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

by Lizzie O'Hagan

  I promised Tom I’d be there for him too, to help him bag a second date with Becky. But then it’s first thing on a Saturday morning; surely Tom will be training with a client by now?

  Moving towards the living room door, I’m surprised to find it closed. I’m even more surprised to hear grunts and groans coming from behind it. I remember Tom’s words from the night before: Okay, I’ll ask her to come over tomorrow. I don’t know much about online dating, but surely Netflix and chill only happens in the morning when it’s the morning after the night before? Pushing open the door, I find Tom’s topless body stretched horizontal across the floor, moving up and down with every pant and press.

  ‘Have I just woken up in some teenage girl’s brain?’ I laugh, watching him work out.

  ‘I did wonder that, dude,’ he replies, not missing a beat. ‘Turned the TV on to find some chick flick half watched on Netflix.’ Confessions of a Shopaholic. Just one of the ways I tried to solve my insomnia last night. A mid-evening nap and a busy mind are not the easiest companions to snuggle up with at night.

  ‘Thought you’d be training a client by now.’ I try to change the subject as he halts mid press-up, managing to hold himself in a perfectly horizontal plank as he looks up.

  ‘Kept my morning free just in case things got hot and sweaty with Becky,’ he says, and for some reason the thought jars with me. Becky is more than one-night-stand material. ‘Plus, the most crucial client is yourself, Max,’ he adds earnestly before releasing his core to the carpet and sitting cross-legged on the floor.

  ‘That something they tell you to say at the gym?’ I laugh, moving towards the kitchen to put the kettle on. Tom reaches for his kettlebells. The gym he works at is this ultra-hip place with a wannabe-hip clientele who are mad about their mantras.

  ‘It was until Peggy visited us, now she’s everyone’s most crucial client,’ he replies. A few months back, he arranged for our patients to use the equipment for free, so there are now some new hips mingling with the hipsters. ‘How is she?’

  ‘I’ve not heard anything since Amy rang,’ I call back over the sound of the kettle. Under normal circumstances, I know Tom would latch on to any mention of Amy, probing to see whether there was anything going on, but right now our minds are set on only one woman.

  ‘I’m sure she’ll be okay,’ he says.

  ‘Yeah, I’m going to go and see her this morning.’

  ‘Can you help me message Bex first?’

  Okay, so our minds are set on two women.

  ‘I’m not sure she likes being called Bex,’ I say as Tom makes his way into our little kitchenette, an impossibly small space that makes him look even bigger.

  ‘How do you know that?’

  ‘Well, she’s got Becky on her profile, refers to herself as Becky in her stories . . .’

  ‘Yeah, good point.’ Tom sighs. ‘See, this is why I need you to help me again.’

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I put a hand up in surrender. ‘I’ll go and see Peggy in an hour or so.’ Even as I say it, worries rush around my mind, but I remind myself once again that she’s stable. And that Tom is asking me to message a girl who may just be as bookish as me. ‘What did you have in mind?’ I ask.

  Tom turns his phone around to face me.

  Tom: Round two?

  ‘You are joking, right?’ I perch my coffee on the side and take the phone from him.

  ‘I thought it was funny.’ Tom looks genuinely out of his depth. I haven’t seen him this way since she-who-shall-not-be-named.

  ‘She’s not a boxing opponent.’ I shake my head.

  ‘Well what would you suggest?’ he asks, his eyes begging me to work my magic.

  ‘Nothing to do with rings,’ I quip.

  ‘Who mentioned rings?’ Tom looks shocked, like he’s accidentally proposed again.

  ‘I was making a boxing joke . . . Oh, it doesn’t matter. How about this?’

  Tom: Hey, thanks so much for a great evening. I hope you got home okay? X

  Eve

  ‘I got a text!’

  I jump out of my skin, steadying myself by planting my hands against the tiles. With shampoo suds in my eyes, I move my hands like a mime.

  ‘You’re not in Love Island, Becky,’ I shout over the sound of my shower. I don’t need to see her to know she’s sitting on the closed toilet lid, phone cradled in her hands. ‘And nor am I. Can’t a girl get a little privacy around here?’

  ‘No, we’re family.’ She laughs. ‘This is what family does.’ I can’t help but think of my dad, of his letter, hidden out of sight. ‘And no, we’re not on the Love Island.’ She says it like it’s an actual holiday destination and not just a reality TV show. ‘But you still got the reference.’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ I shout into the steam. ‘Can you not wait until I’m finished to solicit my assistance . . .’ My sentence trails off along with the shower. Damn it, the water pressure in this flat is so patchy. Just like the mould climbing up the walls, smattered across the ceiling. Man, we need to talk to Matilda. I can’t win this fight alone. Nor can I finish this shower. Only one thing helps make the pressure come back . . .

  ‘I’m on it,’ Becky shouts from her spot on the toilet. She begins to pump the flush up and down, and before long, the shower pressure starts to pick up again. I wonder why that works. A big part of me hopes we never find out. Ignorance is bliss. Isn’t it always? Note to self: maybe you can just pretend you never got that letter?

  ‘Thanks for that.’ I grab a towel from the rail and wrap it around me before stepping out of the shower. I swear Becky loves to be naked, but I have zero intention of baring all.

  ‘You’re welcome.’ She smiles, a glimmer in her eye. ‘Now you owe me.’

  ‘Okay, okay,’ I say, making my way towards the sink to brush my teeth. ‘What did he say?’ I gurgle through a mouthful of foamy mint.

  ‘That he had a good time and hopes I got home okay.’

  ‘But he didn’t ask to see you again?’ Even as I say it, I wish I hadn’t.

  ‘No, he didn’t.’ Becky’s face fills with horror. ‘He doesn’t like me, does he? If he did, he would have asked by now. Maybe I just wasn’t “Eve” enough for him?’

  My mind scrambles to hold on to her last sentence. Does Tom want Becky to be more Eve? But no, he likes Becky; all the photos he’s seen are hers. I just littered her profile with a bit of literature. Plus, what if he does? The thought makes me feel a bit sick. Becky likes him; the ‘mates before dates’ rule is now fully engaged.

  ‘Of course he likes you,’ I mumble, before spitting out my toothpaste and repeating the words. ‘Of course he likes you; he’s just starting a conversation, surveying the scene . . .’

  ‘Like a detective?’ Becky lights up. She’s been watching those crime shows again.

  ‘Yeah, like a detective,’ I nod as she goes to type.

  ‘Great, what should we say?’ I don’t know why she keeps saying ‘we’.

  ‘Let’s make him wait a little longer,’ I say, looking down at my crumpled workout gear on the floor. Make him sweat. I scoop it up, hoping Becky is too distracted by Tom to see it. I ran for over two hours last night; today should be a rest day. She knows I run too much, rest too little when I’m getting restless. But I’m just not ready to tell her about the letter yet.

  She looks at me, content to follow my lead. Trusting me. Even though Tom’s message isn’t the only one left unanswered.

  Max

  ‘Maybe she’s been mugged.’ Tom looks at his screen, as empty as his coffee mug.

  ‘She hasn’t been mugged.’ I shake my head, holding out a hand to refill his drink. I scoot past him to reach into the fridge, pulling out eggs, bacon and a rogue half an avocado that’s been in there for far too long. Tom nods, squeezing into the space between us to grab a pan from one of the drawers and put it on the hob, our si
lent conversation lacing into our spoken one. You do the eggs, I’ll do the bacon. ‘And I thought I was the worrier?’ I laugh.

  ‘But she’s read the message and she’s not replied,’ Tom moans. It’s good to see him actually bothered for once. And carrying him through this is helping me feel lighter.

  He looks at me and I nod vigorously at the smoke coming from the bacon, our wordless conversation still going strong: would you put the extractor fan on? I’ll get the plates. Tom gets my messages even if he doesn’t get Becky’s, reaching across me to the switch.

  ‘She’ll just be making you sweat,’ I say, looking at his glistening torso. ‘And it’s working.’ I flip the bacon over, its glorious scent filling the room.

  ‘Okay, maybe not mugged.’ He bats away the thought. ‘But maybe she tripped in those heels and hit her head and landed in a bush.’

  ‘You’re being ridiculous. Someone would have found her by now.’

  ‘I don’t know, dude, she’s pretty small.’

  ‘She’s not in a bush.’ I place two rashers of bacon on each of the rolls Tom has prepared.

  ‘All right, maybe she’s not in a bush. Maybe she crossed paths with another man who had just been on a date as well. Their eyes met and he asked, “Good date?” and she said, “It was all right,” and he said, “Well I can show you a better one . . .”’

  ‘And you think I’m the romantic,’ I say as Tom slides a fried egg onto each of our rolls. ‘That’s a nice meet-cute.’ I add a scoop of avo to each before closing them up.

  ‘A meat what?’ Tom looks worried.

  ‘A meet-cu—’ I stop as his phone buzzes.

  Becky: Yeah I really enjoyed it too. And home safe, thanks for asking. X

  Eve

  ‘I still think we should have gone for “Becky can’t come to the phone right now, she’s been eaten by a massive bear”.’ Becky laughs as she hands me a bacon and egg sandwich. I wouldn’t usually eat this, but it’s the weekend, and I’m pretty sure I’ve burned about ten thousand calories in the last twenty-four hours. Half from running, half from my racing mind. ‘Your message has just closed the conversation right down.’

  ‘And getting eaten by a bear wouldn’t?’ I bite down hungrily on my bacon, happy to have Becky back in the flat. And Lola on her way over. It’s hard to think about my dad when the family I’ve built for myself is around.

  ‘But what if he doesn’t reply? If that’s the conversation over?’

  ‘Becky, if he gets put off by one message, he’s not the man for you.’ I stretch my legs along the sofa, my feet almost hanging off the end of it. I look from my socks to the wall, the mould spots I scrubbed off just yesterday now back with a vengeance. My nemesis. Out, damned spot! I wonder whether Tom is a Shakespeare guy. For a moment, dread fills my stomach. And not just because of the mischievous mould. What if he doesn’t reply?

  ‘We really need to talk to Matilda about the mould,’ I say. ‘And the shower. And the door. And the—’

  ‘I messaged; she hasn’t replied.’ Becky’s face says: story of my life.

  ‘Tom’s going to reply, Becky,’ I say. I’m sure of it. As sure as him liking Shakespeare. ‘It’s not over until it’s over.’

  Max

  ‘Well that’s it, game over.’ Tom looks up from Becky’s reply.

  ‘It’s not game over,’ I say. For a man who did a hundred press-ups before breakfast, he sure is quick to throw in the towel.

  ‘Maybe I wasn’t bookish enough,’ he sighs. ‘I know I said it went well, but I don’t know, maybe I didn’t remember everything you said. Maybe I should apologise for—’

  ‘Don’t apolo—’ but I know he’s already sending her a message.

  Tom: Sorry if I wasn’t entirely myself last night.

  Becky: Why, who were you instead?

  Tom: Just a shyer, fumbly version of me, I guess.

  ‘Hey!’ I grab the phone back from him.

  ‘I know, I know . . . do not apologise for who I am.’ Tom repeats the line I’ve told him so many times post-Yvonne.

  ‘No, don’t apologise for who I am.’ I try to laugh away his latest message: am I a shyer, fumbly version of Tom?

  ‘I wasn’t, but seriously, dude, I was a bumbling idiot half the night. No wonder she doesn’t want a second date. Help a brother out.’ He passes the phone my way, and not-so-reluctantly I begin to type.

  Tom: Do you usually have that effect on guys?

  Tom: I think you make me shy, ha.

  Eve

  ‘Oh shit, I was too much.’ Becky throws a hand to her forehead. ‘I knew I was too much.’ She’s snuggling into my side now, Buster on the other. She would have been bubbly, fun. But she wouldn’t have been too much. ‘I did my walrus impression,’ she confesses.

  ‘Not with the straws?’

  ‘With the straws!’ she cries.

  ‘No!’ Her impression is hilarious. But it’s not first-date material. I thought she knew that. ‘Repeat after me: only one woman can pull that off, only one woman can . . .’

  ‘Rachel Green, Rachel Green,’ she chants back to me. ‘Fix it?’ She thrusts her phone at me.

  ‘Sure, where’s the time-machine setting?’ I pretend to search the phone in my hands.

  ‘I’m serious,’ Becky moans, her big brown eyes pleading.

  I know I shouldn’t be this involved, that if Tom and Becky are going to stand a chance, she’s going to have to type herself, to be herself. But they just need to get to know each other better. And if we don’t get this second date, they might not have the chance. Okay, here goes.

  Becky: They usually just buy me dinner, buy me flowers . . .

  Tom: Sweet. Any cars?

  Becky: Just the Ferrari – oh, and one Porsche, but it gets a bit boring after a while.

  Tom: Yeah, sounds pretty dull.

  Tom: I promise the only Porsche you’ll be getting from me is the Shakespeare variety.

  Becky: Aha! I knew you were a Shakespeare man!

  Becky: But I’m pretty sure it’s Portia?

  Tom: And she passes the test with flying colours.

  Becky: Didn’t know we had an observer in the house.

  Tom: Observer? More of a Guardian man myself.

  Becky: Ha! That’s not what I meant.

  Becky: But me too.

  Becky: Well, apart from the man part.

  Tom: Thank God.

  Tom: I mean I’m open-minded and everything, but I’ve only got room for one man in my life.

  Becky: Shakespeare?

  Tom: Okay, maybe two.

  Tom: Willie Shakespeare and my housemate Max. He’s pretty great.

  Max

  ‘Dude!’ Tom grabs the phone back from me and I can’t help but laugh. This is too much fun. For a second I think of Peggy, the guilt over my grandma, the fact that I should be at the hospital by now. But I’m feeling calmer, lighter. Everything feels better in the morning, each new day bringing a new perspective. ‘Keep to the script!’

  ‘Mate, I’m writing the script,’ I tell him.

  ‘Yes, but we want Becky to like me, not my pretty great housemate.’ Tom narrows his eyes. He’s not actually that insecure, is he? Becky would never go for a guy like me. ‘Just help me ask her out.’ He passes the phone back to me.

  ‘Okay, okay.’ I smile, our living room filling with light. ‘I can write to a brief . . .’

  Becky: Bet my housemate’s better.

  Tom: You’re on.

  Tom: How are we going to settle it?

  Becky: We could make them race?

  Tom: Max says can he borrow your Porsche?

  ‘What’s she saying?’ Tom looks over my shoulder at the screen.

  ‘That her friend’s better than yours.’

  ‘Only one way to know for sure.’ He grin
s. ‘Double date?’

  ‘I don’t want to double date.’ I don’t want to date full stop. Well, not really.

  ‘Please, dude.’ Tom’s eyes beg me. ‘I could really do with the backup. Just until we get up and running.’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s a good—’

  ‘Please?’ he asks again, and even though I know he should go it alone, I really want to help him. Plus helping Tom is helping me feel less alone in the process.

  ‘Fine.’ I roll my eyes and begin to type, trying to ignore the butterflies in my stomach.

  Tom: There’s only one way to settle this.

  Tom: Dinner. BYOBF.

  Becky: BYOBF?

  Tom: Bring your own best friend.

  Eve

  I read Tom’s messages, not sure why they’re giving me butterflies. Probably just the buzz of Becky’s romance beginning. Note to self: this is nothing to do with you.

  ‘Oh please, that will be so much fun,’ Becky begs beside me.

  ‘I’m busy this weekend, and all this week . . .’ I need to focus on work.

  ‘It can wait.’ Becky grins, as if she’s learning from the best. I’m out of my depth.

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Only if you help me keep things ticking along with Tom until then.’

  ‘You can do that by yourself,’ I say, secretly loving the feeling of being needed.

  ‘I know, but it’s so much easier with you.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Eve

  The blue banner of my maps app catches my attention from behind the article I’m reading: you have reached your destination. I push the glass door into the restaurant with one hand, the other still holding the screen safely in view. The music and chatter hits me as soon as I walk in, the dim fairy-light-spotted stairs up to the dining area demanding I surrender my scrolling. I’ll have to finish reading the rest of the article later.