Brand New Friend

by Mike Gayle

  ‘You did what you thought was right at the time,’ said Rob. ‘I don’t think anyone would blame you for that.’

  Jo smiled. ‘He would’ve liked you, you know.’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Ryan.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I can’t explain it – except that you see the world a lot like he did. Maybe if he was still alive he would’ve become your new friend, not me.’ She shrugged. ‘Then again maybe not. You can never tell anything with men, can you?’

  Rob smiled. ‘No,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose you can.’

  Hello, Nigel

  It was a week later, and Rob was back in BlueBar for his bloke-date with Nigel Wilshire, the third man who had responded to his personal ad in City List. This time he hadn’t worried about his clothes, just went out in what he would have worn if he’d been going for drink with Jo. Deep down, his mind was made up – Jo was the one for him. Still, he got himself a drink, found a table by the window and waited.

  ‘Rob Brooks?’ said a male voice, rousing him from his thoughts.

  Rob looked up – and was ashamed to feel disappointed. There was no way that this man was new-friend material. He had a beard, and underneath his denim jacket he was wearing a T-shirt that stated, ‘IT consultants do IT better’.

  Rob considered denying once again that he was Rob Brooks but his conscience wouldn’t let him.

  ‘Er . . . yeah,’ he replied reluctantly. ‘I’m Rob. And you must be Nigel.’

  Nigel put his drink on the table and they shook hands.

  ‘I’ve never done anything like this before,’ said Nigel, as he settled himself into his chair.

  ‘Me either,’ lied Rob.

  ‘Normally I like to chat to people on-line. In fact, even though I say it myself, I have loads of friends on the web. Have you ever been to www.uk.sci-fi-fans-united.org?’

  ‘No,’ said Rob.

  ‘Oh,’ said Nigel. ‘I’m very popular there anyway.’

  ‘Cool,’ replied Rob, but this was getting too weird for him. He decided to inject some normality into the proceedings. ‘Have you come far tonight?’

  ‘Whalley Range,’ he replied, ‘North Road.’

  ‘Oh, not too bad,’ said Rob, and Nigel nodded thoughtfully. A hulking pause grew and Rob took a sip of his pint. ‘This weather’s a bit rubbish, isn’t it?’ he said.

  ‘Apparently tomorrow’s going to be like this too,’ said Nigel.

  ‘Oh,’ replied Rob.

  There was another long pause.

  ‘Well,’ said Nigel, abruptly, when he, too, could take no more of the silence, ‘why don’t I tell you a bit about myself?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rob, ‘why don’t you?’ He took another sip of his pint and thought, This is going to be a long night.

  Seven of Nine and one of the other

  ‘Do you like Star Trek?’ asked Nigel, taking Rob by surprise. For the past half an hour he had listened to Nigel’s extensive biography and was begining to feel there was nothing he didn’t know about the man sitting opposite him – but this question revealed that there was one topic on which Nigel had held back.

  ‘I suppose the original series was okay,’ said Rob, thoughtfully, then added, ‘I always liked the way that the women on the Enterprise had to wear those short dresses. Who would’ve thought the future would focus so much on getting a better look at women’s legs?’

  ‘I didn’t like the original series,’ said Nigel. ‘It was kids’ stuff. But I’m a huge fan of The Next Generation, Enterprise, Deep Space Nine and Voyager. Far more cerebral.’ He paused, then added, ‘Seven of Nine is my favourite character.’

  ‘Who or what is Seven of Nine?’

  ‘She was originally part of the Borg.’

  ‘Who or what are the Borg?’

  Nigel’s face lit up. ‘Actually,’ he said, ‘your question should have been, “What are the Borg?” because they’re a cybernetic life form that’s thousands of years old, part organic and part artificial life. Even better, they’re a collective life form.’

  ‘A what?’ asked Rob.

  ‘A collective life form,’ repeated Nigel. ‘They are simultaneously one form but made up of multiple forms that are collectively aware but not conscious of themselves as individuals . Which is why they don’t use singular pronouns but refer to themselves as, for example, “Seven of Nine”.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Rob nodded. ‘Interesting.’

  If it had been up to Rob this would have been the point at which he thanked Nigel for his time, stood up and left, but there was no way of extricating himself without embarrassing both of them. For the rest of the evening he let Sci-fi Nigel talk solidly about his Space 1999 DVD boxed set, the letters column in SFX magazine, Terry Pratchett’s Discworld series, George Lucas’s beard (and a whole host of Star Wars rumours), the first season of Stargate SGI versus the second season and, finally, how his perfect woman would be a combination of Faith from Buffy the Vampire Slayer, Seven of Nine from Star Trek Voyager and the original Kochanski from Red Dwarf.

  At the end of the evening Rob looked at the pint of Guinness in front of him as if it were the only drug in the world that might numb the pain, but could barely find the will to lift it to his lips. He couldn’t believe that twenty-four hours earlier he had been sitting in the Lazy Fox with Jo having a different type of evening. A good evening. A fun evening. The kind of evening that didn’t feel like a slow death. Now and then, as Nigel droned on, he would imagine he’d seen Jo out of the corner of his eye, laughing at some thing or returning from the bar with two pints in her hand and a packet of crisps between her teeth, and he’d feel happy. When he realised she wasn’t there everything around him turned grey.

  ‘So, what do you think?’ said Sci-fi Nigel.

  ‘Sorry?’ replied Rob, who hadn’t been listening. ‘My concentration lapsed. What did you say?’

  ‘I was just checking that you’re free for those dates I was talking about.’

  ‘Which ones?’

  ‘For the Science Fiction, Nostalgia and Fantasy Convention at the NEC in Birmingham next month.’

  ‘No,’ replied Rob, firmly.

  ‘I don’t understand,’ said Sci-fi Nigel, looking confused.

  ‘I’m really sorry, Nigel,’ he said, ‘but this has all been a hideous mistake.’

  ‘What has?’

  ‘You. Me. Sitting in this pub trying to be friends. It’s not working, is it?’

  ‘But I thought—’

  ‘Look,’ said Rob, ‘it’s not you, it’s me. I’m not right for you. You need someone who is . . .’ he struggled ‘ . . . more like you.’

  ‘But you are like me,’ replied Nigel, sadly. ‘I thought you said you liked The X-Files.’

  ‘I’m afraid I only watched the first series, then got bored.’

  ‘But didn’t you say you liked The Matrix too?’

  ‘Don’t get me wrong,’ said Rob, ‘it was a great film, but the best thing about it was Carrie-Anne Moss in that black latex catsuit.’

  ‘And you’re not interested in learning Klingon?’

  ‘It’s not my thing, Nigel,’ said Rob. ‘I’m much more of a pint-and-a-nice-talk-about-life kind of bloke.’

  Nigel nodded thoughtfully. ‘It was good to meet you anyway,’ he said philosophically, and gave Rob a four-fingered Vulcan salute. ‘Live long and prosper.’

  Overcome by the need to relieve his bladder, Rob headed for the loo. While he was standing at a urinal, keeping his eyes resolutely in front of him, he listened carefully as groups of men came in, laughing, joking and chatting. As they stood at either side of him, and continued their conversations it occurred to him how ridiculous it was that they could be standing next to him with their flies open, yet if he attempted to talk to them he would have been on the receiving end of some very strange looks. Making friends with men is so hard it might as well be impossible, he thought.

  With a heavy heart he made his way back to the bar. He looked towards the table where
he had sat and saw that Sci-fi Nigel had gone. He walked across the crowded room and stepped outside, breathing in the fresh late-night air. As if from nowhere he felt the urge to jog, and then he was running. In less than a minute he was outside the Buzzy Bee minicab office, and moments later he was in a run-down red Mercedes C-class on his way to Levenshulme and Jo.

  Pillow talk

  A few nights later, Rob climbed into bed next to Ashley, having came to a conclusion. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know I’ve still got that Patrick guy to meet up with but I think it’s the end of the line for me and these bloke-dates.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because I’ve found what I was looking for and there’s no point in pretending I haven’t. I honestly did give it my best shot – you know I did – but it hasn’t worked and it never will. So, from now on I’m going to be hanging out with Jo, okay? And I promise you there’s nothing to worry about because it’s you I love and no one else.’

  ‘I know you’ve done your best,’ said Ashley, ‘and I trust you completely. I’ve been selfish, that’s all, and I’m sorry I didn’t tell you this sooner. I want you to invite Jo round again next Thursday, and I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour. Then, hopefully, we can put all this rubbish behind us. Is that a deal?’

  ‘Yeah,’ said Rob, leaning forward to kiss her. ‘It’s a deal.’

  Girlfriend versus girl friend – the return match

  Although Ashley had reassured him several times beforehand that everything would go well, it was still an excruciating evening, from the moment Jo arrived (having called him from home to check what Ashley was wearing) until she left at just after midnight.

  Rob was almost trembling when the two women met for the second time. As Ashley approached Jo to greet her he half expected it to turn into a hair-pulling, nail-slashing extravaganza. But Ashley was the perfect hostess: from pouring drinks and passing round pre-dinner nibbles, she did her best to put Jo at ease. She sat next to Jo on the sofa and began chatting to her in what Rob could only describe as a ‘friendly fashion’. Her opening conversational salvo was a joke about the Clash of the Tops, which, under normal circumstances, would have been a great ice-breaker but terrified Rob. He couldn’t help imagining Ashley as a landmine so sensitive to pressure that even bad vibes might detonate it. So while Jo relaxed, Rob became more tense – to the extent that at one point he stopped breathing for so long that when he finally remembered he was panting like a man crossing the finishing line of the London Marathon. Ashley and Jo stared at him, equally bewildered, and Rob faked a coughing fit to cover his breathlessness.

  During dinner the conversation was amiable. Questions (mainly from Ashley) about Jo’s history were the order of the day and tended to begin ‘How long?’ and regularly featured ‘ . . . and what were you doing before that?’ but they weren’t issued in a digging-for-information-that-can-and-will-be-used-as-evidence-against-you way.

  Later, Ashley talked about the meal – which cookery book she had got the idea from and where she had bought the key ingredients – and Jo used every opportunity to let Ashley know that she was a wonderful cook.

  Soon they were on to their favourite recipes and Jo mentioned a coconut, chick pea and ginger soup she had made after reading about it in the Observer. Ashley nodded enthusiastically and told her she had made the same soup a few weeks ago when a group of friends had come round for supper. From there they discussed the cookbooks of Jamie Oliver, Rick Stein and Sophie Grigson, then concluded with an in-depth Nigella Lawson lovefest that covered the cookbooks, the TV programme and the woman herself.

  After dinner they all retired to the living room for coffee, which Rob volunteered to make. Such was the state of his nerves that he now felt he understood nothing about women and didn’t want to be left alone with either Jo or Ashley for fear of saying the wrong thing.

  Eventually Jo announced it was time she was going. Ashley called a minicab for her and until it arrived they chatted about a recent exhibition of impressionist paintings at Manchester art gallery and how they wished that they had more time to do cultural things.

  Rob watched in amazement as Ashley kissed Jo goodbye, but when Jo tried to kiss him he extricated himself expertly and gave her an obviously platonic hug. Perplexed, she climbed into the cab, which sped off into the night.

  As Ashley closed the door Rob became aware suddenly that they were alone. This is it, he thought, I’m about to feel the full force of a woman scorned. ‘So?’ he said.

  Ashley yawned and stretched her arms above her head. ‘Well,’ she was clearly trying to fight off sleep, ‘that was nice, wasn’t it?’

  Rob knew full well that women could mean many things when they said, ‘That’s nice,’ and he had worked out most of them. He ran Ashley’s sentence past his internal sarcasm-scanner but failed to pick up a single reading. He could only conclude that when Ashley had said, ‘Well, that was nice,’ she had meant, ‘Well, that was nice.’

  ‘Hmmm,’ he said. ‘I suppose it was.’

  He turned on the burglar alarm and they went upstairs to bed. Soon they were lying in each other’s arms, under the duvet.

  ‘Rob,’ said Ashley, and pulled his arms tighter round her.

  ‘Yeah?’

  ‘Promise me one thing about Jo?’

  ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Anything.’

  ‘Promise me that, whatever happens, you won’t fall in love with her. That’s all. Don’t fall in love.’

  PART SIX

  (Principally concerning

  two people not falling in love)

  Popcorn and explosions (part one):

  Mr Cuong’s ceiling

  ‘But when will this be done?’ asked Mr Cuong. ‘You said last time it would only take a week and now it’s five weeks later.’

  It was ten o’clock on the first Tuesday in October and Jo was already wishing she had stayed in bed feeling sorry for herself rather than venturing out to work. Mr Cuong, whose case she was now dealing with, had been forced to take time off work to come into the housing office to complain about a damp patch on his bedroom ceiling that was getting bigger by the day. In the time that had elapsed since he’d first reported it, it had grown from a circumference of about an inch to more than three feet and had turned pale brown. Her heart went out to him. He only wanted someone to come and look at it and she couldn’t even manage that.

  ‘I don’t know, Mr Cuong,’ she replied. ‘I’ve called our maintenance contractors countless times and no one ever gets back to me. I understand this must be very frustrating for you.’

  ‘So what shall I do?’ he asked.

  ‘I really don’t know. As soon as I’ve finished talking to you I’ll call them again and hopefully scare some life into them.’

  ‘Do you really think that will help?’

  Jo thought carefully about her reply. There was no point in sugar-coating things. ‘No,’ she replied. ‘Not really. This housing association is possibly the most disorganised organisation in the whole of the United Kingdom. Do you know how many forms I have to fill in to request a new batch of plastic pens from supplies? Three. And the only reason I’m requesting plastic pens is so that I can fill out the forms to request the plastic pens. It’s ridiculous, Mr Cuong, and petty. Really petty.’

  Mr Cuong looked at her blankly. She suspected that her little diatribe had gone straight over his head.

  ‘I’ll call them, Mr Cuong,’ she added. ‘In fact, I’ll make it my mission to call them every hour on the hour until someone rings back and promises to come to your house and fix that damp patch.’

  Mr Cuong nodded. He seemed happier now, which Jo thought bizarre: she’d said the same thing to him the last time he had come into the office. She looked at her watch. Time for her mid-morning break. As she pulled down the ‘position closed’ blind she began silently to scream her ‘I hate my job’ mantra. Eventually she ran out of steam, reached into her bag, pulled out her phone and dialled her favourite number.

  ‘Rob, it’s me,�
� she said, when he answered the phone. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘Working. What did you think I’d be up to?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ said Jo. ‘Taking one of your many tea breaks or bidding for stuff on eBay?’

  ‘Nope,’ said Rob. ‘I haven’t got time for any of that these days. Phil’s been talking up our company to an important art director at Ogilvy-Hunter who’s looking to outsource some of his work to us. I’m supposed to be coming up with some revolutionary design ideas that will change the way they think about marketing and make them spend their budgets with us.’

  ‘What have you done so far?’ asked Jo.

  ‘Nothing,’ said Rob.

  ‘Well, that’s not very good, is it?’

  ‘No,’ said Rob. ‘I’ve been over-analysing and deconstructing things too far. I need to feed my brain with new ideas.’

  ‘Excellent,’ said Jo. ‘I’m having one of the worst days of my entire working life and I don’t know how much longer I can stand being here. I’ve been thinking of ways to cheer myself up all morning and a trip to the cinema might do the trick, especially as in all the time we’ve been friends we’ve never seen a film together.’

  ‘Really?’ replied Rob. ‘Can’t say I’ve noticed. I suppose it’s because we always talk so much that it makes more sense to go to the pub than somewhere where we have to be quiet.’

  ‘Can you make it?’

  ‘Yeah, I suppose,’ said Rob. ‘Ash is on shift tonight and I was going to stay in and do some work but . . . yeah, why not? What do you want to see? Not some chick flick, I hope.’

  ‘There you are with that cheeky sod thing again.’ Jo laughed. ‘I don’t know what’s on at the cinema because I haven’t looked. And I don’t care – I just fancy seeing a film – any film.’

  ‘How can you not care what you see?’ asked Rob.

  ‘It’s very easy,’ replied Jo. ‘You just take a deep breath and not care.’