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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  ‘With Lauren?’ I push a hand through my hair. ‘No, there’s no way.’

  ‘Dude.’ Tom sighs. ‘I may not know all the writers and directors Becky bangs on about.’ He gestures to the phone in his hand. She doesn’t bang on about anything. Her messages are fast becoming the highlight of my day. ‘But I know a flirt when I see one. You’re really bad on picking up on cues.’

  I know he’s talking about Lauren, but my mind jolts to my grandmother, the grief of losing her never far from the surface: I was bad on picking up on those cues too. But no, I can’t think about that right now. Tonight is about Tom and Becky.

  ‘How are you feeling about the date?’ I ask, happy to deflect attention away from me. There’s no point me even trying to find the girl of my dreams when I’m so far from the man of mine. No woman deserves to deal with the baggage I’ve lugged around with me this past year. No one needs my grief in their life when I’m barely even dealing with it myself.

  ‘All right,’ Tom says, but I can read between his lies. ‘Okay, I’m terrified,’ he admits.

  ‘What are you scared of?’

  ‘I’m not sure. It’s just all a bit new, isn’t it?’ He sighs. ‘Dinner and everything.’

  ‘Yeah.’ I try to empathise, but the last woman I had dinner with was Peggy. ‘It’s a step up from Netflix and chill, I guess.’ Or rather watching half a film then going all the way.

  ‘But that’s what I’m good at.’ Tom looks into his pint.

  ‘Is this about Yvonne?’ I ask, daring to go there.

  ‘It’s not, actually,’ he says, looking surprised at the thought. To be fair, I’m a little surprised too. ‘I did see her today, though.’ That bit is less surprising. Yvonne may not be one of Tom’s clients any more, but she still trains at the same gym. Tom is usually able to plan his sessions to avoid hers, but sometimes seeing her is inevitable.

  ‘Did you guys speak?’ It annoys him when they don’t. It annoys him when they do.

  ‘Nope.’ He shrugs. ‘Just saw her across the gym.’ For once, I buy his nonchalance. He might actually be starting to move on properly this time. ‘To be honest, I was just thinking about tonight all day. Dude, I’m going to screw this up.’ He sounds panicked.

  ‘You will with that attitude,’ I tell him. I look up to see Lauren with my freshly poured pint, and smile my thanks. Tom smiles too: make a move, dude. But the only move I’m planning to make tonight is to steal my book back from him and reread it.

  ‘Seriously, I think she’s expecting a lot from this evening.’ He takes a sip from his pint.

  ‘What gives you that impression? She seems pretty laid-back to me.’ I recall how easily our chat – their chat – flowed last night.

  ‘Well that’s what I thought too, until . . .’ Tom turns his screen towards me.

  Becky: I, for one, have great expectations for this evening.

  ‘I’ve literally just booked dinner, that’s it.’ He looks from his phone to me, panic still scrawled across his face. ‘Have I missed something?’

  ‘Yes.’ I laugh. ‘Great Expectations is the title of a Charles Dickens novel. She’s making a joke about tonight – you’re going to the Dickens Inn, remember?’ I hold out my hand and Tom obediently passes his phone across.

  Tom: Provided you don’t send me round the twist.

  ‘Bit harsh, dude.’ Tom looks up from his screen, now returned to his hands.

  ‘Twist as in Oliver Twist; it’s another Dickens reference.’ I smile at an increasingly worried Tom.

  ‘Oh I’m so screwed.’ He rests his head in his hands. ‘I don’t know anything about that, or any of this.’ He scrolls through our chat and points to the relevant exchange, and suddenly the fact that he’s making a last-ditch attempt to read my book today makes sense.

  Becky: Oh One Day is the best!

  Becky: I’ve always kind of wanted to do the same thing as the author does in the book.

  Tom: Write?

  Becky: Kind of. You know the way he writes about the characters on the same day but just different years? Well, I’ve always wanted to do something similar, mark out a significant day with a significant other and keep a record of everything that happened on that date for decades.

  Tom: That sounds like a great idea.

  Tom: Not for the characters though. We all know how that ended.

  ‘No we don’t, dude, we don’t all know how it ended.’ Tom looks at me pleadingly.

  ‘I don’t want to tell you,’ I say, excited for him to read the book and its dramatic ending himself. ‘It’ll spoil it.’

  ‘It’s either that or Becky brings it up and I look like I’ve forgotten – or didn’t read it in the first place – and spoil our date instead.’

  ‘Let’s just say it doesn’t end well for the main characters, either of them,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, I’ll steer clear of the details.’ He pushes the closed book across the table towards me. ‘But she did say she was looking forward to chatting about literal fiction more.’

  ‘Literal fiction?’

  He doesn’t look up from scrolling through our messages, tracing his finger along the screen until he stumbles upon the sentence he’s looking for. ‘Oh, literary fiction,’ he corrects, turning his phone towards me so I can see for myself.

  Becky: I find the differentiation between literary and commercial fiction pretty arbitrary, tbh.

  Becky: I mean, I know literary fiction is meant to be more character-driven, and commercial more about plot and all that, but tell me Rebecca Bloomwood isn’t a protagonist and a half?

  Tom: I want to guess she’s the main character in that romcom Confessions of a Shopaholic.

  Becky: If you did . . .

  Becky: You’d be right.

  Tom: Confession: I’ve never read it.

  Becky: Them. There’s more than one.

  Tom: Really? I didn’t know that.

  Becky: Yeah, well you wouldn’t. As soon as a woman writes something commercial, it’s branded as ‘chick lit’ and covered in glitter and most men will never go near it.

  Becky: Do you know what the male equivalent of women’s commercial fiction is?

  Tom: Tell me.

  Becky: Commercial fiction. It’s just commercial fiction.

  Tom: Man, I can’t wait to hear your thoughts on that in person!

  Becky: There’s plenty to go around, ha!

  Becky: I’m actually writing an article about it for the newspaper I work for.

  Tom: Really? I thought you were a primary school teacher?

  Becky is typing . . .

  Becky: Sorry, I meant write for.

  Becky: Sometimes I like to write the odd article on the side. Break up all the teaching.

  Tom: Can’t wait to hear more about it.

  Becky is typing . . .

  Becky: Probs best you don’t get me started, tbh. I want to hear all about you.

  ‘She wants to hear all about you.’ Tom looks at me, the colour draining from his cheeks.

  I stare at his cracked screen. That’s just some Yvonne-induced insecurity talking. It’s Tom’s photos Becky has seen. Tom’s answers on his profile – for the most part.

  ‘That’s not true.’ I shake my head, taking another sip of my beer. ‘It’s all you, bro. It’s just my best-friend duty to help you on your way.’

  ‘You sure?’ He drains the dregs of his drink. ‘Time for another?’

  ‘I’m sure.’ I nod, looking down at the time on my own message-free phone. ‘And absolutely not. If it’s my duty to help you on your way, I need to help you the hell out of here.’

  ‘Oh shit.’ Tom clocks the time. ‘I need to be going. Man, I’m nervous. It’s a long time since I read a book, especially one with a romantic plot.’

  ‘The woman gets hit by a bus in the end.’ I hold up D
avid Nicholls. ‘So it’s not all about the romance.’

  ‘Oh good.’ Tom pretends to be relieved. I’m sure the main characters didn’t feel that way when their love story came to such a brutal end. ‘Do I look okay?’ He stands to show me his thin-knit green jumper, layered over black jeans. ‘I wish you’d been in to help me get ready.’

  ‘Why? Were you planning on giving me a fashion show?’

  ‘You know it.’ He laughs. ‘Proper movie montage like.’ I choke on my final chug of beer at the thought.

  ‘You look great,’ I say. ‘Now go show Becky a good time.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘Not that good a time,’ I amend. He reaches into his pocket to pull out his debit card, but I wave it away. ‘Don’t worry, I’ve got this.’

  Tom’s eyes dart to the bar. ‘I bet you anything it’s Lauren who’s got this.’

  ‘It’s on the house.’ Lauren looks up at me as I finally make my way to the bar to settle up.

  Tom might not know his literary fiction from his literal fiction, but he’s pretty damn switched on in other areas. And that’s why I know he and Becky are going to have a brilliant time tonight. Tom might not be that cultured, but he’s smart and funny and kind – and provided he doesn’t put his foot in it about any of our messages, or worse, mention Yvonne, I know he’s going to smash their date.

  ‘No, seriously,’ I say as customers glare at me from both sides. Why am I holding up the queue? And more to the point, why am I refusing a free drink? ‘I want to pay for it.’ I put my book under my arm to reach for my card, tapping it on the reader.

  ‘Any plans for tonight?’ Lauren asks.

  ‘Just chilling with David Nicholls.’ I nod to the book.

  ‘Well, if you get bored . . .’

  ‘Bored of this novel? You’ve got to be kidding me.’ I laugh.

  It’s only as I’m leaving the bar that I realise she was trying to flirt. Why do I find it so easy to be cool as Tom, and yet struggle around women when I’m just being me?

  Walking into the cool evening air, I brush off the thought. At least I have the flat to myself this evening. Weaving my way up Tooting High Street, my mind drifts to thoughts of Becky and Tom. They’ll be arriving for their date soon. The thought makes my stomach sink a little. But why? This is a good thing. Tom has been at a loss since his break-up, and here is the promise of something new. I’m happy for him. But then it has been quite nice having him around the house a bit more lately.

  Couples walking hand in hand and groups of friends pass me on either side as I wind my way down the side streets of south London. I guess even in a city of nine million people, it’s easy to feel lonely. Counting down the houses to our flat, I can’t help but think of Peggy. She must be pretty lonely too. I feel bad for not being able to visit her today.

  As I reach into my back pocket for my keys, my phone buzzes to life beside them. I look down at the caller, and it’s as if my thoughts have magicked her into the moment: it’s the care home, Peggy’s care home.

  But why would they be calling at this time on a Friday night? They promised they’d only call out of hours if something happened to . . .

  No, not Peggy.

  Chapter Ten

  Eve

  I sit on the edge of the sofa, cradling the letter in my hands. Trembling, I turn it over and over, his handwriting causing a lump to rise in my throat every time I see it. Eve, Eve, Eve. I read my own name again and again. My mum had wanted to call me Anna, caught at loggerheads with my dad over it: the way they’d always been, the way they would be countless times again. Then they’d played for it. A game of blackjack to decide whether I’d be an Anna or an Eve. Turns out my whole life was just a game to him.

  Looking down at the envelope, my heart hammers in my chest, each breath becoming harder and harder to take. I don’t need this right now. I could just throw it away, pretend I never received it, pretend I have a normal family. Isn’t that what I’m doing already, acting happy families with the Amatos? But no, they are my family, the ones who have always been there for me, are still there for me. Would that be the case if I was no longer Becky’s plus-one?

  Before I realise it, Buster is by my side, curling his ginger body into a little bean. I can do this. I can hear from my dad without hearing every other thing he should have said.

  With shaking hands, I tear open the corner of the envelope, then a bit more, before it rips right open and there’s no turning back. I pull out the pages within it, the same handwriting scratched along every inch of the paper. For a moment, I want to scan to the bottom, to find out the ending before deciding whether it’s worth starting it in the first place. The same way I used to with every book I began, scared it wouldn’t end happily. Before I grew up, before I finally developed some self-control. But my eyes don’t need to flick to the end this time. My darling Evie. Three little words. Said over and over when I only ever wanted to hear three others: I love you. Though if I was waiting for those, I’d be waiting a lifetime. Just like I’ve spent the last ten years waiting for . . . Dad.

  Tears gather on my lashes as I whisper the name out loud. As I get to my feet, Buster darts across the room towards Becky’s door. My heavy legs follow him, leaving the letter behind, but it’s only when I see her empty room that I remember she’s not here. Perching on the edge of her bed, I let the tears fall. Why is he contacting me now? Why not on my birthday, or the birthday before that, or the birthday before that?

  I reach to my phone, searching for distraction. For a moment my fingers move to message Tom, longing to lose myself in talking to him. But why the hell would I message Tom? My stomach churns at the thought. I matched with him for Becky. For my best friend. A best friend who happens to be starting the happily-ever-after she deserves. I stopped chasing mine after my dad left.

  But maybe it’s not what I think: too little said far too late. Stashing my phone, I force myself from Becky’s empty room back into the living room. Breathe, Eve, just breathe. You can do this. Note to . . . Oh, I don’t know. Just remember to read between his lies.

  Sitting on the edge of the sofa, I reach for the discarded letter, unfolding it to read his opening sentence again. My darling Evie. I’m sorry it’s taken me so long to write. I have no excuse . . . That isn’t true – my dad is the king of excuses – but against my better judgement, I plough on. I know I’ve not been there for you, for so many milestones, but I promise I’ve missed you through it all. After your mum left, I tried my best, but the grief became unbearable until I could only think of one thing to stop the pain . . .

  Mascara tears stain the sentences I’ve just read. One thing to stop the pain. I used to believe that. Used to buy his bullshit that liquor was a lifeline. But I’m older now, wiser, wise to his ways. I know it isn’t true; that there are talking therapies, GP services, addiction phone lines, community courses, rehab.

  I’m sober now, and I know you have every right not to believe that, but it’s true. And I have no idea whether you want to hear from me after all this time, whether this letter will even get to you, but I saw your name in the newspaper, and Evie, I’m so proud . . .

  Disbelieving, I read the words again. Evie, I’m so proud. Deep within me I know my eight-year-old self is savouring every syllable, but my late-twenties self knows better. There are only so many missed dance recitals, missed birthdays, missed moments you can take before you realise that maybe not having that person in your life at all would be less painful than being disappointed again and again and again. If you don’t expect them to be there, then your expectations are always met. And since I stopped having a relationship with him, I’ve started to set and exceed my own expectations: I got myself through sixth form, university, got myself down to London. All by myself.

  Sobbing into the silence, I hear a meow by my feet and see Buster looking up guiltily from my handbag.

  ‘This isn’t your fault, boy,’ I whisper, lifting him into my
lap. He snuggles into my side as I breathe deeply, looking around at the life I’ve created for myself here. I found this flat by myself, found friends, found a family, found work, found hope – an ambition and a drive that I could be and do so much more. I gave my dad so many chances, but now is my chance to make my mark. Not as the child of a broken home or the daughter of an alcoholic. Just as me, Eve.

  With Buster on my lap, I find the strength to finish reading. I didn’t want to just barge myself into your life, but I did wonder whether you’d consider letting me be a part of it again. Maybe I don’t deserve to be a father to you any more, but maybe you’d allow me to be your friend.

  Friend? I don’t need another friend. I need a father. I need a dad. Well, I did once.

  With trembling hands, I fold the letter in half and half again, sliding it back into its envelope. Breathe, Eve, just breathe. As I wipe stray tears from my face, my heart rate quickens in my chest. Why the hell would he get in touch after all this time? My chest pounds, my legs shake, my palms sweat. Note to self: run.

  Gently lifting Buster from my side, I get to my feet. My mind is muddled, caught between wanting to run towards my dad and run away from this moment. Only the sound of my trainers on the pavement and the feel of my heart in my chest and the fresh air on my face can clear this mess.

  Rushing to my bedroom, I pull some leggings from my wardrobe and a sports bra from my drawer. It feels like ages since I was dressing up, laughing and singing with Becky before she walked away for her date with Tom. Lacing up my trainers, I feel the urge getting stronger. I need to stomp this out. To stomp my dad and his letter and his wayward words out of my mind.

  Darting back into the living room, practically running before I’ve even managed to leave the flat, I see the offending letter still sitting on the sofa. If Becky finds this, she’ll have a thousand things to say. She always has, especially when it comes to my dad. I’ll tell her about it soon, once I’ve had time to work things out for myself. I know she’ll back whatever decision I make. But I also know there’s a part of her that likes the sound of him, that longs for tales of our misadventures and the memories we made together before everything fell apart. But how could she have a soft spot for someone she’s never met?