‘At least someone got it,’ she says, eyes darting to Tom in something like confusion.
I look at Becky in the same way, sure that George Orwell must have been on her must-read list. The two of them get up to powder their noses or do whatever girls in loos do, leaving me and Tom to wait for the bill. I know better than to think feminist Becky will let us pay.
‘Dude, stop making me look bad,’ Tom says as soon as they’re a safe distance away.
‘Oh, I . . . I wasn’t trying to,’ I reply, stunned.
‘Well you are.’
‘I was just trying to help.’ Like you asked me to. Like you’ve asked me to for weeks.
‘I know . . . it’s just . . .’ Tom looks upset, and my stomach plummets to the floor.
I was just trying to help the conversation along. Well, and maybe get Becky talking about some of the topics she buzzes about in her texts. Dammit, Max, stop thinking about Becky. She’s not yours to think about. I look at Tom, my housemate, my best friend, and I feel bloody awful. I don’t like Becky. I do not like Becky.
Eve
‘I think Tom likes you.’ Becky looks at me in the mirror as she brushes her ponytail.
‘Do you think?’ I smile back at her reflection. ‘That’s good.’
‘No, I think he really likes you.’ Her smile is gone. ‘Like he would rather be here with you. I mean, it’s you who fed me all my cultured lines. I feel like I’m drowning out there.’
‘You are not drowning.’ I look at my best friend, all worried and insecure, and feel sicker than I have all meal. She really likes Tom. And Tom really likes her. It’s obvious. ‘And remember what Coco Chanel said: real beauty begins when you just decide to be yourself.’
‘See! I don’t know quotes and stuff like that, I don’t know any—’
‘Becky, it’s written on the mirror behind you.’ I force a laugh, but I know she isn’t finding it funny. ‘Plus he clearly really likes you.’ I turn to face her. ‘And why wouldn’t he? You look stunning and you’re smart and he’s not been able to take his eyes off you all meal.’ It’s totally my problem that I’ve not been able to take my eyes off him. I’m just trying to work him out. Filter real feelings from the fake.
‘Do you think so?’ Becky’s eyes plead with me.
‘I know so.’ I put my hands on her shoulders and give her a little squeeze. ‘Now go get your man!’ I try to inject some excitement into my voice, but for some reason my eyes are welling with tears. Stop it, Eve. Stop it. It’s just seeing the results of our communication here in the flesh, knowing they’re not going to need me now.
‘Eve, what’s the matter?’ Becky looks at me with concern.
‘It’s just everything with work, going for this promotion . . .’
‘I know, it’s a lot.’ She puts a hand on my arm.
‘Nothing a big sleep won’t cure,’ I say, hoping to God that’s true.
‘About that . . . Would it be okay with you if I stay at Tom’s tonight?’
‘You don’t have to ask my permission,’ I say, though I can taste the irony as I speak. She’s been asking my permission for weeks: to send the right messages, the right signals, at the right moments. Like I’m any good at it myself.
‘I know, it’s just I’ve really been trying to take it slow this time.’ She says it as if there are no secrets between us.
Which makes me feel even worse. Because let’s face it, I have a couple of my own. There’s my dad’s letter. The fact that I’m stressing about my family. That I’m stressing about hers. Then there are these weird mixed feelings I have for Tom. The ones I can’t make sense of. Note to self: you are a good friend.
Another note to self: you’re a fucking liar.
No I’m not. I’m just tired. Overtired. Overworked. Overemotional.
‘Exciting,’ I say, feeling like it’s anything but. ‘You ready to go now?’
‘Yeah, but if you want to stay for a bit longer, I’m sure Max would love that.’ Becky beams. ‘You guys seem to be getting on well?’ Her eyebrows rise to the ceiling. As if she’s seen something I haven’t. Thankfully, she hasn’t seen it all.
‘What are you insinuating?’ I ask, happy to deflect the attention from Tom.
‘I think he likes you,’ she says, even though just moments ago she was telling me Tom did.
Max
It doesn’t take long after the girls return from the bathroom and we’ve argued back and forth about the bill for the atmosphere to change. On one side of the table, Becky and Tom fold further into one another, her hand now laced in his, his other hand stroking the top of her leg under the table. I don’t want to watch but I can’t look away, the shifting ambience shifting my mood. So Becky’s coming back with Tom, what does it matter? If I had a penny for every date Tom had brought back to ours, I’d probably be able to afford my own place. But right now, with my loneliness forcing its way into the forefront of my mind, I’m not entirely sure my own place is what I’d spend my millions on.
‘Time to call it a night?’ Tom smiles in mine and Eve’s direction. He’s clearly not addressing Becky; their night is just beginning. And sadly, so is mine. A long evening with the duvet over my head, pillow wrapped around my ears, trying not to think about whatever is happening in the next room. Oh God, the thought makes me feel sick. And yet the fact that it does is even more excruciating. I don’t like Becky, I can’t like Becky. She isn’t mine to like.
‘Shall we all share an Uber, drop you off on the way?’ Becky turns to Eve, looking a little sorry though for what I’m not quite sure. Maybe the fact that Eve and I are about to endure the most awkward journey of our lives, just two plus-ones feeling less and less invited.
‘I think I want to walk,’ Eve says, and I swear I see something like sadness flit across her face before she replaces it with a smile. Is she okay?
‘You can’t walk by yourself.’ Becky shakes her ponytail; it’s so lush and bouncy. Oh Max, stop it. You don’t like Becky, you just like her words. Words I need to keep well away from. My mind shoots to our sticky bathroom door, the memory of Ruby in the shower turning to Becky in my mind’s eye.
‘I could walk with you,’ I say, any excuse to avoid that cab ride before taking the really long way home. Any excuse to avoid sounds and sights I don’t need to witness.
‘No, no, you really don’t have to . . .’ Eve begins.
‘That would be great, Max,’ Becky beams as Eve prickles beside her. No one wants to be left with the booby prize.
As if too tired to argue, Eve nods and we all make our way downstairs, the ‘love gives us a fairy tale’ sign mocking me as Becky and Tom walk hand in hand in front. Outside the restaurant, Tom claps me on the back.
‘See you at home, dude,’ he says before lowering his voice. ‘Thanks for walking Eve.’
‘You’re the best.’ Becky throws her little arms around me and the scent of her honey shampoo fills my mind, bringing it alive with hope and colour until she lets me go.
‘Camden, right?’ I turn to Eve, and unlike with Becky, I don’t need to look down. But Becky’s with Tom now; I have to stop thinking about her. Time for fresh air and fresh thoughts and fresh conversation with Eve. ‘Great evening, wasn’t it?’
‘Yeah,’ she says, forcing a smile. She’d no doubt rather be alone, but I don’t want to be with Becky and Tom right now. ‘Got much planned for the rest of the weekend?’
‘I’m working on a series of articles for a work project,’ she explains.
‘It’s journalism, right?’
‘Right.’ This time her smile seems a little less strained.
‘What sort of thing do you write about?’ I ask, genuinely interested.
‘Honestly?’
I nod. Honesty is always the best policy, so why do I feel like I’m lying to Tom? Perhaps even lying to myself.
‘My m
ain job is writing for the newspaper’s Thursday supplement,’ she says. ‘But I’m far more interested in covering human-interest stories, strong narratives that prompt change.’ She says the last bit with poise, like she’s rehearsed it countless times before.
‘Balancing the passion projects with getting the job done; I understand that.’ I breathe into the evening air. Did I just refer to Peggy and the other service users as a project?
‘What is it you do again?’ Eve turns to me, long legs striding at pace. At this rate we’ll be in Camden in no time.
‘Director of fund-raising for a dementia charity,’ I say, even though I rarely tell anyone my new title.
As we walk, I tell her the basics, only then realising that we didn’t really cover them over dinner, too busy keeping up with Tom and Becky.
‘So what you’re saying is you’re a pretty big deal?’ Eve grins.
I didn’t say that, did I?
‘A pretty big deal in a pretty small place,’ I agree with a laugh.
‘Better than being a little fish in a big pond,’ she sighs; it’s obvious she knows what that feels like.
‘So tell me about a piece you’re working on now. One you actually care about,’ I say before she can reel off more clickbait headlines she’s written for the supplement.
‘Well, I’ve been looking for health-related stories, ones that raise awareness. Families living with cystic fibrosis, fighting cancer, alcoholism; the stories the newspaper thinks we’ve heard again and again without realising that everybody’s story is unique.’
‘Sounds like you’re developing a column,’ I muse out loud, happy to be distracted.
Eve looks at me, smile wide and genuine, and for just a moment I feel like she’s happy to have me here, crashing her thousand-mile-an-hour walk. ‘I’m developing a column,’ she repeats, then laughs as if a penny has just dropped. Surely she didn’t need me to point that out?
‘What’s the next story about?’ I ask.
‘Do you really want to know?’
‘Of course I want to know,’ I say like she’s bonkers; but then all the best people are . . .
Eve
To start with, I didn’t want Max to join me on my walk. I wanted to be alone to clear my head, to clear it of Tom and whatever he and Becky are doing now. To question why the thought bothered me in the first place. But now here he is, genuinely listening to my article ideas in a way few people ever have.
‘Becky usually has a one-article attention span,’ I tell him. Unlike Tom, enticing and intimidating, Max feels like a safe space. ‘And my friend Makena can maybe take one and a half before she brings the conversation back to whatever tacky task we have to do that day.’ His eyes are fixed on me the whole time. I swear he’ll walk into a lamp post or something if he’s not careful. ‘Makena’s my work wife,’ I add.
‘Work wife?’
‘Like my best friend at work, the person I spend the most time with other than Becky,’ I say, not meaning to sound so sad. It’s just that if Becky’s going to start stopping around at Tom’s, Makena might beat her to the top spot. ‘Don’t you have one?’
‘A work wife?’ Max laughs. ‘Well, there’s Heather, but she’s got her own husband and they’re both in their sixties, and then there’s Paddy . . .’ he laughs again, harder this time, ‘but to be honest, I’d rather keep looking. Still, at least he’s passionate about what we do. His grandma has dementia,’ he explains.
I wonder if Max has some connection to the disease too. I’m pretty sure Tom told me – well, told Becky – that the two of them met working for a bank. So what prompted the change?
‘Do you have a personal tie to the charity? A reason to be there?’ I ask into the air as our final destination draws closer and closer.
‘I . . .’ He stutters for a second that seems to stretch between us. ‘Hey! Are you just trying to dig for another story?’ He laughs away my question.
No, I wasn’t really thinking about that. Millennial man inspired to leave banker salary and dedicate life to those living with dementia. I guess it would fit with the pieces I’ve been trying to pitch; the new column I’m trying to pitch. Before I can ask again, though, we arrive at the flat.
‘This you?’ Max gazes up at our town house. It looks nicer from the outside.
‘Well, round the back,’ I say, eyes darting down the dark side of the house.
‘I’m afraid I promised I’d walk you to the door,’ he says, as if dreading Becky’s wrath.
When we reach the back of the house, Buster springs up the basement stairs like a guard dog.
‘Cute cat,’ Max says.
Buster purrs, which is categorically not like him, and I pick him up, holding his furry body like a barrier between us. Though I don’t feel like Max is going to kiss me or anything. Not one bit. ‘And thanks for the chat.’
‘Any time.’ Max shrugs. ‘No doubt speak to you soon.’
I turn my key in the lock and give Max one last smile. Then as soon as he’s out of sight, I kick the door, hard, and it flies open. If he was to see this, he’d think I was breaking in. Like I was lying about living here. But I wasn’t lying about that – just about so many other things.
Kicking off my shoes, I look into the darkness. I’m completely alone. Well, apart from Buster. Maybe I should get used to that now. I switch on the kitchen light and lean against the worktop, my heartbeat starting to accelerate. I want to run, to run this feeling out. But then there’s every chance I’d run right past Max. It was nice of him to walk me home. But now he’ll be heading back to his and Tom’s.
Before I realise it, tears are prickling in my eyes, spilling down my cheeks. My chest heaves, my heart feels heavy. Heavy with doubt, with confusion, with fear. I cry harder, thinking of Max: his kindness, his encouragement. He looked at me like I had it all together, but really I’m just a fraud. My thoughts shoot to Tom, wondering how our little messages amounted to so much. And then I think of Becky. Why does all this feel like betrayal?
Come on, Eve, hold it together. I reach for my phone. Headspace? I don’t feel like more silence right now. Datespace? Redundant, my role in Becky’s romance now complete. I could get my own profile, but I don’t have time. I need to focus, focus on getting this new role, stepping up, stepping into the only thing that matters. Telling the stories that matter.
As I push myself away from the worktop, my foot catches on something. I look down to see a pile of letters held together by an elastic band, a Post-it note stuck to the top one. No one ever sends us post here. I pick it up and read the note: These came to the office after you left. Was passing by. M x
So, Makena can find our door now? I flick through the letters. Bills. Junk. Bank statement. Wedding invite.
Then that handwriting again. That stupid fucking handwriting. I don’t need this now. Don’t need him. I don’t need my dad.
Chapter Fourteen
Max
‘I’m here to see Margaret Gable.’ I smile down at the man on reception, even though everything in me wants to scream. I hate hospitals – how they look, how they smell. But I love what they do. Taking care of people when they need it most.
‘Are you a family member?’ the receptionist asks. It’s a perfectly simple question, one I’ve been asked every time I’ve been to visit Peggy since she was admitted, so I’m not sure why the answer feels so complicated. No, I’m not technically a member of Peggy’s family. But right now, I’m all the family she has.
‘I’m one of the volunteers at her care home,’ I explain.
The man picks up the phone. After a minute or so, he puts his hand over the receiver. ‘You’re with Amy, right?’
‘No, I’m not with . . .’ I start, before his eyes widen as if to tell me it would be easier if I was. ‘Yes, I’m with Amy,’ I sigh. And now that Tom is officially with Becky, maybe it would be easier for everyone if I
actually was.
‘Peggy.’ I reach a hand to rest gently on hers as she opens her eyes. I hate seeing her in here, seeing someone so full of life edging closer to the end of it. She’s better than the first time I visited her, just after Amy’s call almost three weeks ago. But she’s still a shadow of herself. Maybe it’s a good thing I didn’t see my grandma like this. Easier to remember the opinionated, optimistic woman I knew. But only easier for me. It would have been harder for her. Still, I’m here now, writing memories all over again.
‘Who . . . who are . . .’ she stutters. Her frame is thinner, her movements fragile. ‘Who are you?’
‘It’s Max.’ I look into her tired eyes, hoping to calm her confusion.
‘Who?’ She looks around her for a reference point, scared and bewildered.
‘Max from the care home,’ I say, heart hammering hard against my chest.
‘Max,’ she whispers, her breath weak, before a little smile circles her lips. No, she can’t be . . . ‘I’m just pulling your leg, I recognise you really.’ Her laughter erupts into the ward around us, the coughing fit that follows reminding us both how unwell she is.
‘Peggy!’ I put a hand to my heart, for the first time in a long time glad to be in a hospital; I’m pretty sure she almost gave me a heart attack. ‘Don’t do that to me.’
‘Gets you every time,’ she laughs, her sense of humour still strong despite her physical frailty. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Visiting my favourite patient, of course.’
‘Exactly,’ Peggy confirms, as if I’m the one who needs reorienting here. ‘What are you doing visiting a seventy-something-year-old woman on your weekend again?’
‘Peggy, you’re eighty-four . . .’
‘Won’t let me forget about anything, will you?’ Her raspy laugh fills the ward around us again.
‘Because I want to.’ I reach to hold her hand once more, squeezing it a little tighter. Because I didn’t visit Grandma. Because Tom is busy visiting Becky.
‘But it’s not your job to.’ Peggy shakes her head. ‘What’s this new role again?’
What Are Friends For?: The will-they-won't-they romance of the year! Page 13
