What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year!

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘How are you?’

  ‘Good, thanks, dude, you?’

  ‘I’m being serious.’

  Tom looks down at Becky’s profile with anguish. I showed it to him as soon as he got back from the bar, and I could tell he liked the sound of her. She seems like an old soul, wise and well read, at the same time as being a little ball of energy. ‘I don’t know what to say to her.’

  ‘What do you usually say?’ I ask, bracing myself for his answer.

  ‘I don’t. They usually start the conversation with something flirty and I go from there. And anyway, you know what happens when I make the first move. I call them the wrong name or forget I’ve already made the first move.’ He looks to me and shakes his head as I gaze down at Becky’s photos. She looks so comfortable in her own skin that I know she’s going to need more than a ‘hey, sexy’ or ‘well hello, gorge’ or whatever else these guys say to get the conversation flowing.

  ‘Why do people say things on these sites they’d never say in real life?’ I ask. ‘I wonder what the strangest opening line she’s ever received is.’ I pause. ‘Why don’t you start by asking her that?’

  ‘Huh?’ I know I’ve lost Tom completely. He’s looking at her photos again.

  ‘Ask her what it is and see whether you can compete. It’ll show that you know online dating can be full of weirdos at the same time as proving you’re not one.’

  ‘Well, okay . . .’ Tom says, entirely unconvinced. ‘If you’re sure . . .’

  Tom: Go on then, what’s the strangest opening line you’ve ever received on here? Let’s see if I can match it.

  Eve

  ‘Oh shit, Eve.’ Becky looks at me wide-eyed, her phone in her hands. ‘He’s messaged.’

  ‘Let’s have a look.’ I get up from my usual corner of the sofa and walk across the room to Becky bundled up on hers. I look down at his message and laugh. ‘Brilliant.’

  ‘That’s not brilliant. I’ve had some right oddballs message me on here.’

  ‘Yeah, but his question suggests he isn’t one of them.’ I look at his photo, his insightful answers, and am pretty confident that’s true.

  ‘But now I have to come up with a funny answer.’ Becky groans, hangover in full flow. ‘I don’t know if I have any.’

  ‘You’re kidding me, right?’ She tells me these things daily.

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ she whines. ‘Can’t you do it?’

  I roll my eyes but can already feel myself surrendering. ‘Give the phone to me.’

  Max

  ‘Dude, she’s typing.’ Tom glances up from his phone. ‘And now she’s not.’ He looks again. ‘And now she is.’

  ‘Mate.’ I place a hand on his shoulder. ‘Just chill.’

  ‘I know, but Yvonne—’ Tom begins.

  ‘She’s not Yvonne,’ I remind him.

  Becky: Honestly?

  Becky is typing . . .

  Tom and I both wait with bated breath, eager for her to go on.

  Becky: ‘Hey there, little titties.’

  We erupt into laughter. No! Some guy really thought that was the way to spark a romance? Where the hell was he going to go after that? I laugh again but Tom interrupts.

  ‘Where the hell am I going to go after that?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Does she want me to say they’re not little?’ He scrolls back to her photo and I know for a fact he’s mentally zooming in.

  ‘No!’ I say. Seriously, I knew he was struggling, but I never thought he’d be this bad.

  ‘Well I don’t know.’ Tom looks at me. ‘Can’t you do it?’

  I know I should refuse, but my hand is already reaching out to take the phone.

  Tom: No!

  Tom: On behalf of my sex, allow me to apologise.

  ‘Dude!’ Tom grabs the phone back. ‘Now you’ve brought sex into the equation.’

  Becky is typing . . .

  Eve

  I look down at Becky’s screen as she types: Why, what’s wrong with your sex? ;)

  ‘Rebecca, no,’ I say sternly, reaching to take the phone away again.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You do know that if you send that, you’ll be sending signals with it?’

  ‘Oh shit, did I set my smoke flare off again?’ She looks behind the cushions.

  ‘I’m serious. Let’s just keep it a bit more PG for now.’

  Becky: Meh, you can’t be responsible for them all.

  Becky: Must be some pretty crazy girls online too, right?

  Tom: Yeah, I’ve probably met half of them.

  ‘Half?’ Becky turns to me. ‘Half?’ I’m sitting back across the room, on to the next stage of my weekly plan: the workout regime. It strikes me that Tom would probably be able to help me out with this part. ‘So he’s a man-slag, then?’

  ‘I don’t think you can say man-slag any more,’ I explain. ‘It’s more politically correct to say . . .’ Becky is pretending to snore. ‘He’s probably just saying he’s had his fair share of bad dates. Why don’t you ask him about his worst? Everyone loves a story.’

  ‘Can’t you just come over here while I send it?’

  ‘Fine,’ I say, standing up to walk across the room again.

  Becky: Ha! Any good war stories?

  Tom: War stories?

  Becky: Love is a battlefield and all that.

  ‘Shit, I sent it. What if he doesn’t get the reference?’ Becky looks at me anxiously. I’m pretty sure he will. I mean, maybe not everyone will know the song was penned by Knight and Chapman, or that it charted at number 30 on VH1’s list of 100 Greatest Songs of the 1980s, but Pat Benatar’s hit is iconic. ‘It’s the one from 13 Going On 30, right?’

  Max

  ‘Oh fuck.’

  I look up from my book. I thought I’d got Tom up and running now, but clearly my work here is far from done.

  ‘’Sup?’

  ‘I think she thinks a PT is something in the army.’ Tom looks sorry for every air cadet meeting he missed as a boy, sorry for not being in the army now, sorry for not being good enough. Damn you, Yvonne.

  ‘Give it here.’

  He hands me the phone and I look down, trying not to laugh. It’s fine.

  Tom: Got to love a bit of Pat.

  Tom: Okay, well don’t laugh, but I once accidentally proposed to a date.

  ‘No, no, NO!’ Tom scrambles to take the phone from me. ‘Don’t tell her that.’

  ‘I don’t think Becky is the type to start picking out rings,’ I say. I don’t know her, but I get the feeling her life is so full of family and purpose that meeting a man would have to fit around her rather than the other way around. ‘It’s a great story, she’ll find it funny . . .’

  Tom: We were saying goodbye and I crouched down to tie my shoelace and she turned round to see me there on one knee and threw her hands over her face to hide her smile. It was bad.

  Eve

  As I read Tom’s message, I’m laughing and laughing. Becky is laughing too, but not nearly as much as me: maybe it’s her hangover. This guy is proper funny.

  ‘What do I say now?’ She looks at me with her big tired eyes.

  ‘How about this . . .’

  Becky: Ha! You charmer.

  Becky: So what do you get up to when you’re not busy proposing to people?

  I look down at my message and smile. The perfect steer into getting to know one another. I hand the phone back to Becky with a silent ‘you’re welcome’ and walk back across the room, picking Buster up from the floor as I do. It’s you and me now, boyo.

  Max

  ‘Max, remind me what I do in my free time.’ Tom looks at me.

  ‘The gym?’

  ‘No, I mean like . . . the new Tom.’

  ‘It’s still you, Tom,’ I s
ay. ‘Just be yourself.’

  ‘Okay, gym, eat and Netflix.’

  ‘Hmm, okay, maybe don’t be yourself too much.’ I take the phone from him. There’s nothing wrong with how Tom spends his free time, not really. But right now he’s still rebuilding from a break-up; we need to paint him as just a little bit more renovated.

  Tom: When I’m not at work? I usually just take it quite easy. Like to get some fresh air, hang out with friends. Read a fair bit too. You?

  Eve

  ‘Okay, you’re up.’ Becky looks across the room to me and Buster, busy writing a shopping list of ingredients we need for our week’s meals. ‘He mentioned reading . . .’

  ‘You can answer that.’ I look down at the list, my week taking shape before me. All perfectly positioned for maximum efficiency, so I can spend more time working on features that will show I’m worthy of Angela Baxter’s place. I am worthy of Angela Baxter’s place.

  ‘Eve, the last book I read was Cosmopolitan.’

  ‘Okay, that’s not technically—’

  ‘Just come and help me.’ She beckons me over. ‘You’re clearly having fun with it.’

  It’s not that clear, is it? I don’t want to date, online or offline; I just enjoy helping with hers. But I have to keep my head in the zone, my own zone. With my own trajectory: up.

  ‘I’m working on something,’ I reply. Note to self: you’re meant to be working. You need that promotion. I force my eyes back to my open laptop. See, not too much fun. ‘Plus I’ve already done my exercise today; you should be the one getting up.’ I nod to the space between us. I’ve been in and out of my seat countless times while she’s just moved a finger across a screen.

  ‘I’m too hung-over,’ she groans. ‘I have an idea.’

  ‘Don’t hurt yourself.’

  ‘Shut up.’ She looks at her phone. ‘Download the app. I’ll give you my password and then you can read along, intervene when I’m about to say something stupid.’

  ‘Becky, you don’t need—’

  ‘My favourite book is Cosmo . . .’ She pretends to type, reading the proposed message out loud.

  ‘Okay, downloading . . . logging on . . .’ And against my better judgement, I begin to type.

  Becky: Sounds lovely. Similar, tbh, but I prefer to merge my exercise and fresh air.

  Tom: Very efficient of you.

  Becky: I like to think so. So what are you reading at the moment?

  Tom: I’m a bit of a polygamist . . .

  Tom: . . . when it comes to books.

  Becky: Ha! Had me worried for a second.

  Tom: But at the moment, I’m really loving Proust’s In Search of Lost Time.

  Becky: Let me know if you find it.

  Tom: Dad? Is that you?

  Becky: If you don’t like dad jokes, I suggest you swipe on now.

  Tom: I will forgive your dad jokes in exchange for my dad dancing.

  Becky: Done. But seriously, I’ve been meaning to read that.

  Tom: I’ve only just scratched the surface, but so far so good. If you like writers as French as your films, I’m sure you’ll get on with Proust just fine.

  Becky: Cool. Reckon he’s dating online?

  Tom: Man, if he was bemoaning the loss of time in the late nineteenth century, I’m not sure he’d be too impressed with how we spend it in the twenty-first.

  Max

  I look down at Tom’s phone and smile. Is online dating always this easy? The conversation with Becky just kind of flows. She seems really cool.

  ‘I don’t understand half of what you’ve just said.’ Tom looks over my shoulder. ‘But she seems pretty cool.’ We’re on the same page, and so it seems are Tom and Becky.

  ‘Now to ask her out.’ I look at Tom, who seems so confused by the thought that for a moment I wonder what we’re doing here. He does like her, right?

  ‘Already?’ he asks.

  ‘Well, if we carry on chatting now, you might not have anything to talk about on your date.’

  Tom glances at our messages so far. Both of us know that’s a very real concern. But as soon as they meet in person, they’ll know whether they really share a spark.

  ‘Won’t that seem a bit forward?’

  ‘You’ve both swiped right on a dating app; surely the next step is a date?’

  ‘Okay, invite her round tomorrow night.’

  ‘Here?’

  ‘That okay?’

  ‘For me, sure.’ I laugh. ‘For Becky? Not so much.’

  ‘Why? What would you suggest?’

  Tom: What do you think Proust would think to us grabbing a drink together soon?

  Eve

  ‘I’m going to suggest dinner instead,’ I warn Becky, both of us now logged on to the app and looking at our phones. She is very much the passenger in this conversation.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because if you just go for drinks, you’ll end up getting drunk and going home with him.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And you said you wanted to go slower, have something that lasts a little longer.’

  ‘Something like dinner?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  Becky: How about dinner?

  Max

  ‘Man, dinner sounds intense.’ Tom looks at me in concern.

  ‘It’s this big meal you eat of an evening . . .’

  ‘You know what I mean.’ He laughs but still looks worried. ‘Just sounds formal.’

  ‘It’ll be great.’

  Tom: Perfect.

  Tom: I could do tomorrow?

  Becky is typing . . .

  ‘God, she’s been typing for ages.’ There’s panic written across Tom’s face, but I’m pretty confident she’ll reply positively. In fact this whole encounter has me feeling positive.

  Becky: I’m busy tomorrow actually. How about next Friday?

  Eve

  ‘Next Friday?’ Becky frowns. ‘That’s ages away.’

  ‘You don’t want to look too available.’

  ‘Yes, but won’t he get bored of waiting?’

  ‘Waiting isn’t a bad thing.’ We both know I’m talking about more than just dinner. ‘You deserve someone willing to wait.’

  She used to wait until she knew she liked someone before sleeping with them, but after boys started falling by the wayside, she became too fearful to go slow, getting more and more friendly with the one-night stand. The stupid scarcity mentality that stalks so many women.

  ‘Plus I’ll be able to finish work in time to help you get ready.’

  ‘Ooh, I like that idea.’ Becky looks down at her phone, at Tom is typing . . .

  Max

  ‘Next Friday?’ Tom’s shoulders slump. ‘Well that’s it, she’s not bothered. Game over.’

  ‘It’s not game over,’ I say, shaking my head. ‘She’s just busy.’

  ‘But that’s almost a week away.’ He’s incredulous. ‘Not really in the spirit of dating apps, is it?’

  ‘How’s the spirit of dating apps been working for you, buddy?’

  But before I can stop him, he grabs the phone from me and starts to type.

  Tom: Can’t do any earlier?

  Becky: All booked up, I’m afraid.

  ‘Man, she’s one of those diary girls,’ Tom says. I look at him in confusion. ‘Like “book your slot or lose your slot” kind of thing.’

  ‘Oh.’ I smile. The more I know about Becky, the more I like her. It sounds like she has her shit together, that she’s not just waiting for a man like Tom to slide into her DMs and make her day; it sounds like she can make her own day. ‘I think I like a diary girl.’

  ‘Well be my guest.’ Tom presents her profile in his open palm.

  Could I? Could I just make my own profile and match with Becky and explain this who
le situation away? But no, we tweaked Tom’s profile to find a girl just like her. And she swiped for a guy like him.

  ‘You know online dating isn’t for me.’

  Tom: Friday is great. Where would you like to go?

  Eve

  ‘Not Ciao Becca. Anywhere but Ciao Becca,’ I plead with her.

  ‘I wasn’t gunna.’

  Becky: I don’t really mind. Know any nice places? You’re in Tooting, right?

  Max

  ‘Not the Castle. Anywhere but the Castle.’ I turn to Tom.

  ‘I wasn’t gunna.’

  ‘So she’s in Camden?’

  ‘Wrong side of the tracks.’ He raises his eyebrows.

  ‘Why don’t you suggest meeting halfway? I know this cool place by Tower Bridge.’

  ‘Too touristy?’

  ‘No, it’s tucked just around the back, in St Katharine Docks.’

  Eve

  ‘Be good to meet halfway,’ I muse out loud to Becky, looking down at my phone in my hand, shopping list now cast aside, Buster trying to pawprint extra treats on the page. ‘I know a place near the river, this amazing pub across loads of levels, lit up with fairy lights . . .’

  ‘Sounds great.’ Becky smiles. ‘What’s it called?’

  ‘The Dickens Inn.’

  ‘Very on brand,’ she says approvingly. At least she knows Dickens is a writer. Well, was. Note to self: remind Becky that Dickens is dead.

  ‘Let’s see what he comes up with first.’

  Tom: Let’s meet halfway.

  Tom: There’s this cute place near Tower Bridge, the Dickens Inn. Know it?

  Becky looks up at me, mouth hanging open. ‘Are you sure you shouldn’t be going on this date instead of me?’ She laughs. ‘That’s so funny.’

  I laugh too. It is kind of funny. A carefully curated coincidence.

  ‘So it’s a date?’ I ask, looking across to my messy best friend, shining through her slump.

  ‘It’s a date!’ she squeals, beginning to type.

  Becky: It’s a date.

  Max

  ‘It’s a date!’ Tom reads Becky’s latest message out loud, a smile spread wide across his face.

  ‘It’s a date.’ I grin back at him, wrapping an arm around his shoulder in solidarity.

  Tom: It’s a date.

  Chapter Eight