Faking Friends

by Jane Fallon

  We all fought our way through. Tom was lovingly stirring something that could only be described as lethal. He loosely described it as ‘punch’ but, really, we all knew it was a mixture of whatever random alcohol he had managed to find at a knockdown price and a bit of fruit juice. Every student’s answer to the question of how to get wasted as quickly as possible on limited resources. Alistair laid out his booty like a banquet – three beef burgers, a veggie burger, a fish sandwich and two portions of fries – for us all to share. I looked around, toasting the five people I felt closest to in the world, Chris aside.

  ‘I love all you guys,’ I said, halfway through my tumbler-sized glassful.

  ‘Oh God. You know she does this,’ Mel said affectionately, and I remember thinking how beautiful she looked, standing in our shoddy kitchen with ratty bits of tinsel framing her like a halo. ‘She’s going to get all maudlin. Christmas, booze and Amy don’t mix.’

  ‘Well, we love you, too,’ someone – either Alistair or Kieron – said, and the next thing I knew we were all in a big group hug and I felt an overwhelming wave of happiness.

  It didn’t last.

  34

  Mel

  There’s a man ringing Amy’s doorbell with a big plant in a pot. Something flowery. Geraniums, maybe? I’ve never been any good with plants. At least, I assume it’s her doorbell. I’ve seen a miserable-looking couple coming and going so I’m guessing they live in the other flat. And they don’t look like anyone would bring them a half-dead dandelion, let alone this riot of yellow and orange beauties.

  I can’t overestimate how big a piece of news this is. I’ve sat watching from my car for days now. Literally, days. Well, after work, obviously, because I’m not trying to get sacked. Jack thinks I’m working late, which I’ve never done in my life, but I started using that as an excuse when me and John first … you know … so he just accepts it. That’s still going on, by the way. Me and John. Just a quickie in his office at the end of the day, a couple of times a week. I can’t work out how to end it now without making things worse, but I had to do damage limitation after the whole Facebook thing, so now he’s convinced I find him irresistible. And, once he realized he seemed to have got away with it, he returned to his usual cocky form. It’s so grim I can’t even think about it.

  Anyway, I head straight up here as soon as I can get away – I have to sneak back to Jack’s and retrieve my car first because, after that first bus-stop experience, I decided I was way too visible in the street – and then I sit there for a couple of hours until I decide she’s in or out for the evening, when I give up and go home. I have no idea what I’m expecting to see – just something, anything, that will give me a clue what she’s up to. Thus far I’ve seen her twice – once coming home with a couple of Tesco bags, and once arriving home with Kat – Katty – Mackenzie. So she knows. Which makes me think that whole thing about helping sell my flat was bullshit. I always knew she was a silly cow.

  Last night, I even spoke to Amy while she was in the flat, presumably concocting something from whatever she had bought in Tesco, and I was sat outside it. We chatted as if everything was normal. As if she were in New York and at work and hadn’t found out a thing. She was telling me some story about something that had happened on set. ‘Surreal’ doesn’t even cover it.

  I was about to give up, I’ll be honest. Tonight is the fifth evening. I was bored stiff. I was thinking I was just going to tell Jack what I knew and let it play out from there. And then a smart van pulled up along the road and a good-looking bloke got out with this big, flowery display. At first, I thought he must be a delivery guy until I noticed that the van had ‘Simon Rigby Interior Design’ written on the side. I watched as he walked confidently up to Amy’s door. Rang the top bell.

  Now I’m sitting here holding my breath. I have no idea if she’s in or not. I haven’t caught sight of her today. I slide down in my seat, pull my baseball cap over my hair, tilt down the visor and watch.

  After what seems like an age, the front door flings open. Handsome guy proffers the plant. There’s a tiny pause and then they’re in a clinch. Right on the doorstep. Then she ushers him in, face beaming, and that’s it. I wait for a moment, just to make sure he’s not about to come out again, snap a quick picture of the logo on the side of the van on my phone and get out of Dodge. My work here is done.

  35

  Amy

  I waited twenty-four agonizing hours, and no word from Simon. I hadn’t expected to hear, really; I knew he needed time to process what I’d told him. Or to run away to somewhere where he’d never have to see me again, change his name and his appearance and hide from the crazy lady. I decided to put it down to experience. I liked him, but I’d fucked up. I hadn’t been expecting to get into a new relationship and I was just going to have to accept that this one hadn’t worked out. It was probably for the best. I already had too many complications in my life.

  The problem was that I didn’t just like him, I really liked him. Ridiculous as it seemed so soon after Jack, I thought we might actually have a future. Okay, so we’d never even spent a whole night together and I had never even been down to his place in Barnes – there were a whole litany of ‘never’s – but we felt so comfortable together. (Oh God, if my twenty-year-old self could see me thinking ‘comfortable’ was a good thing! But it is. I don’t need drama or hysterics. I’ve had enough of both.) I knew I had to leave this one up to him, though.

  Meanwhile, I distracted myself by alternately getting hysterical with excitement about Blood Ties and panicking because I still hadn’t heard any more about it. It had been a week since I’d heard I’d got the job, which doesn’t seem long in the scheme of things but feels like an age when you want to announce your good news to anyone who’ll listen.

  I hadn’t heard from Sara at all but I decided to give it one more day and then call her. Maybe she was in the middle of a frenzied negotiation on my behalf (although not too frenzied, I found myself hoping, for the hundredth time. I’d heard horror stories of agents losing clients jobs by being too combative). But my hand kept reaching for my phone, despite all my good intentions.

  I tried to keep myself busy sweeping the roof and giving the chairs and little table a proper going-over. Even though I was only going to be here for another couple of weeks, the heatwave showed no signs of abating so I told myself I might as well enjoy my outdoor haven while I could, but my heart wasn’t really in it.

  ‘I wish you were a dog,’ I said to Oscar, about the worst thing I could ever say to him, I imagine. ‘At least we could go for a walk.’

  I was just trying to convince myself to clear a space in the living room and do a bit of yoga before my body just gave up through underuse when my phone rang. Simon. The way my heart started to pound told me just how much I wanted to hear from him. I took a big breath in then exhaled slowly to try and calm myself down.

  ‘Hi?’ It came out as a question.

  ‘Hey,’ he said, and from the tone of his voice I knew he wasn’t calling to tell me I was a terrible person.

  ‘How’s things?’

  ‘Good,’ he said. ‘I’m feeling like an idiot for overreacting the other day.’

  I sat down on one of the kitchen chairs.

  ‘It’s understandable.’

  ‘I’m not going to lie. It makes me uncomfortable. I’m not good with deception –’

  I interrupt. ‘Me neither. I hate it.’

  ‘But I just wanted to say I understand why you’re doing it. And it’s nothing to do with me, anyway. I don’t have the right to judge what you’re doing.’

  ‘I know it must seem ridiculous –’

  He laughed, and I thought, All right, this might be going to be okay. ‘A little.’

  ‘– but it’ll all be over in a week or so. I just need to do it this way for my self-esteem.’

  ‘If I’m being honest, it’s a bit weird thinking you’d still happily be with him if you hadn’t found out.’

  I think about this
for a second. ‘You’re right. I would. But you have to believe me when I say I can literally not see what I ever saw in him.’ It’s true: I can’t. When I see him on FaceTime now it’s like I’m talking to a pleasant-looking ex-work acquaintance who I don’t have anything in common with since he took a job somewhere else.

  ‘But you still care what he thinks of you?’

  ‘Not him. Mel. She’s the one I care about. I know what she’s like. This whole thing will have become a competition for her. She always has to win. And you’ve got to understand she’s been my best friend since I was eleven … was –’

  ‘You’re better off without her.’

  ‘I know.’

  ‘Listen, are you around later? I want to come over and make up for stomping off like a stroppy teenager the other day.’

  Yes! ‘I am. And there’s no need. To apologize, I mean. Not to come over. There is a need for that.’

  ‘I assume that’s a yes. I got a bit lost.’

  ‘That’s a yes.’

  Which is how come he’s on my doorstep now with a gorgeous pot full of nasturtiums in his hand and a big smile on his face. (‘They’re for the roof,’ he says, as he hands them to me. ‘They’ll grow up the trellis.’) I’m so pleased to see him, for it all to be okay, that I don’t bother to remind him I won’t be here long enough to see that happen, I just go in for a hug that somehow turns into a bit of a snog. I pull him inside, shut the front door. That’s enough entertainment for the neighbours for one evening.

  36

  Mel

  Simon Rigby Interior Design

  Lucky for me, Simon Rigby has thoroughly embraced the modern age and has a state-of-the-art website for his business. It even has a photo of said Simon Rigby on it, as if seeing that he has a face might convince potential clients that he’s one of the good guys.

  And that face is the face of the man I saw rocking up at Amy’s new place with a pot plant. The man I saw with his tongue down her throat on the doorstep.

  Hello, Simon Rigby.

  There’s precious little else about him online. He has a Facebook page, but I can hardly ask to be his friend out of nowhere and all that I can see is his profile picture and the company logo – an artsy but tasteful representation of his initials in duck-egg blue on a cream background. The only thing I can do is call him and tell him I’m thinking of completely remodelling my flat and would he like to take a look.

  From the testimonials on his website, it looks as if he mainly takes on huge projects on mansion-sized houses, usually in north London. I remind myself that my flat is in a prestigious block, that it might not be worth a fortune but the square footage is decent and the situation very desirable. I can make myself sound more impressive by implying that this is my pied-à-terre and that, most of the time, I reside in a country pile somewhere. What’s the worst that can happen? He tells me it’s not worth his while?

  So I gather up all my courage and all my acting skills and I phone Simon Rigby Interior Design. I’m a bit nervous I might get palmed off on some underling but, when the charming secretary hears that I am interested in a consultation because I’m thinking of giving my home an overhaul, she tells me Simon will call me to talk over the details. It’s obviously a small operation he has.

  I give her my number. My name: Annabel Phillips. No idea where I got that one from, but it sounds posh. And then I wait.

  Not for long, as it turns out. I’m heating up a Waitrose ready meal of Thai green curry when my phone rings. I grab it up from the kitchen counter, take a moment to steady myself.

  ‘Hello.’

  A pleasant male voice, warm-sounding, bog-standard London-stroke-Home-Counties accent, neither posh nor not posh, greets me. ‘Hi. Is that Annabel Phillips?’

  Apparently so. ‘It is.’

  ‘Simon Rigby. Of Simon Rigby Interior Design,’ he adds, as if I might not recognize the name otherwise.

  I channel a smile through my voice. ‘Simon! Hi! Thanks for calling me back. So, in a nutshell, I’m looking to do a complete refurb on my flat and, well, I wondered if you’d like to come and take a look?’

  I imagine he hears the word ‘flat’ and not much else because he says, ‘We’re quite busy at the moment, I’m afraid. When were you thinking of getting the work done?’

  You don’t get away that easily, mate.

  ‘I’m completely flexible. It can be next month, next year, at short notice if you suddenly realize you’ve got a gap, I don’t care. All I’d ask is that you could come and view it now so I can get a better idea of what can be achieved and the cost. Not that money is an issue here.’

  ‘Sounds good,’ he says and I think, Yes! I’ve got him. ‘Tell me a bit about the property.’

  ‘Well, it’s a twelve-hundred-square feet with one large terrace and a small balcony. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Two bedrooms. Modern. As in nineties. What else?’

  ‘And what are you hoping to achieve?’

  I laugh a flirty, girly laugh. ‘That’s where you come in. It all just feels a bit tired. A bit dated.’ I look around guiltily at my state-of-the-art kitchen. ‘Actually, that’s not fair. It’s not dated, it’s just conventional. It’s the same as everyone else’s and that’s just a bit … dull … isn’t it?’

  How can he resist? ‘So you’re looking for a radical change?’

  ‘ “Radical”. I like it. And I need inspiration.’

  ‘Where are you again?’

  ‘Kingston. Near the river.’

  ‘Perfect. I don’t live far. I could come over to you before I head over to the site I’m working on now one morning?’

  ‘You’re talking about stupidly early, aren’t you? Eight o’clock or something like that?’

  ‘I was hoping more for six thirty,’ he laughs. ‘Or I could come one evening if that suits better?’

  ‘That definitely suits better.’

  He takes my details and we work out that actually this evening would be perfect because he’s on his way home now, as luck would have it, so he could make a detour and be with me in forty minutes, and I’m spending a rare evening at home while Jack’s mum and dad visit their little boy. I can’t believe my good fortune.

  37

  Amy

  So that was our first tiff. Not even an argument. Not even a tiff, really, if truth be told, but enough of one that it justified make-up sex, and you know what they say about that. There’s no doubt that a moment like that, laying everything out and clearing the air, moves a relationship on. It’s as if you unlock another door and step boldly through. Anyway, enough of that, I never said I was a philosopher. Let’s just say we had a really good time and I felt closer to him than ever.

  And … drum roll … he stayed the night. It got to about ten o’clock and I was waiting for him to say he had to go, looking forward to it almost, so that I could luxuriate in my own space, playing the evening over and over in my head, when he propped himself up on one elbow, looked and me and said:

  ‘I was thinking I could stay. If … I mean …’ He leaves it hanging out there. I’m touched that he doesn’t just assume it’s fine. That he has his own insecurities.

  ‘Of course,’ I say, deciding that I can have a lie-in after he goes to work at the crack of dawn and do my mental debrief then. ‘Oscar likes to sleep in the bed, just so you know.’

  ‘Are you kidding? That’s the main reason I’m staying.’

  ‘You made a joke,’ I say, smiling at him like a proud parent on sports day.

  ‘I was being serious. I can’t have a cat at home because Ruby’s allergic, so I need to get my fix somehow.’ He raises an eyebrow at me as if to say, ‘Am I doing well?’

  ‘Two jokes! If you carry on like this, you could have a whole new career.’

  ‘That’s it, that’s my whole repertoire.’

  ‘Oh,’ I say. I’d forgotten about this, the awkward practicalities. ‘I don’t have a spare toothbrush.’

  He gives me a lazy smile. ‘I brought one. Just in case.’
>
  I can’t decide whether to be impressed that he had the forethought to plan ahead or offended that he had assumed I would want him to stay. I decide, on balance, I’m impressed.

  Apart from the night of Mel’s party, when I woke up to find a comatose, fully dressed Jack had climbed in beside me, I haven’t spent the night in the same bed as anyone since Jack came to New York for a visit in February. It’s weird to think that he was months into his affair with Mel by then because we’d had what I thought was an idyllic three days. We went to a stargazing night on the High Line and I remember thinking it was the most stupidly romantic date ever, up on the train tracks in the middle of the city, holding hands, sipping a glass of wine and looking up at the clear sky. And then a couple started having sex up against the window of one of the smart hotels that’s popped up along the way – apparently, this happens often; exhibitionists book particular rooms for this very purpose – and the whole group of us strangers, about ten in all, whooped like a bunch of eight-year-olds until the expert, who had been trying to point out Saturn at the time, shooed us along grumpily. He’d cried when he left the next afternoon. Jack, that is, not the astronomer. Guilt, probably.

  Which reminds me. When I spoke to him last (the day before yesterday), he’d been making noises about coming out again, taking a long weekend in June. I imagine it’s as much about the pull of the Big Apple as a desire to see me. He loves New York. I’d tried to sound enthusiastic while not actually agreeing to anything date-wise.

  ‘The thing is, I’ve got a couple of big episodes coming up,’ I’d said. I’d been in the middle of emptying the saucepan under the leak when he’d called – Simon had identified a small crack in the roof where the parapet joined the floor but had yet to have the chance to fix it. ‘I should wait for the schedule.’

  ‘We’d still see each other in the evenings, whatever it’s like. And I can amuse myself in the daytime.’