Just Friends

by Holly McCulloch

  Should I chop? Should I set the table? Pour myself a glass of wine? Call the police?

  ‘Should we reschedule?’ I shout, in no particular direction, around the room.

  ‘No no, I’m fine.’ I have to assume his bedroom is somewhere off the hallway, based on the direction of his voice.

  With hesitation I tiptoe towards the voice and ask, ‘So, what happened? Can I do anything to help?’ Please say no.

  ‘Erm, maybe.’ And then all I hear is some mumbling, and then a request for some … paper Jews?

  ‘Sorry, did you ask for some paper Jews?’

  With that a door swings open and he steps into the hallway. At least he’s body confident.

  ‘Pineapple juice. I don’t suppose you have any on you? From my research it might be more effective than the coconut milk.’

  Why would I be carrying pineapple juice?

  ‘I can go get some?’ I decide that if he asks me to do this I will go get it, but I won’t step back in the apartment. ‘If you don’t mind me asking, what happened?’

  If you don’t mind me asking. He has his penis in a can of coconut milk and I feel awkward?

  ‘It’s been a series of unfortunate events really. The stupid box is meant to contain all the ingredients for dinner, that’s part of the appeal. But apparently coconut milk and flour are “staples” that you should already have in your cupboard. Well, not this cupboard. So I had to go get those – two separate trips to the corner shop.

  ‘So anyway, I was part-way through chopping the chillies when I realized I was running late. So I went to change and take a quick loo stop. But see, erm, turns out that I hadn’t washed my hands since chopping the chillies, and, well, I think they must be very strong because I have an awful burning sensation on my guy. And I didn’t know what to do, you know, never having rubbed my dick with chilli before.’ Did he say he was rubbing? I wonder what he was doing in the loo? ‘But my mum used to make me drink regular milk after eating something too spicy, so I hoped dunking him in coconut milk might reduce the burning.

  ‘And then you rang the doorbell and, well, here we are.’ He opens out his available hand in a welcoming motion, whilst the other, I am happy to report, remains otherwise occupied holding the can. I hope he doesn’t cut himself.

  Right. ‘I guess maybe the silver lining is that you had some coconut milk after all?’ He doesn’t say anything – perhaps it’s a bit soon to joke. I try a different tack. ‘Is it helping?’

  ‘Not as much as I would have hoped, but the desire to chop it off has stopped, so I think progress is being made.’

  I can’t help but wonder what would happen if the situation was reversed. If I was the one in the dressing gown, hopping up and down trying to get the burning to stop in my vagina? Apart from the fact this would never happen, I don’t see Toby being as patient.

  ‘If it would help, you could stay … dunking, and I could finish dinner?’ Apparently I’m determined to continue the date with this unsupportive fuckwit. Heaven help me.

  He relaxes slightly and leans against the door-frame, looking like a great weight has been lifted off him. ‘Gosh. If you don’t mind, that would be great.’

  The appendage has been dunking for a solid half hour while I prepped and cooked. I wonder if it will look all wrinkly like your fingers do when you’ve been in the bath too long? I’m not quite curious enough to ask the question out loud. Our conversation has been awkwardly stilted so far, and I don’t think it’s all because of the appendage issues. I keep asking questions, questions that are getting more and more mundane, but all he’s giving me back is one-word answers.

  I’ve been exaggerating my interest in the food prep to camouflage the silence.

  Finally I have a momentary reprieve from thinking of things to say when Toby retreats to put some clothes on.

  ‘I think it will be a while before I go near chilli again.’ He enters the kitchen with the swagger of a man who has recently escaped death.

  I nod. ‘I think that would be wise.’ I take a taster bite from the pan and, yes, dinner is more than edible. Hopefully I won’t poison either Toby or myself. ‘Good timing too, I think dinner is ready.’

  Toby holds out the bowls, and I dish us up before we head to the table. It’s quite a small table, and I have to sit with my legs squished to one side to stop myself from continually bumping into his outstretched legs.

  But fully dressed Toby is no easier to talk to than half-naked Toby. Our first date was full of laughter and joking. Maybe we’ve already used up all of our funny?

  I look around the room for some inspiration. I’ve already asked him about his work, his weekend, his crazy mum. ‘So, have you lived here long? I really like it. I really like all the … lamps and chairs and stuff. It’s very stylish.’

  ‘Thanks, but none of it’s mine.’

  ‘Oh, so it came furnished?’ Even as I ask the question I don’t care.

  ‘Yep.’ He seems more intent on the food than anything else.

  I decide to keep talking anyway. ‘Well, I really like decorating. Painting walls. Buying soft furnishings. Picking out objets d’art.’ I am mildly impressed with my French accent. ‘I was always the kind of person in those computer games who wouldn’t really play, but would build houses over and over again. Obviously I don’t own the house I’m living in now. I rent it, but I’ve tried to make it my own.’ I keep going, oblivious, and now also indifferent, as to whether he is finding this interesting. ‘And I guess it isn’t really worth it. Say I put all this money into making it nice, and then—’

  He holds up a hand right in front of my face. ‘I’m gonna have to stop you there.’

  His face is red and the squirming is back.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Hold on a sec,’ he says and abruptly leaves the table. I finish my meal in silence.

  After an uncomfortable amount of time, Toby emerges, once again with his appendage in the can, clothes back on the floor. This time he’s even forgone the dressing gown.

  ‘I’m really sorry about this, but the burning came back and I had to touch him again to get him back in the can, but I must still have some remnants of chilli left on my hands so it’s got even worse.’

  I have no words.

  ‘I don’t know what else to do and to be honest, mate, I am worried about my guy.’ His face is full of concern, and I do actually feel quite sorry for the guy. Both guys. ‘Can you help me down to the hospital?’

  You have got to be shitting me, mate.

  And yet, I find myself helping to conceal his penis and following Google step by painfully embarrassing step to the nearest hospital, because no taxi would take us.

  CHAPTER 11

  Sunday can’t come soon enough. And when it does eventually reach us, I indulge in what the internet tells me I should be doing: I go to yoga and then meet up with Tilly at our favourite brunch spot. I’m feeling a tad emotionally delicate, so I kept my yoga session to myself. I can’t quite handle feeling like a very ill, very old sloth, next to the very flexible Tilly.

  We lucked out and got shown to my favourite booth. I imagine Tilly’s smile had something to do with it.

  She squeals at me. ‘I’m so happy that this is our second in-person meet-up in a month!’

  I shuffle along the bench. ‘Well, if you stopped being so busy and travelling all the time, we could see each other more.’

  ‘Actually, I have a plan that will mean exactly that.’ She arranges her napkin on her lap. ‘But before we get on to me, talk to me about you. I felt so bad – after yoga, I realized I did all the talking and didn’t ask one question about what you were up to.’ She reaches towards me from across the table. ‘What’s happening? Job? Romance? Life? How’s your mum?’

  I half reach back, but it isn’t an action that comes naturally to me, so I avoid actually holding her hand. If that is indeed what she wants? ‘There’s not much to report.’ I pull back an inch. ‘Mum is really good, job is frustrating but that’s normal
, the cards are bumbling along.’ I make a face and nod slightly. ‘I have actually been on a couple of dates recently –’ Tilly sits straighter as soon as I say this – ‘and I did have some hope for one of the guys, but the second date did not go well.’

  ‘You didn’t like him? Is it worth trying again? Giving it a bit more time?’

  What is it with Mia and Tilly? They both think time will make these men more appealing. I think spending more time with them will have precisely the opposite effect.

  ‘Um, no. We’re just very different people.’ Tilly looks crestfallen. ‘Part of me wonders if it’s the online thing. Maybe I would have a better success rate if I date people that I meet in real life. Like at the supermarket. If we both reach for rotisserie chicken, at least we know we have that one thing in common.’

  ‘What about your friends?’

  I scoff. ‘Oh God no, I don’t date friends.’

  Tilly slants her head. ‘I meant more, do your friends know anyone they could hook you up with, but that’s quite a strong reaction.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘Spill it. Do you fancy one of your friends?’

  My head shakes even faster now. ‘No no no, it’s not that.’

  ‘Well, what is it then?’

  I don’t like talking about Sam.

  ‘It’s such a pathetic story.’

  ‘Let me be the judge of that.’

  I avoid eye contact, and am glad for the moment’s reprieve when someone comes over to take our order, but they leave more quickly than I would have liked.

  ‘You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.’

  Now I feel like I’m making it into a really big deal. I sigh and reposition myself slightly.

  ‘It’s not that big of a deal –’ I haven’t even told Mia this – ‘but when I was younger, we’re talking when I was in my last years of school, my best friend Sam and I started dating. And I know I was young and I had nothing to compare it to, but I thought we were going to get married. I did all the stupid things. I practised my married signature, I had photos of us all over the inside of my closet. My parents loved him. And I loved him. I loved dating my best friend. It felt so right.’

  ‘So what went wrong?’

  ‘He stopped feeling the same.’ I shrug.

  This isn’t quite the whole truth. What actually happened was that my dad died, and life became really shit. And eventually Sam stopped coming round so much. He said I’d changed. He said I wasn’t happy any more and he didn’t want to be around someone who was so sad all the time. He wanted to go back to being just friends. Of course we didn’t, so I lost my boyfriend, my best friend and my dad all at the same time.

  I can’t entirely blame Sam for the lack of emotional support he offered, we were young. But it stung quite badly when two weeks later he started going out with Meghan Smalls, a girl with (ironically) massive boobs and an even bigger smile.

  So, since then, unable to change the size of my boobs, I instead decided to pretend to be happier, and to never, ever date a friend in the hopes that when the relationship inevitably ended, I wouldn’t be so totally devastated. I can handle losing a boyfriend. I don’t know if I can handle losing another best friend.

  ‘Anyway, let’s change the subject. It was so long ago.’ I really should be over it. Our drinks arrive and I add half a cup of sugar to my coffee. ‘So what’s this plan that you have?’

  ‘I’ve decided to change my career. I want to become an interior designer.’

  ‘I think that’s a great idea!’ And I genuinely do, even though I have no idea what she’s changing careers from.

  ‘Thanks, I am excited. So, I’m planning to go back to school and take a course. It’s quite expensive, but I think it will be worth it.’

  ‘How expensive are we talking?’

  ‘About forty thousand pounds.’

  I choke on my coffee.

  ‘And then there’ll be living expenses on top of that.’

  ‘Forty thousand pounds?’ I am incredulous, outraged, baffled. ‘Could you not learn the same things in a different, less expensive way?’

  She looks at me, and a teensy amount of the light in her eyes has died.

  ‘Take my cards. I would love to do them full-time, but the reality of the situation is a bit different.’

  ‘I know, but I want to do something that I enjoy, exactly like you enjoy working on your cards. It was actually you who inspired me to think about what I enjoy doing and to go for it. And if I live with Jeroen then my living expenses won’t be that much.’

  I can’t, I can’t let her make a plan based on a man she’s only just met. She doesn’t know anything about him. I don’t know anything about him.

  ‘And I want you to do something that you enjoy too, but what if you guys break up?’ I am projecting my own worries on to her, and I know it, but I can’t help myself.

  ‘Well, then I guess I’ll have to figure it out.’

  I open and close my mouth like a guppy.

  Luckily our food arrives.

  I have a vague notion of moving out of the way.

  Tilly makes polite conversation with our server, but I’m too busy processing to do anything other than nod. Her answer is so simple, and I have no retort. No matter how hard I process.

  CHAPTER 12

  Brunch with Tilly left me feeling oddly energized for a Sunday afternoon, so I went home, put on Classic FM and printed a whole bunch of new cards. They’re now drying on every surface in my tiny flat.

  There is a lot of stuff to hate about my apartment: the weird yellow bathroom that always makes you look ill, the cantankerous old lady next door, the dodgy stain on the carpet in the bedroom, the really thin walls, the fact my post always goes missing, and the cheap linoleum flooring that isn’t glued down properly. But there is also a lot to love: the cat that sits outside and guards my weird yellow bathroom, my view of the city skyline (which is so far away that you can only just about make it out as long as there are no clouds), and most importantly the fact I can make as much mess as I want.

  I look at the newly printed cards.

  Tilly’s revelation – that if things go wrong she’ll figure it out – is so refreshing. I’ve always been more of a planner. But I think somewhere along the way the planning morphed into worrying.

  Maybe I could be more like Tilly.

  But she was wrong about one thing. I haven’t ‘gone for it’ with my cards, and if I gave her the impression that I have, then I’m a bigger pretender than I even realize. They’re stocked in a total of two local shops, the same two shops that have always stocked them, and I haven’t put any real money or time into them since I started; even my screen printer now looks tired.

  But I could go for it.

  I’ve been so absorbed in my cards that I have no idea what time it is. I look at the clock in the kitchen. I say ‘kitchen’, but in reality the kitchen is also the lounge, the dining room, the craft area, the storage space and the laundry room. It’s an efficient way to live.

  It is almost time for me to think about dinner, which is fine as I have no more space for any more cards. I know I have paint over my hands, and probably most of my face. I’ll need a quick bath-time before food-time.

  With the steam lending an air of mystery to the bathroom, I test out the water before dropping in.

  I stay in the bath until my fingers are acceptably wrinkly, but as soon as I get out, I hear a knock on my door. For a split second I think I’m about to be murdered. A knock on the door this late on a Sunday, or indeed at any time of day unless I’m getting something delivered, is unprecedented. But rationally, being murdered is probably even less likely. Besides, I don’t know if murderers knock.

  I dry as quickly as I can, put my underwear on so I don’t feel completely unprotected, and throw my dressing gown over the top.

  I can’t help but note the irony of opening my own front door in (almost) nothing but my dressing gown, and I’m relieved to see Mia on the other side. If I had to soak an appendage i
n front of anyone, it would be her.

  ‘Mia! Gosh, sorry, I forgot that you were coming round.’ I assume I have forgotten plans, and panic that I was meant to have prepped some food. I only have leftover cheese.

  ‘We hadn’t planned anything, but I thought I would chance it, see if you were in. I was right around the corner, picking up some shoes.’

  ‘It’s Sunday evening, of course I’m in.’ I say this much more welcomingly than I feel. I hope she can’t tell that I don’t particularly want her here.

  Not that I don’t like seeing her – I do, but I’m not prepared, mentally or physically. My house is a mess. I’ve just had a bath. I’m in Sunday evening wind-down mode. Not Sunday evening talk-to-people mode. Even if that person is my best friend.

  ‘I’ll make tea,’ I say. I always keep some herbal tea for her. For myself I plan to make a hot chocolate. ‘You can show me your shoes. Let’s go into the kitchen.’

  We rotate ninety degrees to reach our destination.

  ‘I’m warning you now, they aren’t exciting shoes. They’re amphibious shoes for our trek in the rainforest.’ It takes me a moment to realize that by ‘our’ she means her and Mark, not her and me. She says it as if it’s obvious. But it wasn’t always that way. ‘Our’ used to refer to us. Our movie nights. Our favourite dance moves. Our preferred ice cream flavour. ‘Apparently they’re very quick-drying.’ Mia has been known to pack months in advance, so this prep doesn’t come as a surprise, but nevertheless this is not what I thought she was going to say. She’s the only person I know who wears heels out of choice on the weekend.

  ‘Amphibious shoes?’ I ask, in a way that hopefully conceals my sadness at no longer being part of her ‘our’.

  ‘Yes! Here, look, they have holes in the sole to enable the quick-drying action.’

  I take a look and she’s totally right. I didn’t even know they made such a thing.

  ‘I didn’t even know they made such a thing.’ Turns out I have nothing else to say.