ‘It was on my eighth birthday that I found out my mum was having an affair.’ I wait for him to interrupt: on your bloody birthday?! That’s always Becky’s line. But Max just listens. ‘My mum got drunk and my dad took her to one side to try to make her drink some water. I just remember her pushing him off and saying that he was so boring and no wonder she was sleeping with someone else.’ The words fall from my mouth and I have no idea why I’m telling him
this. ‘I thought sleeping with someone was like having a sleepover. So I didn’t really get it when my dad stormed out; sleepovers were meant to be fun, right?’

  Even now, I feel so sorry for that naïve little girl. I fix my eyes on Max, expecting him to look sorry for her too. But his expression isn’t one of sympathy, pious and detached; it’s one of intrigue. And, well, I’ve always been a storyteller, and this captive audience is making me want to continue with the second act. Except this isn’t an act, is it? This is my truth. The one I locked inside myself many years ago.

  ‘After that, my mum left to be with this other guy, She wrote to me a grand total of two times.’ Like the two letters hidden in your kitchen cupboard. ‘But we were okay, just the two of us. Well, for a while. I remember my ninth birthday. I thought my dad was brilliant.’ I can’t help but laugh. ‘He was loud and erratic and invited every single person in my class to this insane party.’ Max doesn’t look impressed. I guess he can imagine what’s coming next. ‘By my thirteenth birthday, he was even wilder. I swear once I hit puberty he just didn’t know how to relate to me as his daughter any more so he figured he’d just try to be my friend.’ I sigh. ‘I suppose I should have known then that he had a drinking problem, around the time he let a bunch of teenage girls do tequila shots in the back garden.’

  ‘Bet you were the talk of the town.’ Max’s smile is soft but not patronising like the smiles I’ve shared these stories with before.

  ‘Yeah, I was the most popular girl in school,’ I say. ‘Until it didn’t feel that cool any more. I guess I needed a father, not a friend.’

  ‘You guess?’

  ‘Well I know now,’ I correct. ‘By my eighteenth birthday he just wasn’t there any more, and do you know what? It was so much easier.’

  ‘How so?’ Max presses forward, not an inch of him longing to be anywhere but here. By this point Becky is usually too upset for me to carry on. Or too excited by the possibility of a reunion, a movie-magic happy-ever-after. It isn’t her fault, though. We don’t go down this road often; I put the roadblocks in place myself.