Holly McCulloch
* * *
Just Friends
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Acknowledgements
About the Author
Holly McCulloch lives in Oxfordshire and bakes beautiful (and delicious) cakes for a living. Just Friends is her debut novel.
To Friends
And one friend in particular – Mr Rick Barbaria
CHAPTER 1
I am not happy.
I am angry. On this, my Best Friend’s Wedding Day, I am angry.
And not (just) because I haven’t eaten.
I am angry because some dickhead has just made me angry on a day when I want to be genuinely full of happy. I have spent the last eighteen months helping my best friend, Mia, gear up for this day, agreeing to wear a dress that doesn’t suit me and shoes that hurt, running increasingly random errands, glue-gunning (is that even a verb?) diamantés on to orders of service, and kindly offering to sit next to her crazy Uncle Geoff at dinner the night before. Who even spells Jeff that way? He spoke to me for hours about his coffee preferences, and I listened kindly, my jaw muscles aching from all the over-enthusiastic fake smiling. And why? Why am I doing this?
I’m doing this because, no matter where I am or what friend group I’m in, I am always known for being the happy one, and happy people don’t flip their lid at having to listen to Uncle Geoff drone on about the proper way to make an Americano.
But the truth is, inside, I am not happy – I’m a mess. I don’t know what I want to do with my life. I’m stagnating at work. I avoid all awkward conversations, and instead live with a growing well of frustration inside me and an increasingly loud internal narrator, who I try to keep quiet because not many of my thoughts are that happy these days.
But I pretend to be happy because I want to be happy. And because all of my friends like this happy version of me, and because I like my friends and I want them to stay my friends, I keep up the ruse. It’s really fucking tiring.
Most days I manage it quite well.
But today is not most days.
Today I am on the verge of losing it. Today I have worked hard to be the best maid of honour a person can be. I helped calm people down in the morning, I helped find ribbon, I stood where I needed to in church, I left my wedgie where it was throughout the whole ceremony, and I even delivered a thoughtful yet amusing maid of honour speech. I haven’t eaten a proper meal in two days because of the nerves. But I was happy to do it.
And now this fool has had the audacity to tell me that I need to work on the way I answer the question ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ Apparently my reply (‘Ha, no’) totally put him off. He kindly informed me that he could have been my next boyfriend, if only I’d answered that question differently.
There’s too much rage in me to reply like an adult – a happy adult. And so instead, I’ve been standing here, silent and open-mouthed, for an uncomfortable amount of time, unable to make any words reach my mouth. Eventually I decide to say nothing and hobble away as fast as my pinched feet will take me. But as soon as I leave, I worry that I have disappointed all the feminists. I’ve definitely disappointed myself.
Already too late to turn back with a quip (and still too stunned to think of one), I continue on my path. As I head past the obligatory awkward dancing and over to the bar, I hear someone yell my name.
‘Bea! Bea! Let me buy you a drink!’
I turn and see Peter – Peter Bodley, Oddly Bodley to his closest friends. I do feel kinda bad that the name stuck. I probably should have kept it to myself.
But the thing is, Peter is just a bit odd.
He can speak Latin but he can’t bake a potato, he knows every European capital but he can’t paint a room without getting more paint on himself than the walls, and he wears some of the most subtly strange outfits. At university it became quite a well-known fact that his mum would try to organize his clothes for him in a way that made it impossible for him to pick out offensively clashing colours and patterns. He frequently found ways to go rogue.
Looking at him now, not much has changed. He’s wearing a very nice suit, but he’s also wearing a really old-fashioned shirt and the grubbiest trainers I have ever seen.
‘It’s an open bar, you idiot. And I can get my own drink.’
But still, we wander over together and order a couple of whisky sours.
‘Ugh. I know Tomorrow Me will regret this. The older I get, the more I like whisky, but the less it likes me.’
‘I’ve always liked whisky. Although I do prefer a sherry.’
Of course he does.
I take a sip and let out a noise that’s somewhere between a sigh and a groan.
‘God, it’s nice to get away from people. I love Mia, but being her maid of honour has been like having a second full-time job, with no benefits, no lunch breaks and a restrictive uniform.’ I’m slouching more than I should in public, and more than I should in this dress, but the idea of pulling my shoulders back makes me want to cry. As it’s only Peter, I continue to slouch.
He looks at me and appears to be taking in the tulle and the corset for the first time. Not that he knows what tulle is. He nods in appreciation and feigned understanding, and I take it as a sign that it’s OK to keep the tirade going.
‘The thing I find most odd is that Mia has really good taste in clothes – she always looks amazing. But I think I’ve finally found her one weakness: she has shit taste in bridesmaids’ dresses. Unless she’s done this on purpose, but I don’t think she would have.’ I drop my head into my hands.
‘It does look rather restrictive. But it’s nice to see you in something other than black or grey.’
‘Hey. Wearing monochrome is easier both from a washing perspective and a fashion perspective.’
I am about to launch into part two (possibly three?) of the tirade against the dress, but have to quickly steel my face when Mia appears seemingly out of nowhere, which is no small feat considering her skirt is the width of four people.
‘Mia! You OK? Do you need anything? Can I do something?’ I really hope she didn’t hear anything I just said, because in truth I would be her maid of honour any time she asked. I’d do it all over again in a heartbeat, and be genuinely happy to do so.
She smiles and turns to Peter, leaving me clueless and increasingly sweaty from the anxiety. I try to hide my awkwardness by paying more attention to my drink than it really deserves.
‘Peter! Thank you so much for coming. I hope you’re having a good time? I put you on the table with my fun cousins.’
‘Good – I thought you would all get on.’ She does then turn to me. ‘Could you fix my hair? I keep getting poked by a pin.’
To me, she looks perfect – she always does – but I nod, un-slouch, put down my now-empty glass and get ready to clock back in. Game-face on.
‘Right, well, I think that’s my cue to go get a restorative bacon sandwich.’ Peter kisses her on the cheek, smiles at both of us and heads back towards our wider group of university friends who have gathered around the snack table. Not quite an introvert or an extrovert, I only have the energy to maintain strong friendships with a limited number of people. Mia and Peter are the chosen two from my university days.
‘Is it just me or has Peter scrubbed up really well this evening?’ Mia sounds unsure.
‘It’s just you.’
‘No, really. Once you get past the eclectic wardrobe, he really is quite good-looking.’
‘Peter?’
‘Yes, Peter.’
I look over and catch him just as his larger-than-life laugh booms out of him. It’s so innocent and genuine. He’s speaking to someone who’s not known for their humour. I can’t imagine the joke warranted the laugh, but Peter is a generous soul.
‘I’ve never thought about it.’ This is a slight lie. Whenever we used to play ‘Kiss, Marry, Dismiss’ at university, Peter would always be in my ‘Marry’ column. He’s the type of handsome that you would want to grow old with. But these games were just games. Hypotheticals. Unlike my current issue: Mia’s hair.
I stare at her hair for a while and try to remain calm. There are so many pins. Which one is sticking into her? They all look like they’re sticking into her. I take out a pin and hold it between my lips for safekeeping, then mumble on. ‘The idea of dating a friend is not one that appeals.’ And I should know. There’s too much risk, too much potential for heartbreak. Besides, ‘Stop looking at men that aren’t your husband.’
She grimaces at this. ‘That word’s going to take some getting used to.’
Right before I poke her with a pin, Mia chirps, ‘Bea, if I haven’t said it before, thank you for being my maid of honour. There is nobody else I would have chosen.’
I stop the poke, add the pin to the collection in my mouth, half hug her shoulder with one hand, and try to tell her through a mouthful of hair accessories that it’s me who’s grateful. Being her best friend is a title I proudly bear. It’s the only reason I’m also happy to bear the title maid of honour.
She turns to face me more quickly than I’m prepared for and I narrowly miss stabbing her in the eye. ‘Huh?’
I motion at the pins in my mouth and gesture for her to turn around, feeling a tad weepy. And I would do it all again; Mia is my best friend and my strongest advocate. She even supported me through a painfully honest pink lipstick phase.
I stab her (accidentally) for a final time. ‘All done.’ Thank goodness she can’t see the back of her head. It definitely did not look like this at the start of the day, but in lieu of having a professional hairdresser on tap, my efforts will have to do.
‘I have one more favour to ask. In about five minutes can you start handing out the sparklers? That way everyone will have them at midnight, so they can ring in the new year in style.’
‘Of course.’ The line between friend and minion is a fine one this evening.
Still, I hunt down the sparklers and start handing them out. They’re the biggest sparklers I’ve ever seen, and I decide to ‘accidentally’ miss out the more inebriated guests, becoming increasingly nervous about the fire and safety regulations.
The countdown begins – although I have no idea who was aware enough to keep track of the time – and I take a quick scan of the area. Everyone, or at least all the worthy guests, has a sparkler.
Good.
Shit.
I look around again. I am not with anyone I know. This is precisely why I never go out on New Year’s Eve, I would far rather be in a room by myself than in a room full of people who all love each other, but where nobody loves me.
I decide to run away and hide until midnight has passed.
‘Bea! Bea! Where are you going?’
For the second time in the night Peter has caught me trying to escape.
‘Come here.’
He pulls me under one arm, meaning there really is no running away.
Shouts of ‘Three! Two! One!’ fill the air, and I don’t know what to do. Everyone else has found someone to kiss, but I feel awkward and tense. My shoulders are up to my ears. I don’t want Bodley to kiss me, even if Mia is right, he does look good this evening. But it wouldn’t be just a kiss between us, it would be … something else. I hope he doesn’t think he has to kiss me merely because we’re standing together. I smile at him awkwardly. He starts to come towards me, and my body reacts. I step a little closer.
He kisses me. On the cheek.
I’m sure I feel relieved. My shoulders sink back down, and I smile up to him. I should have realized that he wouldn’t want to kisskiss me either.
‘Happy New Year, Peter.’
‘Happy New Year, Bea.’
After a while, once all of the bizarre, overly enthusiastic and totally undeserved congratulations are over, Peter turns to me once more. The music has kicked back in. ‘Now that’s finished with, can I treat you to a dance?’ Peter has many skills, but dancing isn’t one of them. His limbs are too long for his body, and he’s incapable of moving them in a consistent, predictable manner. My feet are killing me and I know he’ll step on them, but I don’t want his smile to fade so I nod.
The night continues as expected. There is some mild scandal, excessive eating of fairly bland wedding cake, more terrible dancing, and some questionable confessions of love. We score full wedding bingo when one of the bridesmaids starts crying.
I say one of the bridesmaids – it’s me.
I have a weep on poor Peter’s shoulder.
I blame it on the fact I drank too much, an activity I typically avoid as neither my finances nor my hangxieties can handle it. Unluckily, the open bar made the former issue irrelevant and the latter was quite forgotten.
‘See, the thing is, I want to be genuinely happy. I have all the reasons in the world to be genuinely happy, but I’m not.’ Good lord, have I ever sounded so pathetic? ‘Everyone here is happy. I want to be happy too.’
Peter puts an arm around me as I really scrutinize the room. Everyone looks happy. Everyone looks content.
Everyone looks paired off.
I squint a little, trying to see the root of my problem. ‘Huh.’ I look again to make sure. Every single person who is attached to another person is smiling. ‘Look!’ At this moment I hit Peter on the knee, a touch harder than intended, and point to the couples glued together, drunkenly swaying on the dance floor, propping each other up. ‘Look at them all. They all look so happy. Like nothing is missing, not even rhythm. Maybe it’s because they’re loved by someone who’s not genetically predisposed to love them.’ I breathe again, finding it hard to keep my thoughts on track. ‘Maybe I need that too?’
I haven’t been interested in having a boyfriend for a while, so my own dating history is exactly that – history.
Nevertheless, I take a breather so my thoughts can make their way through the whisky haze. ‘Is it silly to wish to be happy?’ I shift slightly so I am almost facing Peter.
‘Not at all. I think happiness is a great aim.’
I slouch a little less and use his body to anchor myself. ‘OK! I’ve decided! I’m going to start dating again!’ I wipe the last of the tears from my eyes and decide to stop feeling sorry for myself. ‘I think I need to see if I would be happier if someone out there who isn’t genetically predisposed to love me, loves me. Know what I mean?’ I turn to face Peter and smile. He smiles back.
‘I love you.’
‘Yes, but, Peter, you don’t count.’
CHAPTER 2
I wake
up the next morning and feel absolutely horrendous. I swear I can feel my brain physically banging against my skull. I can’t even do a full body assessment of how I feel because it hurts too much to think that hard.
I look at my phone, which I magically remembered to plug in to charge when I rolled into my hotel room early this morning.
I have one update – a text from Mum.
Bea, Happy New Year my darling! Let me know you’re alive when you have a moment. I hope the wedding went well. Please send my love to Mia. xoxo
Typing out my reply takes longer than it should, but Mum will worry if I don’t message her back.
Happy New Year, Mum. The wedding was great, but I’ve felt better. I hope you had fun last night? Sorry I wasn’t there. I love you loads. xx
I check the time before I put my phone down.
I only have half an hour before I’m required to be downstairs for breakfast and, working back, I need another four hours to get ready. An extra four hours would give me just enough time to have a salty snack, rehydrate, shower, nap, and then wake up with renewed vigour before getting dressed and applying some make-up to hide my face.
But, alas, I do not have an extra four hours, so with an overly dramatic groan I push the covers back and get ready to crawl out of bed, hoping that I won’t feel as bad as I fear I will when I eventually stand up.
My hopes are quickly dashed. I stand up and feel worse.
When I manage to reach the bathroom, I am met with an unfortunate sight. I look dreadful. At least the part of my face I can see looks dreadful; half of it is obstructed by the message I left myself on the mirror last night when I still felt like a superhuman, as opposed to the squashed, bruised banana of a human that I currently resemble.
DATE.
I have no idea how I’m going to get that off the mirror. It would be a simple task if my limbs and brain were still able to understand each other. Maybe I should leave it up there for the next occupants? I’ve written it quite well – the ‘D’ is particularly pretty, and I am impressed with how neat the handwriting is overall, especially as I wrote it in lipstick. A lipstick that I can see I totally destroyed in the process. I can’t fathom the energy to be overly upset about this. Besides, I always have issues wearing red lipstick. It looks quite good on me, but only until I eat or drink or talk or breathe, and then I get that extra lip below my actual lip that adults should be able to avoid.
Just Friends Page 1