Brand New Friend

by Mike Gayle

  ‘Yeah, cheers.’ Rob introduced himself: ‘I’m Rob, Rob Brooks.’

  ‘Phil Parry. You must be the guy moving into Steve’s old room.’

  Rob nodded. ‘I’m only here for six months, and after that I’ll probably move on.’

  ‘We all said that when we first moved in,’ Phil told him. ‘But no one ever leaves because, as filthy, flea-ridden and mouldy as this place is, it’s cheap.’

  ‘Well, someone’s gone because I’m taking his room.’

  Phil raised his eyebrows questioningly. ‘Didn’t it put you off, though?’

  ‘What?’

  Phil lowered his voice: ‘You know.’

  ‘Know what?’ Rob lowered his too.

  ‘Moving into a room where someone’s just died.’

  This news took Rob by surprise. ‘You’re telling me the guy in my room died? Of what?’

  ‘Gullibility,’ said Phil, laughing. ‘Steve’s not dead. Not unless you count moving to Milton Keynes to live with your bunny-boiler of a girlfriend as a form of expiry.’

  As jokes went it wasn’t the greatest, but Rob was pleased that the stranger had felt comfortable enough within minutes of meeting him to make a joke at his expense. Then Phil offered him some coffee and Rob followed him round the kitchen while his new house-mate pointed out things he thought Rob ought to know (One: ‘This is the kitty jar for milk, coffee and tea. We all drop a pound in it once a week. IOUs will be frowned on.’ Two: ‘This is Katie our resident nutter’s cupboard. Never steal food from her unless you’re in the mood to start World War Three.’ Three: ‘This is my cupboard. Never steal food from me unless yours is well stocked so I can steal some back.’).

  ‘So,’ began Phil, as they sat in the living room with their coffee, ‘what brings you to London? Just finished university?’

  Rob nodded. ‘I’ve just got my first job in graphic design.’

  ‘You’re joking,’ said Phil. ‘Me too.’

  ‘Where do you work?’ asked Rob.

  ‘An advertising and design studio called Worker’s Play Time in Soho. What about you?’

  Rob laughed. ‘The art department at Ogilvy-Hunter on Charlotte Street.’

  ‘Good company,’ said Phil, grinning. ‘Maybe we should work together one day.’

  They were delighted to have so much in common straight away. Once the basic autobiographical details were out of the way they ventured on to music. They asked each other what bands they liked, and listened to the answers carefully, calculating whether they had sufficient crossover in taste, which, thankfully, they did. Rob felt as if he was a contestant on a TV game show. With each round of questions, the stakes were that much higher and the correct answers harder to come by. Over the afternoon they made their way through the world of graphic design, films currently on general release in West End cinemas, films in general, current TV series, TV series from the seventies, TV series from the eighties, Blackburn Rovers’ current form, Luton Town’s current form, music (again), gigs, magazines, people they hated on TV, women they fancied on TV, travel, newspapers, Formula One, stories about being drunk, stories about good-looking ex-girlfriends, and finally (by this time it was late evening and they had retired to the pub) stories about when they had nearly died doing something horrendously stupid (Phil, playing chicken in the middle of the road with a traffic cone on his head; Rob, potholing in north Wales while under the influence of a very heavy night). By the time they returned to the house – having stopped off on the way to get two kebabs and a large portion of chips – the pair were in no doubt that they had met their perfect match. It was like falling in love, but without the effort or sexual tension and with the knowledge that they would never have to remember each other’s birthday.

  Later they were joined by Ian Quinn (a.k.a. Ian One), an old secondary-school friend of Phil; Darren Usher, whom Rob met when Darren worked briefly at Ogilvy-Hunter; brothers Kevin and Ian Manning (a.k.a. Ian Two), whom Rob first met at their local sports hall playing five-a-side football; and Woodsy, whom Rob found asleep in the shower the day after his twenty-fourth birthday party. Over time they became much more than just friends: they were Rob’s family too.

  Meanwhile in Manchester

  ‘Neil,’ said Ashley, standing up to greet the man in front of her. ‘How are you?’

  ‘All the better for seeing you,’ he replied, squeezing her in a hug.

  It was mid-afternoon on the Sunday after her split with Rob and Ashley was in her local café-bar, the Lead Station, with an old friend.

  Ashley had known Neil, another First Year three years her senior, since her first week at university. He had been out in Manchester city centre with a few of his friends and Ashley had been there with some of hers. The two groups had converged on a subterranean student drinking den called Corbieres wine bar. During the evening they had got talking. Ashley had been attracted to Neil immediately. He had dark brown hair, stubble, and while his clothes – an old grey sweatshirt, baggy jeans and bright white trainers – were scruffy they also made him look cool.

  At the end of the evening their friends had teased them so openly about the inevitability of them getting together that, without conferring, they opted not to say goodbye properly at the end of the night. It wasn’t only embarrassment that had stopped them taking things further, it was the desire not to be so completely predictable.

  Some weeks later when they eventually kissed, at a party in Fallowfield, it was in a darkened bedroom covered with Joy Division posters (Neil’s best friend’s) and no one knew about it. They did no more than kiss and half-way through Ashley confessed that she had a boyfriend back home in Worcester and Neil said he had a girlfriend in Huddersfield.

  For weeks afterwards they half expected a second kiss to take place but it never did, even at their most drunken moments. It was as if a window of opportunity had closed and neither wanted to reopen it. When they graduated it was clear to both that they had more to lose by taking things further than they stood to gain because somehow they had become friends.

  Ashley had been there for Neil through a handful of serious relationships and several flings. She had been there for him when his father had been diagnosed with throat cancer two years after graduation and a year later when he died. They were close. In many ways she thought of Neil as an older brother, but there was more to their relationship than that. The flirting, though tempered, remained. And this contrast seemed to be the dynamic in their friendship.

  ‘Can I just say,’ said Neil, looking her up and down, ‘that you’re looking great?’

  ‘You can,’ said Ashley. ‘Although I think the new hair, makeup and clothes are symptoms of a greater malaise than usual.’

  ‘What’s up?’

  ‘Rob and I have split.’

  ‘What happened?’ asked Neil, concerned. Neil cared about her and Ashley liked that. While he’d never been a big fan of Rob he knew that Rob mattered to her. And that was important.

  Ashley took a sip of the latte she had ordered and told him the whole story. ‘That’s why I called you,’ she explained, at the end. ‘I’ve had Christine, Lauren, Louise and Mia all working on an explanation but I need an expert on the male mind to sort this one out. So, what do you think? What exactly is his problem?’

  ‘Friends,’ said Neil. ‘His mates.’

  Ashley couldn’t believe what she was hearing. ‘Pardon?’

  ‘It’s a guess . . . and let’s not forget I don’t know him that well, but that’s what I reckon. He doesn’t want to leave his friends behind.’

  ‘You must be wrong,’ said Ashley. ‘He’s thirty-two, not thirteen. I’ve asked him to move to Manchester, not Outer Mongolia. Surely he can’t have given up on what we had just because it would mean leaving his mates behind? You wouldn’t do that, would you?’

  ‘Choose my mates over you? Not in a million years. But he’s not me and I know plenty of guys who would act like him.’

  ‘But this is Rob’s and my future we’re talking about. Do you re
ally think that’s the reason? I wouldn’t dream of not moving to London because of my friends. Not for a second! I love Rob and want us to be together too much.’

  ‘I don’t doubt you’d give up everything for Rob but it’s different for men,’ said Neil.

  ‘Why?’ asked Ashley.

  Neil shrugged. ‘It just is.’

  ‘What should I do?’

  ‘You want my advice?’

  ‘You know that’s the only reason why you and I are still friends after all this time.’ Ashley smiled.

  ‘Well, my advice is this,’ said Neil. ‘Do nothing. Rob’s not stupid. He knows you’re too good to lose.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah, really. Don’t ring. Don’t call. Don’t email him. Just let him stew. I guarantee that by the end of the month he’ll have agreed to move to Manchester.’

  Phone call

  It was Friday night, two weeks since Rob had last heard Ashley’s voice and he was dialling her number. He had missed her more than he thought possible. He hadn’t expected the experience of being apart from her to be totally pain-free, but neither had he expected it to take its toll on him in quite the way it had. He had even begun to think wistfully about the Long-distance Thing. It occurred to him that their relationship hadn’t always been like this – the rows, the frustration, the tiredness. Back in the early days their separation had meant that he would look forward to their weekends together. They used to be the highlight of his week. But there was no way he could get back that feeling now. That time had gone. Now change was not only inevitable, it was long overdue.

  ‘It’s me,’ said Rob, when Ashley answered her phone. ‘Ash, I’ve been doing a lot of thinking and I’m going to move to Manchester, if you still want us to be together.’

  ‘Of course I do,’ said Ashley. ‘I didn’t want it to come to this.’

  ‘I know you didn’t. This is my fault. I want to live with you. I want to live a proper life. I even want to leave London. I just – I just didn’t have the guts to make the decision, that’s all.’

  ‘What if you hate it?’

  ‘I’ll be fine,’ said Rob. ‘Don’t worry about me. Everything will work out okay.’

  ‘I know I’m asking a lot of you,’ said Ashley. ‘I know that. But just give it a year. And if you’re not happy then we’ll move to London and make the best of it. What do you say? I want us both to be happy.’

  ‘I know you do,’ said Rob, ‘and your plan sounds great. We’ll give it a year and take it from there. I’m sure it’ll be fine. I was just being stupid.’

  When Rob put down the phone an hour later, having discussed in great detail their plans for the future, he felt good: he had finally done the right thing and, more importantly, everything would be okay. He had taken a step towards building a solid future for them. Yes, there would be obstacles to overcome and, yes, sometimes he’d feel like jumping on the first train to London, but the risk of losing Ashley was too great for him not to give the next twelve months his all. I mean, he thought, as he wandered into the kitchen, exactly how hard could it be to make some brand new friends?

  PART TWO

  (Principally concerning Rob’s first six months in Manchester)

  Hit the north

  Rob had never seen Ashley as happy as she was on the Saturday morning that he moved all of his belongings into her three-bedroom terraced house on Bech Road in Chorlton. To say she was ecstatic would have been a major understatement. She was – metaphorically – over the moon. Rob couldn’t believe that her happiness was down to something as simple as him occupying space in her house and making it look more untidy than it had ever been while she had lived there alone. Even so, he was glad to be the source of such joy.

  ‘I’m sorry about the mess,’ he said, gazing at the chaos he had caused in her normally serene living room with its cream walls and carpet, and tastefully chosen furnishings.

  ‘Don’t mention it,’ said Ashley. ‘I love having your clutter here because it means you’re here for good.’ She clutched his hand. ‘I know it might seem a bit pathetic to be so happy about it but I can’t help it. It’s how I feel.’

  It was roughly six months since Rob had agreed to make the big move. It had taken this long because he’d been so stunned by the immensity of his decision that he’d needed time to come to terms with it. No more getting his morning newspaper from Mr Singh, the garrulous newsagent on Tooting Bec Road who knew not only his name and what paper he took but what type of milk he liked. No more using the theme tune of London Tonight as a means of knowing when it was time to stop work and head for the pub. And, of course, no more week-night visits to the Queen’s Head with his friends. He was moving his entire life, everything that made him who he was, one hundred and eighty-five miles north to where the only person he knew well enough to ask out for a post-work pint was his girlfriend.

  As for Rob and Phil’s web-design consultancy, they had agreed that most of their work could be organised by phone and email, and that once the spare room at Ashley’s had been fitted with a computer, colour printer, scanner and high-speed ISDN line Rob would, within reason, continue with much of the kind of work they had been doing at their studio in Wandsworth. Regular monthly meetings would keep them up to date with how the business was running, and Rob had agreed that if Phil required him to attend pitches to new clients he would come to London by train.

  As the day approached for his move, Rob attended two leaving parties in his honour. The first was a surprise, thrown at the Sun and Thirteen Cantons in Soho. Phil and Woodsy had told him they would be nipping into the pub for a quick pint before a gig. As soon as he entered the bar, however, he spotted Ian Two’s fiancée Becky coming out of the loos: she caught his eye and looked so guilty that it could have meant only one thing. It didn’t matter, though: when he entered the pub’s upstairs room Rob was still taken by surprise to see so many of his friends and acquaintances all crammed in to celebrate with him. There were London-based friends from his schooldays in Bedford; there were friends from art college and university; there were general friends and old housemates from when he had first arrived in London; there were friends from his days in the art department at Ogilvy-Hunter; and from the Orange Egg design studio. Then, of course, there were the boys – his core friends – and, last but by no means least, Ashley, who had organised the evening.

  With so many people in one place to wish him well Rob was genuinely moved. He held Ashley’s hand tightly as he went round the room greeting his guests, with a huge lump in his throat.

  However, Rob’s last night as a council-tax-paying resident of the borough of Wandsworth was a far more sedate affair. It was just Phil, Woodsy, Ian One, Ian Two, Kevin and Darren. And as the conversation kicked off – something to do with transfer rumours at Manchester United – Rob sat back, sipped his Guinness and savoured the moment. To Rob there were few things in life as satisfying as being surrounded by a group of men with whom he felt he belonged, even if they were all quite different. He felt as if an invisible bond bound them tightly to each other, although they never acknowledged it. And whether he moved to Manchester or Malaysia they would be his friends for life, he was sure.

  As the conversation turned to a pending England match, the players’ fitness and the England team in general, Rob looked to his left at Phil, who was currently holding forth on why England would never again win the World Cup. Sitting around this table listening to his friends talk reminded him of wandering into a newsagent’s and taking his pick of the magazines in the ‘Men’s General Interest’ section.

  If Phil was a magazine, thought Rob, which would he be? After a few moments’ consideration, he concluded that because Phil knew quite a lot about sport, music, fashion, entertainment, male grooming and which supermodel or actress was hot, he would be a general-interest publication like GQ or Esquire.

  He was well aware of how pointless this train of thought was, but there was no way he was going to stop now that he was on a roll. As the conversat
ion moved on to a debate about the best B-sides ever recorded, Rob decided to work out which magazine the rest of his friends were too.

  Ian Two was sitting next to Phil. Although he worked with computers all day and sometimes all night he didn’t like talking about them unless someone else brought up the subject. Ian Two could have been a magazine like PC Monthly or Computer Shopper, but his favourite talking point was films. Most of his conversation was based around films he’d seen, films he wanted to see, films in production. So he’d have to be a worn copy of Empire or, at a push, a dumbed-down Sight and Sound.

  Darren was next to Ian. Of all Rob’s friends Darren loved music most. He had a CD collection that ran into thousands, he knew about new bands before anyone else, and he still went regularly to gigs. Darren would be a glossy music magazine like Q, or an import issue of Rolling Stone – something that knows its stuff and doesn’t mind telling you so.

  Next to Darren was Ian Two’s brother Kevin. He liked discussing politics, although he didn’t express any particular affiliation. He thought all politicians were corrupt (secretly Rob believed that Kevin wouldn’t be satisfied with any party unless he was its leader). Sometimes he sounded as if he was just to the left of Che Guevara; at others he was more akin to Margaret Thatcher (although it was unlikely that she would have punctuated every sentence with ‘innit’). As a magazine, Kevin would be a dumbed-down version of Private Eye or possibly New Statesman, but with better jokes.

  Ian One was next to Kevin, and straight away Rob thought he would be a football magazine, like The Gooner. Not that Ian was uncomfortable talking about anything else – he was reasonably good on music, films, TV and life in general – but he seemed happier with football. The minute any conversation went that way he became more animated, like he’d suddenly found his top gear.

  Finally, on Rob’s right, there was Woodsy. Rob thought long and hard, but failed to come up with a satisfactory magazine for him. He agreed to get another round in, then said, ‘A quick question.’ He was taking advantage of a lull at the end of the B-side debate. ‘If Woodsy was a magazine, which one would he be?’