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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘Messages?’ Tom sits up a little straighter. ‘You’ve still been messaging?’

  ‘Yes,’ I say slowly. I feel sorry for them. So sorry. But surely even my messages wouldn’t have caused this. ‘I wanted to keep the two of you together, so I messaged Becky for a bit. I know I took it too far. I should have stopped a long time ago, but I really enjoyed chatting to . . . well, to Eve?’

  ‘Eve?’ Tom asks, still too confused to be angry.

  ‘Yeah, I think she’s the one who’s been messaging you back,’ Becky says. She turns to Tom. ‘At the beginning, we kind of set my whole profile up together. It was stupid, but I wanted to meet someone different and I guess we thought that if I was different we might find him . . . and we did, we found you.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Tom looks at me. ‘They’ve been doing the same as us all along?’

  ‘You’ve done the same thing—’

  ‘Becky.’ I interrupt her before she can get started. ‘Please.’

  ‘Okay, well, when you cooled off,’ she goes on, ‘I was gutted at first, but I kind of realised I hadn’t been myself anyway, and you can’t really keep that up forever, can you?’

  ‘No, no, you can’t.’ Tom shakes his head; he couldn’t keep it up either.

  ‘So I didn’t message back, but Eve did,’ Becky explains, and Tom’s eyes widen, like the penny has just dropped.

  ‘And you did too?’ he asks me.

  ‘Yeah, but—’

  ‘It was Eve.’ Becky smiles for a second, before it disappears.

  It was Eve.

  ‘You have to forgive her, Becky,’ I plead. ‘It’s my fault, I was going to end things and then Peggy passed away and . . . Eve was never trying to hurt you . . .’

  ‘I know,’ Becky says, voice cracking. ‘And I was never trying to hurt her with my messages either.’ She looks at Freddie, perched on the edge of an armchair.

  ‘Your messages?’ I ask. Just when I thought I was getting on top of things.

  Freddie clears his throat. I had imagined bumping into him, trying to smooth things over for them so that Eve could finally admit that she missed him, that a part of her wanted to try again.

  ‘I sent Eve a letter,’ he says. ‘Two, actually.’

  ‘I know,’ I say.

  ‘You know?’ Becky’s mouth falls open in surprise.

  ‘Eve told me,’ I say. If it helps us to find her, I need to tell the truth.

  ‘Well she didn’t tell me,’ Becky says, but she doesn’t sound angry. ‘I found the letters and I just knew that Eve wanted to reply but that she was scared that he would let her down again . . .’ She glances at Freddie, who looks awkward but understanding. ‘So I thought maybe if I could just get in touch, meet him, sound out what his intentions were . . . the way Eve sounded things out with you,’ she says, not knowing whether to direct that part of her sentence to Tom or to me. ‘I swear I had good intentions, but I shouldn’t have done it, shouldn’t have meddled behind her back.’ She fixes her eyes on me and we both sense the irony, but now isn’t the time. Now is the time to find Eve. ‘I just wanted her to know she deserves a happy-ever-after as well.’

  ‘Me too,’ I say, putting a hand on Becky’s.

  ‘Do you think she’ll ever forgive me?’

  ‘If I know Eve like I think . . .’ I say, and can’t help but smile.

  ‘You do.’ Becky nods.

  ‘I know she will.’ I squeeze her hand, the hand that has held Eve’s so many times before – physically, metaphorically. The hand that so rarely messaged me. It was Eve. It had always been Eve. ‘Let’s go and find her.’

  ‘But where?’ Becky says, pushing herself to her feet.

  ‘I don’t know.’ I shake my head. ‘She could have asked that taxi to go anywhere . . .’

  ‘I found her at work,’ Freddie says reluctantly, like it still isn’t his place to speak up. ‘The only reason I was able to write to her was because of her bylines. I sent the letters to her office . . .’

  ‘The office,’ Becky says, rushing towards the door. Tom follows, lost in every sense of the word. At least this explains why Becky was never the girl for him. One day he’ll thank her for reminding him he can feel something for someone other than Yvonne. But right now isn’t the moment.

  ‘You coming?’ I turn to Freddie.

  ‘If it’s okay with you, I think maybe I should hold back . . .’ He looks a little apprehensive. ‘Eve’s had to wait for me this long; I’m not going to demand she sees me until she’s ready. I’m not going to demand anything from her at all.’

  I know he’s telling the truth. There are some things you just can’t fake.

  ‘Right now, she needs her best friend and her . . .’ he offers me a smile, ‘whatever the hell you are.’

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Eve

  The taxi closes in around me as it journeys towards the only destination I can think of. I try to catch my breath. Counting in for three. Out for three. But I can barely hear myself over the sound of my heart beating in my chest.

  Scenes of London shoot by, my busy mind trying to capture the images playing in my head. My dad was there, at my house, trying to find me. And then there was Max. The only person I had told about the letters. Standing there staring at me, along with Becky. The only person I could trust. The person I had just betrayed.

  I tumble out of the taxi, running the final stretch. How did I think pretending to be Becky would get me my own happy ending? I knew I was only ever destined for happily enough.

  I look up at the News Building and my stomach sinks. How many times have I looked up like this, thinking that the answers to my questions were waiting inside? That if I could only move forward here, I would be moving forward in life. When all this time I’ve been leaving parts of myself behind. The relationships that were too real to ever try to control.

  I rush into the building. I just need somewhere to hide. Like the many times I’ve hidden behind my work before. Before Tom – or Max – and my dad’s letters came along.

  As I run to the lifts, thoughts rush through my mind. I’d trusted Tom’s messages like I’d trusted Max when I told him about my dad’s letters. When he felt like a safe space. He’d listened, not forcing me to do or decide anything. Promising he wouldn’t tell. But he had betrayed me. To love is to be vulnerable. But I didn’t love Max, did I? I didn’t even know him.

  Emerging onto my floor, I pace across the empty office. The odd discarded coffee cup tells me that I’ve missed the weekend workers by minutes. But I’m alone now.

  On autopilot, I switch on my monitor and load up my emails, looking for something to lose myself in. It worked before, right? Back when trying to move up in the newspaper was the only thing that mattered. Before Makena getting the role I’d marked out for myself made everything else unravel.

  Gazing mindlessly at my inbox, my thoughts start to race. I’d missed my dad for years but never once admitted it to my best friend, never once admitted it to myself. Wasn’t that why I’d kept any romantic interest at arm’s length? Knowing that if I let someone else in, I would have to start being honest with myself.

  I click open an email from a PR, scanning the words but not taking them in. All it had taken for me to fall was one match with someone who was on the same page as me in all ways but one. But no. I didn’t fall for Tom – or Max; how could I?

  Moving mindlessly towards the window, I look down at the almost silent streets below. How could I love Max when all I had known was his messages? But then of course the Max in person and the Max on the screen were the same. His gentleness, his depth. And then there was the Tom in real life. The one I didn’t feel connected to. I had always thought that if we were just left to our own devices, but . . .

  It had always been Max.

  I move away from the window and turn back to my monitor, my mind still running at
a mile a minute. It was Max when I was messaging Tom about Peggy. When Tom was asking after me. But what did that matter now? Given everything I knew about Max – online and off – I never thought he’d be the type to reach out to my dad, to reply to his letters. To break his promise.

  I scroll through my emails, just searching for something to hold on to. Maybe he was lying about me having what it took to go freelance too. He thought he was messaging Becky. Maybe he was just trying to impress my best friend. A best friend who now won’t speak to me. I was so confident about handing in my notice on Monday. So sure I could take risks with Becky and her family behind me. But now what? I’ve already risked too much.

  I look around the empty room. It’s a ghost town. No one here to support me. But that isn’t any different when the seats are full. I force my eyes back to my emails, press releases jumping from the screen. At least hot to trot lipsticks will never make your heart hurt like hell. But then another subject bar catches my eye.

  Meeting?

  It’s from Richard. Why would the most senior person at the paper want to talk to me? With shaking hands I click the message open and read: Dear Eve, thank you for your application for the role of features editor (maternity cover). As you know, we have now filled this position but I did want to talk to you about your Human Heroes column idea. As you know, your role on the Thursday supplement is a full-time position, but I was wondering whether you’d consider writing this column outside office hours on a freelance basis . . .

  ‘Freelance basis.’ I breathe the words out loud. After today, I’m in no rush to pin too much meaning to a message, but somehow this one feels like a sign. So what if what Max said wasn’t true? Or was just meant for Becky? I know my stories are good enough.

  I read on: Real stories are what it’s all about: vulnerability, people making mistakes and finding the strength to get up again, being knocked down just to come back fighting, being burned just to rise from the flames. Letting people into the mess even when the story is far from complete.

  I read the words over and over, eyes welling with tears. Letting people into the mess even when the story is far from complete. That’s what I thought, right? This morning. Before Becky came knocking on the door, before Max was there too. That I was ready to let someone in, not keep them at arm’s length, even when it hurt. But if that’s what it’s all about, why am I here hiding from two people who claim to love me? One more person who could. But Dad has broken my trust so many times. And now Max has too. The only person I can trust is . . .

  ‘Becky?’ I look up from my monitor to see her running across the office towards me.

  ‘Eve!’ She draws to a halt at my desk, doubling over, hands on her knees.

  ‘How did you find me?’ I ask, heart beating hard.

  ‘I had some help.’

  ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘I had some help with that too,’ she pants.

  ‘Look, Becky, I’m so sorry about messaging Tom.’

  ‘Max,’ Becky corrects.

  ‘Whoever,’ I say. ‘It doesn’t really matter.’

  ‘Except it totally does.’

  ‘Yes, maybe – a bit.’ I try to force Max and his messages from my mind. ‘Either way, I messaged as you, without your permission, and it was wrong. I never should have risked letting a stupid boy come between us.’ I’m crying now. So is she. ‘And not that it makes it any better, but I’m never going to talk to him again.’

  ‘But the two of you are great together.’

  ‘Tom?’

  ‘Max.’

  ‘Whatever.’ I shake my head. ‘All that matters is . . .’ Having a dad. Having a relationship one day. Telling stories that make a difference. Being myself. Turns out there are a lot of things that matter when you let yourself care about more than just one thing. ‘Well, all that matters right now,’ I correct myself, ‘is making things right with you.’

  ‘I feel the same way,’ Becky says, still crying. ‘Eve, I forgive you . . .’

  ‘Oh thank God,’ I breathe, flinging my arms around her. ‘I’m so sorry. Honestly, I can’t say it enough times. I was so scared you’d—’

  ‘I’m just not sure you’ll forgive me.’ She cries harder, her shoulders heaving against my chest. What the hell do I need to forgive her for? She’s always been there. She always will be. Won’t she?

  ‘What do you mean?’ I say.

  ‘I’m so sorry, Eve.’

  ‘For what?’ I repeat, heart racing.

  ‘For contacting your dad.’

  Instinctively I pull away. What? Becky contacted my dad? But how did she even know where to find him?

  ‘I know I shouldn’t have, and I’m so sorry . . .’

  ‘You messaged my dad?’

  I sit back down again, legs buckling beneath me. She comes to perch on the side of my desk. Cautiously. Afraid. I want to run into the toilets, pull out my phone and message someone.

  But it would usually be her.

  Or Tom. Or Max – whoever.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ I say.

  ‘I found your letters.’ She breathes the words, like she’s been holding on to them for too long. ‘And then you seemed to let your guard down when we first started messaging Tom on the app together and I knew things being unresolved with your dad were holding you back and that a part of you wanted to reach out to him. I just thought, if you didn’t reply and he moved house or changed his number or something, you might miss your chance to reconnect with him forever, and I didn’t want you to live to regret that . . .’

  Isn’t that what I tried to tell myself about Becky and Tom? That I didn’t want her to regret letting him go.

  ‘Then when you were so down about Makena getting the job, I didn’t know how to be there for you, didn’t know what you needed, so I called him. And I thought if I just met him for a coffee, I could see what his intentions were, whether he was telling the truth, and then if he was in a good place, I don’t know, I thought I might try and stage a meeting between the two of you, like Parent Trap style or something . . .’ She struggles for breath. Struggles for the words. Breathe, Becky, just breathe. ‘It was so stupid of me and I know I shouldn’t have done it, but then you’re just so involved in my family and I guess I thought maybe I had a right to be involved in yours . . .’

  ‘You should have told me the truth,’ I say, but on my tongue, the words taste wrong.

  ‘I know,’ Becky cries. ‘But I swear I had good intentions.’

  ‘So did I,’ I say.

  ‘I know.’

  ‘And I should have told you the truth about my dad’s letters. About Tom’s messages.’

  ‘Max’s.’

  ‘Whoever,’ I say, and I can’t help but smile. We both should have done so many things differently. But I guess that’s the thing with family: you can make mistakes and then go again. Be different this time. Stronger.

  ‘Can you ever forgive me?’ Becky finds the strength to stand, and I do the same, looking down at her. Becky the Bird. The one who defended me all those years ago still trying to defend me now. ‘Can you?’ she repeats, scared by the silence stretching between us.

  ‘Of course I can,’ I choke, throwing my arms around her. ‘You weren’t completely wrong either. I was thinking about reaching out to my dad . . .’

  ‘Just not today.’ She fills in my blanks, the way I’ve done so many times with her.

  ‘No, not today.’ I nod. ‘Bet he’s run for the hills by now anyway.’

  ‘He’s at ours.’ She smiles cautiously, not quite sure what I want to hear, but hopeful that this is a good thing. ‘With Tom,’ she adds.

  I can’t help but laugh. What on earth would they have to talk about? I have no idea. Because it turns out I haven’t really spent all that long talking to Tom either. I’ve been talking to Max, and I’ve really, really enjoyed it.


  ‘And Max?’ I whisper, mind in overdrive. But I’m not going to run away from it this time. I’m going to stay and wait. Like my dad.

  ‘Waiting downstairs.’ She must see the confusion on my face, because she adds, ‘He’s the reason I was able to get to your floor without a key card. They’re holding him hostage.’ She can’t help but laugh, even though her face is still stained with tears.

  ‘So he didn’t tell you about the letters?’

  ‘Eve, you left them behind my chocolate stash.’ She rolls her eyes. ‘For a while I even convinced myself you wanted me to find them.’

  ‘But Max?’ Just answer the question, Becky.

  ‘No.’ She shakes her head. ‘He didn’t tell me. He didn’t tell anyone.’ Her face risks another smile. ‘It’s been him all along. All the bits of Tom’s profile you liked – the books, the films, the adventures, the ideas – it was all Max.’

  ‘It was all Max,’ I repeat under my breath, my mind shooting to that night in the Fable, to our afternoon in Soho. The connection we shared in person, sparking off a screen like magic. It was Max. It was all Max.

  ‘Yeah.’ Becky grins.

  ‘This is a lot to take in.’ My mind is racing. The column idea. Max, Tom. Becky. My dad. ‘How do I play this?’ I look at her. ‘Help me?’

  ‘Your life isn’t a game, Eve.’ Becky rests her hands on the top of my arms. ‘What do you want?’

  ‘I think I want to see my dad,’ I whisper, new tears forming in my eyes.

  ‘Great, let’s start there. One step at a time.’ For someone who Becky once claimed didn’t believe in doing anything but completing the whole circle then lapping it ten times before breakfast, I was finally taking things slowly. Somehow, though it didn’t feel like doing it by halves.

  ‘But what about Max?’ I ask, even though I know the only person who can answer that is me. But I need to let today settle. To let this whole damn situation settle. In my mind. In my heart.

  ‘What about Max?’ Becky echoes back to me.

  ‘I think I need time, but . . .’

  ‘Say no more. Give me ten minutes,’ Becky says, my own personal bodyguard. Except I don’t need to guard myself from Max, or anyone, any more.