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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  Eve

  Tom: I know what you’re saying, but I still think the book is better.

  Becky: Have you seen the film Little Women?

  Tom: Yeah, I went to see it with Tom.

  Tom: Not me, obviously.

  Tom: A different Tom.

  Becky: I was going to say, weird way of saying you went by yourself.

  Becky: Anyway, I just think they brought it to life so well. And Saoirse Ronan is my queen.

  Tom: I’ve never seen a better portrayal of Amy.

  Becky: Agreed. Florence Pugh was everything.

  Tom: Laurie was a little weedy.

  Becky: Want to get him into your gym?

  Tom: Huh?

  Becky: For a personal training session?

  Tom: Oh yeah, for sure. We could buff him up and make those little women look even smaller.

  Becky: You are joking, right? You do know they’re not physically small?

  Tom: Of course I do. I’ve read the book, watched all the adaptations and seen the new movie twice.

  Becky: Twice?

  Tom: Was sobbing too much the first time round to really take it in.

  ‘Eve?’ Becky calls me from her bedroom. I swipe away from my conversation with Tom – well Becky’s conversation – not sure why my hand drifted there in the first place. Helping Becky keep the conversation going with Tom has kept me calm lately, Datespace replacing Headspace and helping me come down from another intense week in the office – intensely frustrating. Makena spent her mornings probing Angela, following her into the toilets just to catch her in a breathe-out baby-bump moment. We’re still none the wiser.

  I look down at the open laptop before me. I know I said I wasn’t going to work this evening, but Becky will be busy on her date with Tom, and I want my portfolio to be ready for the moment Angela’s maternity leave is announced. Note to self: keep your eyes on the prize. Do not, I repeat, do not get distracted . . .

  ‘Eve, can you come here?’

  I reluctantly put my laptop down. I’ll be back to it soon. Note to self: do not get . . . Yes, I know. Picking up my phone, I walk into Becky’s bedroom.

  ‘I need your help,’ she says. She’s a vision in three tops, her knickers and a single shoe. ‘Sit down.’

  ‘Where?’ I look at the pile of everything she owns in the space where her bed used to be.

  ‘Very funny,’ she says in a way that shows she doesn’t find it funny at all. She’s stressed. I sit down obediently. ‘I don’t know what to wear,’ she moans.

  ‘Not that.’ I gesture to her current get-up. ‘You’ll be arrested.’ She takes off one of the tops and flings it towards me.

  ‘You’ve been out to dinner before,’ I say, flinging it back. ‘What did you wear then?’

  ‘Yes, but not on a first date.’

  ‘They’re not all that different,’ I say, as if I’ve been on countless first dates before.

  ‘Well, with Matthew, I could tell he had tattoos and a beard and wore a beanie, so I knew to wear my ripped jeans and some barely there make-up. And with that guy Timothy, I knew he was proper outdoorsy, so I borrowed Lola’s Barbour jacket and UGGs.’

  ‘Did it do the trick?’

  ‘No, he ended up taking me to the cinema. I was boiling.’

  ‘Well you won’t be boiling in that.’ I glance down at her knickers.

  ‘Eve.’ She says my name like a plea. ‘I have no idea what Tom likes.’

  ‘Why don’t you just go as yourself?’ I suggest.

  She looks at me like it’s a novel idea.

  I recline on her bed and bring up Safari on my phone: if she needs me to sit here, I can at least read some human-interest stories online, start thinking about what I might write this evening. I want to write something that matters – meaty stories like Gareth’s extremist schoolgirl – but I know by the time I get the go-ahead, the story will have come and gone. I need to dig deeper, into personal narratives, unique perspectives, innovative insights that last longer than a night.

  ‘Should I wear a beret?’ Becky interrupts the thought.

  ‘A beret?’

  ‘Because of all the French films and cheese and stuff.’

  ‘Becky, you do not need to wear a beret.’ I look down at my phone again, pulling up The Paris Review. She’s now just in her knickers, her bra and the shoe. ‘You do have to wear something, though.’

  ‘Could you please put your phone away?’ she moans. ‘This wasn’t the plan . . .’

  ‘The outfit?’ Or lack thereof.

  ‘No, tonight, getting ready.’ She’s scrabbling about in her wardrobe. I’m surprised there’s anything left inside. ‘I wanted us to be, like, laughing and joking about what I’d wear and everything . . .’

  ‘Like in Sex and the City?’

  ‘Exactly like in Sex and the City!’ She smiles. ‘That bit in the movie where they’re sorting out Carrie’s closet with the “take” and “toss” cards . . .’

  ‘Oh dear God.’ I roll my eyes, phone still clutched in my hands.

  ‘I’ll toss you if you don’t put that phone away,’ she threatens.

  ‘Hold on a second.’ I swipe across my screen, and the sound of RUN DMC’s ‘Walk This Way’ starts to blast from my phone. I turn the volume up.

  ‘Now that,’ Becky twirls in her underwear, ‘is more like it!’

  She throws a black dress my way and I reluctantly put it on. I look into her floor-length mirror and we both laugh. It just about fits width-wise, but due to our height difference, you can now see my pants as clearly as Becky’s.

  ‘Now who’s getting arrested?’ She creases with laughter, flinging another outfit towards me. I remove the black dress, replacing it with an orange number that I wear off one shoulder. It looks like a top. Grabbing another dress from her bed pile, I tie it around my waist. I look ridiculous. Becky throws her head back, laughing even harder and shaking her hips in time to the music. Grabbing my hands, she swings me around as we sing at the tops of our voices. Then we hear it: an almighty rip. I open my mouth to apologise, but Becky is already on the floor, heaving with laughter that I’m sure would kill her if it wasn’t so full of life.

  ‘Ladies and gentlemen.’ Becky looks from me to Buster, now stalking his way across the piles of lace and denim on her bed. ‘I present to you our finalists.’ She has spread the chosen outfits on the floor. The first: black jeans, her long-sleeved black top, cropped to show an inch of flesh. A denim jacket and pink scarf for lightening the look as she walks into the bar. The second: dark blue mom jeans, an oversized white shirt with just a hint of black bra underneath, a leather jacket of mine to layer over the top.

  ‘I vote this one.’ I point to the second outfit. ‘It kind of gives the impression that you’ve come straight from work – your really stylish work . . .’

  ‘You do know I teach primary school kids?’ Becky laughs. ‘You might look like that when you leave the office, but I leave work looking like a science project. Remember that time I came home with yellow feathers sticking to me like Big Bird?’

  ‘Becky, I don’t think you’ve ever looked like Big Bird.’ I glance down at her shoe options, nodding as she picks the boots with the highest heel. At least she’ll be Bigger Bird in those.

  ‘I think the black one.’ Becky gestures to the first outfit. ‘Makes me look Parisian.’

  ‘He might not ask you to go to Paris on your first date.’ I try to manage her expectations. I’ve been helping her chat to Tom all week; he seems really cultured and romantic.

  ‘I know that,’ she objects, like I’m the crazy one. If it wasn’t for me, she’d be wearing a beret.

  ‘Yeah, I know, but if your expectations for getting ready were movie-montage perfect, I don’t know what you’re hoping for later.’

  She knows I have a point, but before she c
an say anything, my phone buzzes. Buster jumps off the bed onto the bedside table, pressing his paws into Becky’s open eyeshadow pallette before walking across her all-black outfit.

  ‘Shit.’ She scoops him up at arm’s length.

  ‘Looks like Buster’s siding with me,’ I tell her.

  Tom: Is it okay that I’m a little nervous about tonight?

  ‘Who is it?’ Becky looks at the phone in my hands.

  ‘It’s Tom. Do you want me to log out of your profile?’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ She shakes her head. ‘I need your help.’

  ‘Do you want me to reply?’

  She nods, and I begin to type.

  Becky: Yeah, I get it. First dates can be nerve-racking.

  Tom: There’s so much that could go wrong.

  Becky: But there’s so much that could go right.

  Tom: Plus I’m a bit scared you’re going to jump down my throat about the digital media thing.

  Becky: I won’t, I promise.

  ‘Why would we jump down his throat about that?’ Becky looks up from the app on her own phone; she’s now wearing the blue jeans and white shirt.

  ‘It was just something we were chatting about yesterday,’ I explain. ‘You were there.’

  ‘I know, but . . .’ she looks sheepish, ‘Love Island was on.’

  Becky isn’t just the kind of girl to watch a trashy reality TV show like Love Island; she’s the kind to stream reruns of old series on Netflix – unless a new series has started and I’ve missed the boat.

  ‘Can you just give me the highlights?’

  ‘Sure.’ I remember the conversation well. ‘Tom was suggesting that print carries more prestige.’

  Becky nods. ‘I’ve heard you say that before; that’s what we think, right?’ She’s playing fast and loose with the word ‘we’.

  ‘We do,’ I agree. ‘But we also think paywalls are a good thing.’

  ‘Paywalls?’

  ‘When you’re reading an article online and then it makes you subscribe to see more.’

  ‘Oh, I hate that.’ Becky sits on the edge of the bed to put her boots on. She sees me shaking my head and mirrors my motions. ‘We don’t hate that?’

  ‘We don’t,’ I agree. ‘We think it’s recognition for the people producing the content.’

  ‘Got it.’ She nods. ‘And what’s this thing about little women? Were you talking about me?’

  ‘No.’ I laugh. ‘We were talking about the novel Little Women by Louisa May Alcott, which came out in 1868.’

  ‘Eve, that’s too long ago! You know I don’t know anything about history.’

  ‘It was also a movie in 2019,’ I add.

  ‘Oh thank God.’ She smiles, back on safe ground. Well, safer, at least.

  ‘It’s about a young woman called Jo—’

  ‘A little woman,’ Becky corrects with pride, trying to force herself back into the loop.

  ‘Not physically,’ I tell her. ‘But she’s a teacher—’

  ‘Like me?’ Becky interrupts again.

  ‘A little. And a writer—’

  ‘Like you?’

  ‘A little.’

  ‘Okay. A little like me, and a little like you. Got it.’ She looks down at my messages to Tom again. ‘Maybe I’ll be a bit more like you though, just for the first date.’

  I slam the door behind Becky, the bang sending Buster scarpering across the kitchen even though I’ve just put his food out. That’s not like him. I walk into the living room and sit on the sofa, opening my laptop but suddenly drained of inspiration. That’s not like me either. Getting Becky ready for her date this evening was fun. By the time she left, she was practically humming with nerves and excitement. I felt pretty giddy too. And now that she’s on her way to her evening with Tom, I’m not sure I want to carry on with my own. Note to self: you want this, you’ve always wanted this.

  I look at my fired-up screen: come on, Eve, just start writing; the rest will come. That’s what I told Becky. Well, not writing, but talking: just start with this line, the rest will follow: ‘How do you think the film adaption of Far From the Madding Crowd compares to the book?’ But now that I’m so far from the madding crowd that I could finally get some work done, I feel a little lonely. Lola will be with Benj, Makena with Ajay.

  The cursor blinks on my blank white page, but the words won’t come. Maybe I used them all up on Tom. Buster struts across the living room towards me, having snuck back to the kitchen to polish off his food in record time. He sniffs in my work bag, looking for more. And I’m after more too. If I can just get enough pitches and pieces together to prove I’m worthy of more work, more meaningful work . . .

  I bend to pick Buster up, and my post scatters out of my handbag and onto the floor: another letter from the water company screams from the top. Okay, if the article inspiration isn’t coming, maybe I can get do some life admin. Put my evening to good use while my best friend is putting it on Tom. But not too much. I told her to go slow, make him work for her. Not give everything away for free.

  I open the bill. Wow, Thames Water aren’t giving it away for free either. The next letter is a thank-you card from a recently married friend to ‘Becky and Eve’; we’ve been living together so long that people now just address us as a couple. Maybe that will start to change if things go well for Becky tonight. I open the next letter in the stack: my mobile bill. Man, I use too much data. Then the next: junk mail from some PR firm. And then my gaze falls on a small envelope nestled within the pile.

  This one isn’t branded. It’s on creamy white paper, black handwriting dancing across the front. My jaw drops like the stone in my stomach. It can’t be. Can it? There’s no way. Absolutely no way. But even though the envelope is shaking in my trembling hand, I know for a fact that I’d recognise that handwriting anywhere.

  Chapter Nine

  Max

  Walking into the office, I try to look calm. But today has just been one of those days. I should have known that popping to the care home in East Croydon on my lunch break was biting off more than I could chew. Which is ironic given that I haven’t had a chance to eat all day. What was I thinking? No one pops to East Croydon.

  ‘Hey, Max.’ Heather smiles up from her desk as I walk by. ‘Thanks for looking over that press release.’

  ‘Any time,’ I say, before I can stop myself. Her smile grows wider. I want to be the kind of guy who has all the time in the world to stop and help other people, but today I feel pulled in a dozen directions.

  ‘Max-aaay.’ Paddy swivels around in his chair as I approach. Just breathe, Max, breathe. ‘How was she?’ he asks, and I’m not sure whether he means Amy or Peggy. Sadly, I’ve not had time to see either.

  ‘Couldn’t fit in a second visit today.’ I try not to sound too disappointed. I hope Peggy wasn’t too disappointed either.

  ‘The fact you even fit in one is amazing,’ Paddy smiles as I bury my head behind my monitor, trying to stifle a yawn. This week has knackered me, my new role now in full force. Staying up late to help Tom message Becky probably didn’t help either. He started off well, but then she started talking books and Tom tagged me in quicker than you could say ‘training session at 6 a.m., I’m going to bed, dude’.

  I know I could have told him I needed to go to bed too, but Becky was in full swing and the two of them hadn’t really chatted all day. I didn’t want her thinking Tom had gone cold before they’d even had a chance to meet. They seemed good for each other.

  ‘That’s it.’ Paddy gets to his feet. ‘It’s officially the weekend.’ For him maybe, but I still have so many emails to catch up on. Plus I haven’t even scratched the surface when it comes to developing new fund-raising projects for our department. ‘Please tell me you’re not hanging out with Peggy tonight.’

  ‘I could do a lot worse,’ I joke, though it’s true.


  ‘Yeah, but it’s Friday night,’ Paddy objects. He has a point.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’m meeting Tom for a drink,’ I say, and for a moment I wonder whether Paddy wants an invite. But Tom’s asked to meet me so I can prep him for his date this evening. ‘I’m helping him out with something,’ I explain.

  ‘You do know you’re allowed to spend time not helping other people?’

  ‘A day wasted on others is not wasted on one’s self.’ I lift the quote right from the pages of A Tale of Two Cities and can’t help but smile at the thought of all mine and Becky’s Dickens references last night.

  Well, Tom and Becky’s references anyway.

  Crossing Tooting High Street, I can see Tom in his usual spot through the window. His behaviour, on the other hand – more specifically what is in his hand – is far from commonplace. He’s reading a book. As I walk into the pub, he glances up from it, looking a little sheepish. He’s reading my copy of David Nicholls’ One Day. It’s a brilliant love story, but Tom wouldn’t know about that; he’s still on the dedication page at the front, his phone clutched in his other hand.

  ‘Hey, man.’ He stands to greet me.

  ‘Can I get you a drink?’ I turn around to see one of the waitresses from the bar standing beside me. Her name is Lauren and she works here every Friday.

  ‘Hey, Lauren. I don’t mind coming over to order.’ My eyes shoot past her pretty face towards the swarms of people gathering around the bar, her rosy cheeks testament to how rammed it is in here tonight.

  ‘No, it’s fine. I’m sure you’ve had a busy day.’ She smiles as I take a seat. ‘Dementia charity, right?’

  There’s nothing wrong with her memory. It must be months since we chatted about what I do for work.

  ‘That’s right.’ I smile.

  ‘He’s actually just got a really big promotion,’ Tom boasts beside me as I try to kick him underneath the table.

  ‘In that case, you definitely don’t need to get up to order. Pint of pale ale?’ I nod, and she heads back to the bar.

  ‘Whoa, you’re in there, mate.’ Tom smiles over his own pint. I assume he had to go to the bar for his.