Conversations with Friends

by Sally Rooney

  Maybe niceness is the wrong metric, I said.

  Of course it’s really about power, Bobbi agreed. But it’s harder to work out who has the power, so instead we rely on ‘niceness’ as a kind of stand-in. I mean this is an issue in public discourse. We end up asking like, is Israel ‘nicer’ than Palestine. You know what I’m saying.

  I do.

  Jerry is certainly ‘nicer’ than Eleanor.

  Yes, I said.

  I had made Bobbi a cup of tea, and she was holding it on her lap, between her thighs. She warmed her hands on either side of it while we were talking.

  I don’t resent you writing about me for profit, by the way, said Bobbi. I find it funny as long as I’m actually in on the joke.

  I know. I could have told you and I didn’t. But at some level I still see you as the person who broke my heart and left me unfit for normal relationships.

  You underestimate your own power so you don’t have to blame yourself for treating other people badly. You tell yourself stories about it. Oh well, Bobbi’s rich, Nick’s a man, I can’t hurt these people. If anything they’re out to hurt me and I’m defending myself.

  I shrugged. I could think of nothing to say. She lifted the tea and sipped it, then settled the cup back between her thighs.

  You could go to counselling, she said.

  Do you think I should?

  You’re not above it. It might be good for you. It’s not necessarily normal to go around collapsing in churches.

  I didn’t try to explain that the fainting wasn’t psychological. Anyway, what did I know? If you think so, I said.

  I think it would kill you, said Bobbi. To admit that you needed help from some touchy-feely psychology graduate. Probably a Labour voter. But maybe it would kill you in a good way.

  Truly I say to you, unless one is born again.

  Yeah. I came not to send peace, but a sword.

  After that night, Bobbi started to walk with me from college to the sandwich shop in the evenings. She learned Linda’s name and made small talk with her while I put my apron on. Linda’s son was in the Irish army, Bobbi learned that. When I came home in the evening we ate dinner together. She moved some of her clothing into my room, some T-shirts and clean underwear. In bed we folded around each other like origami. It’s possible to feel so grateful that you can’t get to sleep at night.

  Marianne saw us holding hands in college one day and said: you’re back together! We shrugged. It was a relationship, and also not a relationship. Each of our gestures felt spontaneous, and if from the outside we resembled a couple, that was an interesting coincidence for us. We developed a joke about it, which was meaningless to everyone including ourselves: what is a friend? we would say humorously. What is a conversation?

  In the mornings Bobbi liked to get out of bed before me, so she could use up all the hot water in the shower like she used to when she was staying in the other room. Then she would drink an entire pot of coffee with her hair dripping wet at the kitchen table. Sometimes I carried a towel from the hot press and draped it onto her head, but she’d just continue to ignore me and read about social housing online. She peeled oranges and left the soft, sweet-smelling peel wherever she dropped it, to turn dry and crinkly on the tabletop or an arm of the sofa. In the evenings we walked through Phoenix Park under an umbrella, linking arms and smoking at the foot of the Wellington monument.

  In bed we talked for hours, conversations that spiralled out from observations into grand, abstract theories and back again. Bobbi talked about Ronald Reagan and the IMF. She had an unusual respect for conspiracy theorists. She was interested in the nature of things, but she was also generous. I didn’t feel with her, like I did with many other people, that while I was talking she was just preparing the next thing she wanted to say. She was a great listener, an active listener. Sometimes while I spoke she would make a sudden noise, like the force of her interest in what I was saying just expressed itself from her mouth. Oh! she would say. Or: so true!

  One night in December we went out to celebrate Marianne’s birthday. Everyone was in a good mood, the Christmas lights were all lit up outside, and people were telling funny stories about things Marianne had done and said while drunk or sleepy. Bobbi did an impression of her, tipping her head down and glancing up sweetly through her eyelashes, lifting her shoulders in a feigned shrug. I laughed, it really was funny, and said: again! Marianne was wiping tears away. Stop it, she said. Oh my lord. Bobbi and I had bought Marianne a pair of gloves, a nice blue leather pair, one glove from each of us. Andrew called us cheap and Marianne said he lacked imagination. She put them on in front of us: the Frances glove, she said. And the Bobbi glove. Then she mimed them talking to each other like puppets. On and on and on, she said.

  That night we talked about the war in Syria, and the invasion of Iraq. Andrew said Bobbi didn’t understand history and she just blamed everything on the West. Everyone at the table made an ‘ooh’ noise like we were all on a game show together. In the ensuing disagreement, Bobbi displayed a remorseless intelligence, seeming to have read everything on whatever topic Andrew mentioned, correcting him only when necessary for her broader argument, not even alluding to the fact that she’d almost completed a history degree. I knew it was the first thing I would have mentioned if someone belittled me. Bobbi was different. While she spoke, her eyes often pointed upward, at light fixtures or far-off windows, and she gesticulated with her hands. All I could do with my attention was use it on other people, watching them for signs of agreement or irritation, trying to invite them into the discussion when they fell silent.

  Bobbi and Melissa were still in touch at the time, but it was clear that they’d drawn away from one another. Bobbi had formulated new theories about Melissa’s personality and private life which were noticeably less flattering than those she had earlier advanced. I was striving to love everyone, which meant I tried to stay quiet.

  We shouldn’t have trusted them, Bobbi said.

  We were eating Chinese food from paper boxes at the time, sitting on my sofa and half-watching a Greta Gerwig film.

  We didn’t know how codependent they were, Bobbi said. I mean, they were only ever in it for each other. It’s probably good for their relationship to have these dramatic affairs sometimes, it keeps things interesting for them.

  Maybe.

  I’m not saying Nick was intentionally trying to mess with you. Nick I actually like. But ultimately they were always going to go back to this fucked-up relationship they have because that’s what they’re used to. You know? I just feel so mad at them. They treated us like a resource.

  You’re disappointed we didn’t get to break up their marriage, I said.

  She laughed with a mouth full of noodles. On the television screen, Greta Gerwig was shoving her friend into some shrubbery as a game.

  Who even gets married? said Bobbi. It’s sinister. Who wants state apparatuses sustaining their relationship?

  I don’t know. What is ours sustained by?

  That’s it! That’s exactly what I mean. Nothing. Do I call myself your girlfriend? No. Calling myself your girlfriend would be imposing some prefabricated cultural dynamic on us that’s outside our control. You know?

  I thought about this until the film was over. Then I said: wait, so does that mean you’re not my girlfriend? She laughed. Are you serious? she said. No. I’m not your girlfriend.

  *

  Philip said he thought Bobbi was my girlfriend. We went out for coffee together during the week, and he told me that Sunny had offered him a part-time job, with real wages. I told him that I wasn’t jealous, which disappointed him, though I was also worried it was a lie. I liked Sunny. I liked the idea of books and reading. I didn’t know why I couldn’t enjoy things like other people did.

  I’m not asking you if she’s my girlfriend, I said. I’m telling you she’s not.

  But she obviously is. I mean, you’re doing some radical lesbian thing or whatever, but in basic vocabulary she is your girlfriend.<
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  No. Again, this isn’t a question, it’s a statement.

  He was crinkling up a sugar sachet in his fingers. We’d been talking for a while about his new job, a conversation that had left me feeling flat like a soft drink.

  Well, I think she is, he said. I mean, in a good way. I think it’s really good for you. Especially after all that unpleasantness with Melissa.

  What unpleasantness?

  You know, whatever weird sex thing was going on there. With the husband.

  I stared at him and I was at a loss to say anything at all. I watched the blue ink of the sugar sachet rub off onto his fingers, etching his fingerprints in thin blue ridges. Finally I said ‘I’ several times, which he didn’t seem to notice. The husband? I thought. Philip, you know his name.

  What weird thing? I said.

  Weren’t you sleeping with both of them? That’s what people were saying.

  No, I wasn’t. Not that it would be wrong if I was, but I wasn’t.

  Oh, okay, he said. I heard all kinds of weird things were going on.

  I don’t really know why you’re saying this to me.

  At this, Philip looked up with a shocked expression, and he reddened visibly. The sugar sachet slipped and he had to pinch it quickly with his fingers.

  Sorry, he said. I didn’t mean to upset you.

  You’re just telling me about these rumours because you think, what, I’ll laugh about it? Like it’s funny to me that people say nasty things behind my back?

  I’m sorry, I just assumed that you knew.

  I breathed in deeply through my nose. I knew I could walk away from the table, but I didn’t know where to walk to. I couldn’t think of anywhere I would like to go. I stood up anyway and took my coat from the back of the chair. I could see Philip was uncomfortable, and that he even felt guilty for hurting me, but I didn’t want to stay there any longer. I buttoned my coat up while he said weakly: where are you going?

  It’s okay, I said. Forget about it. I’m just getting some air.

  *

  I never told Bobbi about the ultrasound or the meeting with the consultant. By refusing to admit that I was sick, I felt I could keep the sickness outside time and space, something only in my own head. If other people knew about it, the sickness would become real and I would have to spend my life being a sick person. This could only interfere with my other ambitions, such as achieving enlightenment and being a fun girl. I used internet forums to assess if this was a problem for anyone else. I searched ‘can’t tell people I’m’ and Google suggested: ‘gay’ and ‘pregnant’.

  Sometimes at night when Bobbi and I were in bed together, my father called me. I would take the phone into the bathroom quietly to answer it. He had become less and less coherent. At times he seemed to believe that he was being hunted. He said: I have these thoughts, bad thoughts, you know? My mother said his brothers and sisters had been getting the phone calls too, but what could anyone do about it? He was never in the house when they went over. Often I could hear cars passing in the background, so I knew he was outside. Occasionally he seemed concerned for my safety also. He told me not to let them find me. I said: I won’t, Dad. They’re not going to find me. I’m safe where I am.

  I knew my pain could begin again at any time, so I started taking the maximum dose of ibuprofen every day just in case. I concealed my grey notebook along with the boxes of painkillers in the top drawer of my desk, and I only removed them when Bobbi was showering or gone to class. This top drawer seemed to signify everything that was wrong with me, everything bad I felt about myself, so whenever it caught my eye I started to feel sick again. Bobbi never asked about it. She never mentioned the ultrasound or asked who was calling me on the phone at night. I understood it was my fault but I didn’t know what to do about it. I needed to feel normal again.

  *

  My mother came up to Dublin that weekend. We went shopping together, she bought me a new dress, and we went for lunch in a cafe on Wicklow Street. She seemed tired, and I was tired too. I ordered a smoked salmon bagel and picked at the slimy pieces of fish with my fork. The dress was in a paper bag under the table and I kept kicking it accidentally. I had suggested the cafe for lunch, and I could tell my mother was being polite about it, though in her presence I noticed that the sandwiches were outrageously expensive and served with side salads nobody ate. When she ordered tea, it came in a pot with a fiddly china teacup and saucer, which she smiled at gamely. Do you like this place? she said.

  It’s okay, I replied, realising I hated it.

  I saw your father the other day.

  I speared a piece of salmon with my fork and transferred it into my mouth. It tasted of lemon and salt. I swallowed, dabbed at my lips with a napkin and said: oh.

  He’s not well, she said. I can see that.

  He’s never been well.

  I tried to have a word with him.

  I looked up at her. She was staring down at her sandwich blankly, or maybe affecting a blank expression to conceal something else.

  You have to understand, she said. He’s not like you. You’re tough, you can cope with things. Your father finds life very difficult.

  I tried to assess these statements. Were they true? Did it matter if they were true? I put my fork down.

  You’re lucky, she said. I know you might not feel that way. You can go on hating him for the rest of your life if you want.

  I don’t hate him.

  A waiter went past precariously holding three bowls of soup. My mother looked at me.

  I love him, I said.

  That’s news to me.

  Well, I’m not like you.

  She laughed then, and I felt better. She reached for my hand across the table and I let her hold it.

  31

  The following week my phone rang. I remember exactly where I was standing when it started: just in front of the New Fiction shelves in Hodges Figgis, and it was thirteen minutes past five. I was looking for a Christmas present for Bobbi, and when I fished the phone out of my coat pocket, the screen read: Nick. My neck and shoulders felt rigid and suddenly very exposed. I slid my fingertip across the screen, lifted the phone to my cheek and said: hello?

  Hey, Nick’s voice said. Listen, they don’t have red peppers, but is yellow okay?

  His voice seemed to hit me somewhere behind my knees and travel upward in a flood of warmth, so that I knew I was blushing.

  Oh dear, I said. I think you have the wrong number.

  For a second he said nothing. Don’t hang up, I thought. Don’t hang up. I started to walk around the New Fiction shelves trailing my finger along the spines as if I was still browsing.

  Jesus Christ, said Nick slowly. Is this Frances?

  Yes. It is me.

  He made a sound which momentarily I mistook for laughter, though I realised then that he was coughing. I started to laugh and had to hold the phone away from my face in case he thought I was crying. When he spoke he sounded measured, his confusion genuine.

  I have no idea how this happened, he said. Did I just place this call to you?

  Yes. You asked me a question about peppers.

  Oh my God. I’m so sorry. I can’t explain how I dialled your number. It really was an honest mistake, I’m sorry.

  I moved over to the display near the front of the bookshop, which showcased a selection of new books from diverse genres. I picked up a science fiction novel and pretended to read the back.

  Were you trying to get Melissa? I said.

  I was. Yeah.

  That’s okay. I gather you’re in the supermarket.

  He did laugh then, like he was laughing at how absurd the situation was. I put down the science fiction and opened the cover of a historical romance. The words lay flat on the page, my eyes didn’t try to read them.

  I am in the supermarket, he said.

  I’m in a bookshop.

  Are you, really. Christmas shopping?

  Yes, I said. I’m looking for something for Bobbi.

 
; He made a noise like ‘hm’ then, not quite laughing but still amused or pleased. I closed the cover of the book. Don’t hang up, I thought.

  They’ve reissued that Chris Kraus novel recently, he said. I read a review, it sounded like you might enjoy it. Although I realise now you didn’t actually ask for my advice.

  Your advice is welcome, Nick. You have an enchanting voice.

  He said nothing. I exited the bookshop, gripping the phone tightly to my face, so that the screen felt hot and a little oily. Outside it was cold. I was wearing a fake-fur hat.

  Did I take our playful repartee too far there? I said.

  Oh no, I’m sorry. I was just trying to come up with something nice to say to you, but everything I can think of sounds …

  Insincere?

  Too sincere, he said. Needy. I’m thinking, how do you flatter your ex-girlfriend, but in a kind of aloof way?

  I laughed then and so did he. The relief of our mutual laughter was very sweet, and it dispelled the feeling that he would hang up on me, at least for the moment. Beside me a bus rattled through some standing water and wet my shins. I was walking away from college, toward St Stephen’s Green.

  You were never a big compliments guy, I said.

  No, I know. It’s something I regret.

  Sometimes when drunk, you were nice.

  Yeah, he said. Is that it, I was only nice to you when I was drunk?

  I laughed again, on my own this time. The phone seemed to be transmitting some weird radioactive energy into my body, making me walk very fast and laugh about nothing.