Just Friends

by Holly McCulloch

  I sit on the loo, hoping the stability of the seat will help stop the slight spin.

  DATE.

  This is precisely the kind of silly, drunken declaration I should be avoiding at my old age.

  As I sit, I move my head from side to side, simultaneously trying to relieve my headache and remember the last date I went on.

  The sad fact is that I have only ever had one boyfriend worthy of the title, and it didn’t exactly work out very well. Sam, my first and only love and one-time best friend, utterly broke my heart.

  I can’t help the sigh that escapes.

  There are many issues with being hungover, but one of the worst is that it makes everything so much more sad, and my memories of Sam are interwoven with a whole load of other memories and feelings. Memories and feelings I try not to feel when I have to be sociable any time soon.

  A knock on the door is a welcome interruption.

  I look at the time and realize I’ve been sitting on the loo for fifteen minutes with only my sad thoughts and pale thighs for company.

  I make myself as decent as possible in my delicate state and open the door. Why are there so many locks?

  ‘Rise and shine, it’s breakfast time!’

  Christ alive. Too much. Too soon. Too early.

  Adjusting my eyes to the outside world, or at least the world beyond my bedroom and into the hotel hallway, I see Peter standing with a grin across his face and—

  ‘Are those hash browns?’

  ‘Yes, and some orange juice. I thought you might need them if you were going to make it to breakfast.’

  ‘Thank you so much.’ I grab the plate of hash browns and, knowing Peter’s presence is part of the package, open the door wide enough to let him in. I bury the vague memory I have of stepping towards him for a kiss. I wish alcohol didn’t make me so stupid. Or so hungover.

  ‘It was no problem. The kitchen ladies are extremely kind.’ He enters the room, shuts the door and plonks himself on the bed. The kitchen ladies are not extremely kind, but Peter has a way with people.

  I feel better already and I’ve only smelt the salty starches.

  ‘Now hurry up. I should have some fresh pancakes ready for me in fifteen minutes.’ Peter winks and I shuffle to the bathroom, clutching at the last of the hash browns and the remainder of my soul.

  Thirteen minutes later, Peter barges in and leans against the door-frame.

  ‘That’s a bit intense.’

  ‘Huh?’ My face? My outfit? His entrance?

  ‘The message in aggressive red caps.’ He points to the mirror, cup of tea in hand. I assume he made it using the weird hotel kettle, the type I never really trust.

  DATE.

  I can’t help but grimace.

  ‘Ah yes. I remember now. Your New Year’s resolution.’

  ‘It’s not a resolution. People always break resolutions. I am not a resolution person.’

  He raises his eyebrows and eyes me with scepticism. ‘Well, you came up with an intention for the new year. I would say that is a resolution.’

  I shrug, trying to act casual about it. ‘Call it what you want. I guess I didn’t want to forget.’

  In truth, all I want to do is forget about it. I’m happy as I am.

  OK, I’m not happy as I am, but in the cold, sober light of day I don’t see how exposing myself to other people is going to make me any happier. I wish I’d drunk less last night. If I’d drunk less, I wouldn’t have made any pathetic and pointless intentions.

  ‘What is that noise?’

  ‘I put an alarm on to let me know when my pancakes would be ready.’ He nods at me as if he assumes I will be proud of this plan.

  I roll my eyes in response. ‘Of course you did.’

  We get down to the breakfast room and Peter makes a beeline for one of the kitchen ladies, who scuttles away as soon as she sees him and returns with a stack of pancakes and a huge smile on her face. He has a way of bringing out the best in people. It’s infuriating.

  ‘Oddly Bodley up to his old tricks, eh?’

  I turn to see David and his heavily pregnant wife next to me. David was Peter’s housemate at university. He’s nice enough, but is currently standing closer to me than I would like. He’s always been one of those people who doesn’t understand the concept of personal space.

  Still, I smile politely before sitting down. ‘Some things never change, I guess.’

  With a full plate and no shame, Peter takes his place next to me and gives me one of his pancakes. Sure, there were some initial teething problems in our friendship, namely his extraordinary intelligence, as well as a very posh accent that proved a little tricky to understand, but his character quirks made him instantly approachable. Unlike me, he sits solidly in the extrovert camp, and sometimes I worry I rely on his shield too much. If this were a rom-com, he’d be some weird kind of knight in shining armour.

  ‘So, how are you going to go about dating?’

  All eyes turn to me and my kind thoughts about Peter flip. I have never hated him so much in my life. I don’t want my pathetic resolution announced to the world. If it’s announced to the world, I’ll be less likely to be able to forget about it, like all New Year’s resolutions should be. And I especially don’t want it announced in this world that is full of perfect people in perfect relationships.

  ‘Oh, I … I don’t know. I mean, I haven’t really thought about it.’ This is not a lie. I don’t think my head will be capable of thinking for a while.

  But as soon as these words are uttered, a myriad of unsolicited advice comes my way. Advice from people I’ve never known be single.

  ‘Only hang out with single people!’

  ‘No, only hang out with married people.’

  ‘Only wear heels – I heard they give people more confidence.’

  And then, ‘You should try online dating. Swiping? What harm can it do?’

  This is the only suggestion that is met with general agreement, and all I can see is a round table of nodding car dogs.

  ‘Yes, yes. A friend of a friend found their fiancé that way. I think it’s how it works these days.’

  The nodding continues, and I even spot a thumbs-up.

  ‘How what works these days?’

  Mia and Mark appear behind me. She looks so refreshed. I must ask her what moisturizer she uses.

  The question forgotten, someone else chirps in for me. ‘Dating apps. Online dating. Bea is going to try them out.’

  As soon as the words have been spoken, Mia’s eyes light up. She’s been trying to get me to date for a long time, telling me to put myself ‘out there’ more. I go out. I just don’t like what I see.

  I open my mouth to protest. It was only a stupid, drunken … resolution. One that I don’t mean in real life.

  But her face is so happy.

  So instead I say nothing, and at some point I must have smiled and nodded back, because before I know it Mia has taken my phone and set me up with a profile that vastly exaggerates how spontaneous I am, and I have a date next Tuesday with someone who’s validated his character by providing his Uber rating and a ‘quote’ from his mum.

  CHAPTER 3

  It turns out that swiping can cause a lot of harm. Modern dating is causing me a lot of harm. Mainly to my already precarious confidence, but also to my bank balance, my tolerance for terrible chat-up lines, and the early onset of RSI in my right thumb. Left. Left. Left. Oh! Maybe! Let’s dig deeper. Oh no, is that real? Is that even the same guy? Left. Guy with a dog! RIGHT. Left. Left. Left.

  Who knew that trying to date should come with a health warning?

  Despite the fact I eventually set myself up with a new, slightly more accurate (but still optimistic) profile on a more feminist-friendly version of the Flame of Shame, the results still haven’t been great. In either quality or quantity.

  Quality-wise, most of the men I’ve been on dates with baffle me. How have they not been arrested? How do they have jobs? Were they even raised by humans? One
man hit on our waitress whilst we were still on the date. Another kept throwing things, almost like a kind of macho test, a test that he failed many times. And too many potentials sent unsolicited dick pics; one even sent a slow-motion video.

  My mum bought me this phone. I can’t be watching that on a phone my mum bought me.

  Quantity-wise, I’ve not exactly been struggling to find a date, but I’ve quickly learnt that finding a date and actually going on the date are two different things. The number of times a date (the person, not the event) would mysteriously disappear on the day is shocking. Turns out a lot of men get ill/run out of battery/find better plans at short notice. Mia says it’s a consequence of the casual nature of online dating. But I’ve always thought of myself as being witty when I make an effort, and I can’t help wondering if my messaging skills aren’t up for the challenge.

  I’ve also come to the conclusion that we need a new term for these ‘dates’. To me, the word ‘date’ still has quite a romantic connotation to it, drumming up ideas of flowing conversation, a proactive plan, a nice outfit, on-point personal hygiene, maybe some flowers – this last one is a bit of a reach, but a girl can dream. These social meetings that I’ve been subjecting myself to are in no way romantic. They do not deserve the term ‘date’. ‘Investigation’ might be a better word.

  And I never get a second ‘date’. I also never really want to go on a second date, but the fact that no one wants to go on a second date with me is damaging my self-confidence. What is wrong with me? What kind of signals am I giving out? What am I doing wrong? Maybe it’s my face. I try really hard to appear interested. I’m sure my actions say I’m interested, but I’m also pretty sure my face says I would rather be somewhere else.

  I’ve given myself one more try at a ‘date’ before I give up, and I’m hoping it will be a quick one this evening. I’ve already prepped my date, Tom, with the news that I will have to leave early because I’m travelling with work tomorrow. This is not exactly a lie as I do have an errand to run that will take me out of the office, but it is a stretch of the truth.

  The saving grace tonight is that Tom has opted for a pub. Most of the men I’ve met have been doing Dry January, which means a lot of people have been suggesting increasingly involved date activities but have then been a touch too self-conscious to really enjoy them. The worst so far was an indoor axe-throwing session. As someone who does limited physical exercise, mainly because I lack coordination and have precisely zero sporting ability, I knew this would be a bad idea. But it turns out I’m actually a pretty good axe-thrower, much to the annoyance of my date, who found my decreasingly modest character increasingly irritating.

  Nearing the pub I can see a man who looks vaguely like the pictures I’ve seen of Tom, although he’s got much less hair than his profile would suggest.

  In a momentary panic I almost forget his name.

  ‘T-om?’

  ‘Bea?’

  ‘Hi.’

  We go in for an awkward almost-touch of the cheek.

  I plaster over our bumbling with a chirpy question.

  ‘Shall we go in?’

  Despite it being really grey and dark outside, the pub is uncomfortably light, which wouldn’t be so bad if it wasn’t also extremely empty. I feel very, very on show.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I always like to get in the first round because then I feel no guilt if I leave after one.

  ‘OK, great. I’m not actually drinking, so I’ll take a Diet Coke.’

  What. The. Actual. Fuck.

  I’ve been hoodwinked. Lured into a false sense of security, and now I don’t know what to do. At least on openly dry dates I know I shouldn’t drink, even if I still choose to. But this is new. This is a sneakily dry date. It’s making me yearn for the axe-throwing days.

  I have been standing still for too long.

  ‘Sorry, didn’t I tell you I was doing Dry Jan?’

  ‘Oh no, it’s fine.’ It isn’t fine. None of this is fine. Why am I here? ‘I’m just surprised you wanted to come to a pub if you aren’t drinking.’ That came out a touch more harshly than it should have. ‘I’ll go get you your Diet Coke and you choose where to sit.’

  There is absolutely no queue at the bar, so my thinking time is shorter than I would ideally like it to be. The girl behind the bar gives me a knowing glance. She can tell it’s a first date of the swipe variety.

  ‘You OK?’

  I contemplate asking her if there is a back exit.

  ‘I’ll get two Diet Cokes, please.’

  Turning around with two whole pints of Diet Coke in my hands, I see that Tom has added insult to injury by choosing the worst seating option possible. He had the pick of the place but he’s gone for a dirty table right in the middle of the room. I already know that I don’t want a second date.

  ‘So, why choose a pub when you aren’t drinking?’ I worry that I sound like an alcoholic, but I want to understand.

  ‘Oh, I love the smell.’

  ‘The smell?’

  ‘Yeah. I love the smell of a pub.’

  Now I worry that he sounds like an alcoholic, but still I nod and say, ‘Oh my goodness, me too!’ I hate myself. Why do I do this?

  ‘Let’s cheers to that!’

  He lifts his glass up and I think he’s being serious. He wants to ‘cheers’, but to what I am not entirely sure. Still, I raise my glass and toast him in pretend solidarity.

  ‘So, your accent, where is it from?’

  ‘Liverpool. I moved to London a couple of months ago.’

  This is the other thing about dating apps. They’re frequently used by people who are new to the area, and I’m not interested in being a travel guide. I want someone who already knows the best way out of the tube without having to follow the signs.

  Still, I say, ‘Oh, cool. Are you liking it?’ I know he’ll say yes – everyone loves London when they first move here, and even if they don’t, they say that they do.

  ‘I love it. I’m living with a really nice girl. It’s actually her who made me sign up for this online dating thing.’ I’m sure she did. There is nothing worse than having a housemate who’s in all the time. ‘So I should thank her, I guess.’

  ‘Ha, I guess.’

  ‘Cheers to that!’

  Seriously?

  His glass is already up there, and I’m not quite rude enough to leave him hanging.

  Our glasses clink again and I’m even more embarrassed when I see that the girl behind the bar is watching us. I can’t blame her, I’d watch us too.

  After an incomprehensible amount of cheersing, our glasses are finally empty.

  ‘Gosh, I hadn’t seen the time.’ I look down at my wrist, though I haven’t worn a watch for many, many years.

  Looking at the clock on the wall, I can see that it’s only seven thirty. How we have only been on this date for forty-five minutes I don’t know. It’s earlier than even I think is an acceptable time to leave, but my cheers quota for the year has been used up and I can’t take it any more. I have to leave before I hit him. Or cry.

  ‘Sorry, but I really should go.’

  I can see in his face that he doesn’t quite believe me.

  ‘Well –’ he’s going to be polite, and I instantly feel so guilty that he’s clearly a genuinely nice person, whereas I am disillusioned and tired – ‘this has been great. I would cheers, but it seems odd to cheers with an empty glass!’

  ‘I guess it does!’ I manage one last smile, possibly the only genuine one of the evening as I can sense freedom is near. I reach for my bag and start to stand.

  ‘But we could do it anyway!’ He smiles up at me, face full of innocence. ‘Cheers!’

  And fuck me, but I sit back down and lift my glass one last time.

  CHAPTER 4

  I frequently wonder how long it would take my co-workers to notice if I stopped showing up to work. I find it so odd that five days a week I go into an office, wear (increasingly less) office-friendly clothes and exhaust
myself trying to seem busy.

  I wasn’t always this way. I used to care a lot about my job – it was quite exciting to work for a start-up company doomed for greatness and spearheaded by a fearless, hard-working female leader, my inspirational boss, Mansi. But now I despair when I look at our plans for getting more and more time-poor and money-rich people interested in personalized vitamin regimes that attempt to improve your wellbeing. Especially when I’ve found that being less and less interested in them myself has actually improved my wellbeing.

  Today’s task, which, true to my word, did briefly take me out of the office to pick up some bookends, has been to rearrange my boss’s books according to the year of publication. Of course, as soon as she saw the result, she decided colour was a better way to organize them.

  So I’ve chosen to take myself off to the disabled loo for a pitiful cry at the stupidity I feel at being upset by this unsurprising, but still quite humiliating, event.

  Luckily this isn’t my first rodeo, and, as any practised weeper knows, you should always take your phone with you, so when you’re done crying you can flip through your required reading and carry out your personal admin, giving your eyes and face some time to calm down.

  Today the majority of my personal admin is related to my alternative career as owner and creator of CARDiology. I set it up a couple of years ago on a bit of a whim, but it has since become an outlet for my terrible sense of humour. I really had no idea people could be so interested in high-quality, screen-printed cards with puns on them. Calling it a business is slightly optimistic, but who knows, maybe one day.

  The only time my two careers (if I can call either a career) have ever clashed was when I accidentally handed my boss my latest list of political puns instead of the latest health-related news round-up. She finally caught on when she realized ‘There will be hell toupee’ wasn’t a real headline.