Just Friends

by Holly McCulloch

  About half an hour later, still undecided about how much Chinese food to order, another message lands.

  Fancy a visitor? x

  Absolutely not. I don’t want him to come over. I want to have the evening to myself. I want to eat my wontons in peace.

  But I also worry that if I say no, that will be it. A drink will never happen. My vagina will have to crawl back into hibernation. She would have been fine staying hibernated, but the possibility of freedom has made her restless.

  Are you serious?

  Deadly.

  And then another ping.

  I’ll be there in 2 minutes. x

  My vagina is singing a little louder again, but she’s totally at odds with my brain, which is listing all the issues with an impromptu visit.

  My heartbeat ratchets up, and I look around. My mind is as frazzled as my apartment.

  I haven’t prepped myself for visitors. I’ve prepped myself for Chinese food and a movie.

  I look down. I’m wearing my favourite crazy-lady silk (OK, probably satin) pyjamas. The ones with prawns on them.

  There is too much debris to deal with in two minutes, but I can definitely do something about the prawns.

  I run to my bedroom and make a snap decision to wear my only piece of semi-sexy nightwear (a black nightgown given to me by Mia for Christmas aeons ago). I extricate it from the bottom of my miscellaneous items drawer, where it has lived for many years. It’s a bit wrinkled, but it’s better than shellfish. I strip off, and also decide to upgrade my underwear.

  Fuck. I wish I had kept up a waxing regime.

  The last time I got waxed I was seen by a trainee, and although the physical scars are gone, the mental scars remain. I haven’t been back since and that was three months ago.

  OK, I lie, it was six months ago.

  A knock on the door. How did he get upstairs? I blame the shitty front door that doesn’t close properly.

  ‘Coming! One sec!’ On my way to the door I quickly dive into the bathroom and stash some of my more embarrassing self-care items – including facial wax strips and hemorrhoid cream (I’ve heard it’s good on spots) – at the back of the cupboard.

  If possible my heart is beating even faster.

  Fuck it. No more hiding, Bea. You can do this.

  I keep telling my heart that there is no reason to be quite so jumpy, but it’s beating so fast and no calming thoughts are making it slow down. A jumpy heart is a good sign, isn’t it?

  With no other choice open to me, I grow some boobs and open the door.

  His face is still extremely beautiful.

  ‘Hi again.’

  He remains standing.

  ‘So, you wanna come in?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  No guesses as to what happens next …

  CHAPTER 19

  What happens next is …

  He walks through the door and I close it behind him.

  ‘The flat is messier since the last time you saw it. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t apologize.’ He gives a hint of a cheeky smile. His eyes travel over me. I hope he likes what he sees. I turn my back on him. I know my butt looks great at least.

  ‘I feel underdressed. I would have worn my new shirt if I’d known I’d be seeing you this evening.’

  ‘Oh yeah, sorry. I would have changed, but you were too quick.’ I turn back and see that he has a plastic bag with him. It smells like fried chicken.

  ‘Is that a bag of fried chicken?’

  ‘Er, yeah. I didn’t want to come empty-handed.’

  How unconventional.

  Despite him being a guest, I use the old plates I’ve had since university. The ones that weren’t quite white to begin with.

  ‘So you really do have friends who live right around the corner?’ I hope this is the kind of question people normally ask in this situation. Not having been in this situation for a long time, I just don’t know.

  ‘Yeah, but around the dodgy corner. You won’t know them. You’re quite posh.’

  ‘Am I?’ In my mind Peter is posh, but I guess everything is relative.

  ‘I don’t mean it in a bad way, but yeah, you are. You keep your microwave in the cupboard and you have great teeth.’

  And there I was wondering if I had picked up a bit of a posher accent, but no. It’s my dentistry and storage space that he’s using as a marker. I don’t think I’ve ever been complimented on my teeth before. It’s not exactly the most romantic of compliments, but it will do.

  Unsure what to say, I reply with a noncommittal ‘Ha, thanks.’ I smile, but immediately feel quite conscious of my smile being too toothy, so pare it back as much as I can whilst still trying to look natural and half shrug. I’m hoping the shrug says, Yeah. I have nice teeth. And nice … other assets (?) ‘Shall we eat the chicken before it gets cold?’

  ‘Sounds good to me. I’m starving.’

  We sit down to eat. Because of the multi-purpose room I don’t have that many seating options, and I certainly don’t have a dining table, so we do a terrible impersonation of the Romans: we lounge. It’s pretty weird, so I concentrate on the food.

  ‘Oh my God. Chicken is so good. How and why is chicken so good?’

  ‘Why do girls love chicken nuggets so much? What is it?’

  ‘Maybe because if we’re really careful we can pretend they’re healthy? And also, they taste bloody delicious.’

  I realize I’m eating as if I have never been fed before. Cutlery has been left abandoned on the coffee table, ketchup is smeared all over my plate (and probably my face) and my fingers are covered with grease. I possibly should have prioritized a light snack instead of tidying my bathroom cupboard.

  ‘Thank you so much for the chicken. I didn’t realize how hungry I was.’ It’s not a wonton, but it does taste delicious.

  I look up and see Colin staring at me.

  ‘I hope I don’t sound creepy when I say this, but you look fuckin’ hot eating that.’

  I look behind me to make sure. He’s definitely talking about me.

  Oh lord.

  I swallow the chunk of chicken I have bitten off before it’s really ready to be swallowed.

  A mini cough escapes and I say, ‘Thanks. You must be mad. Or drunk.’

  ‘I’m not sober, but I’m not that drunk.’

  Which is something only drunk people say. Christ, he’s hot.

  ‘I got a lot of shit from the boys for texting you in the pub. They kept bugging me, wanting to know who I was messaging. I told them it was none of their business.’

  ‘Well, I’m glad you messaged me back.’ I think. I think I’m glad he’s here. I think I’m glad I’m doing this.

  My thoughts are interrupted by him taking away my plate. ‘My mum always taught me to clear up.’

  Watching him tidy up feels uncomfortably domesticated, and I don’t know what to do. Luckily it’s only two plates and one fork (not used by me), and as soon as he’s done I wish there was more. I know what to do even less now than I did before.

  He’s staring at me.

  Is this meant to be alluring? Am I meant to find this sexy?

  He’s taking off his top. I’m glued to the spot, more out of awkwardness than anything else. I don’t find this sexy. Part of me finds it creepy, and the larger part wants to burst out laughing. I hope he doesn’t expect me to undress here.

  He’s now standing unnaturally straight with only his boxers on, and I reckon it’s my turn to make the next move.

  I want to touch him, but I’m anxious that I won’t remember what to do and where to put all of my limbs. It’s been a while. I’m in uncharted territory and I’m unsure what to do.

  I move towards him and place my hands on his upper chest.

  He inhales sharply. ‘Your hands are bloody freezing.’

  ‘Oh, sorry,’ I say, and make to move them away. Someone more practised would have thought about this.

  ‘No matter. I can help warm them up.’

  I laugh internally
(and a little externally). Whether he meant to or not, he just made a boiler-man joke.

  For the most part, there is a lack of awkwardness. Sure, there is the occasional tooth-bump, general clumsiness getting on to the bed, inevitable confusion over where exactly all our limbs should go, and hair getting pulled out of my scalp whenever we change position, but it’s nothing I can’t handle, or artlessly ignore. That is, until he decided to growl like an actual lion and slap my arse. At this juncture I froze.

  But all in all, a solid seven out of ten. OK, maybe a five, but still encouraging for a first go.

  And now he’s snoring next to me in bed. I move a bit to test how fast asleep he is; he doesn’t stir at all so I get up and put my nightgown on before clambering back into bed.

  For a while I simply stare at his face. I don’t know how I’ll feel tomorrow morning, but right now I am kinda proud of myself. The memory of the slap and growl is making me blush, but it doesn’t detract from the fact that I had sex with the hot boiler guy with great cheekbones. And I think he had a good time.

  But it is odd having another human here. It feels like a faux-friendly invasion. I know I won’t sleep well. I’m not used to sharing my bed. I sigh and turn away from him and all of his cheekbones; at least this way if he wakes up he’ll see the back of my head, not my drooling face. His snoring has become uncomfortably loud, but I don’t prod him or poke him. Instead I pull the cover over my ears in an effort to drown out the sound, close my eyes and try to sleep.

  CHAPTER 20

  Thankfully Colin left early, and there was only a limited amount of weirdness in the morning – totally due to the fact I pretended to still be (beautifully) half asleep when he left. In truth I had been awake for at least an hour.

  Finally feeling like I can face myself in the mirror, I get out of bed and assess the situation. I am happy to report that there is limited damage. There is a slight aroma of fried food, and some grease marks from the chicken on the coffee table/footstool/craft bench, but apart from that, my apartment appears to have got off pretty lightly.

  Different story for when I actually face the mirror though. In addition to the old, smudged make-up look, I have a hickey. At least, I think it’s a hickey. It appears to be more like a tiger stripe running down the left side of my neck. When on earth did that happen? How on earth did that happen?

  Looking at my phone, I see that I also got a text from Peter at about ten thirty last night. I feel a bit uncomfortable reading it; Colin and Peter shouldn’t mix.

  Looking forward to Saturday! We will need Post-its – do you have some?

  Do I have Post-its? Ha.

  Sorry for the tardy reply. But yes – of course I have Post-its.

  Actually, I don’t, but the stationery cupboard at work does. I restocked them just the other day.

  I did send it quite late, and I know how you love to be in bed by 9 (granny). Shall we say 10? At yours?

  If only he knew what I had actually been up to last night.

  I feel even more uncomfortable. The thought of Peter knowing what I was up to last night fills me with a feeling similar to, but not exactly like, shame. I can’t help but think that if he knew, he would be disappointed in me. And I don’t want him to be disappointed in me.

  So he must not know. It’s my business anyway, right?

  Perfect. x

  I am unreasonably warm in a turtle-neck. I had to dig it out from the back of the drawer, but it does at least hide the hickey.

  I’ve got my head down in some soul-destroying admin, when Emily once again appears at my desk.

  ‘Bea.’

  She’s whispering, so I whisper too. ‘Yes?’

  Her eyes are super eager, and as I look at her, I can see other eager eyes trying not to look in our direction. It’s a little unnerving.

  ‘A few of us were wondering if you would help us. There are a couple of areas we’re still confused about, about how things work and what we should, well, actually be doing, and seeing as how you were such a help to me, I thought you might be happy to help the others too. Simple things like how to run a search on the database, what all the different teams do and how they feed into each other, key timings, who the big dogs are so we can try to look professional in front of them, all that kind of information.’

  I drum my fingers on my desk. The admin I’m doing is extremely boring, and I’m at risk of falling asleep. I can’t believe they don’t even know how to run a search. But as much as I would love to help, this sounds suspiciously like more work; work outside of my job description.

  I stop drumming. It dawns on me, rather depressingly, that the work inside my job description regularly makes me seek refuge in the stationery cupboard, whereas I actually quite liked helping Emily.

  ‘So? Will you help us?’

  Joan was pissed off, and she might actually be able to get me fired for ‘interfering’.

  ‘Please?’

  I realize that I don’t really care if Joan is pissed off. Part of me wants her to be pissed off.

  ‘Sure. But we’ll have to do it a bit clandestinely.’ Because I do care about being fired. I have bills to pay. Card supplies to buy. Plants to water. ‘We can do it over lunch-time. There’s a cafe round the corner that never has anyone in it. I’m sure we could take over a table for an hour.’

  ‘Great! Can we start today?’

  Turns out we took over three tables. There were a lot of people behind the eager eyes, and a lot of questions.

  My favourite was definitely the question ‘Who are the big dogs?’ Turns out one of the newbies had unknowingly emailed a member of the advisory board asking him to come fix the printer. Unsurprisingly she didn’t get a response.

  But the illicit session went well. The keen beans took so many notes and nodded so enthusiastically that I couldn’t help but feel like some sort of weird oracle.

  The only issue was, we didn’t have enough time. The hour sped past faster than any other hour in the day, and there were still many questions left unanswered.

  I look at the clock on the wall. It’s analogue, so takes me a shamefully long time to tell that we need to be getting back. By the time we all return to our desks we will have been away for over an hour and a half. Someone is bound to notice.

  ‘OK, guys – I know you have more questions, but we need to go. I promise I’ll find a regular time for us to meet up. I’m also very aware that the conversation was really meandering today, so maybe next time we will focus on a specific area. If you guys want to email me over some things you’re unclear about, I can come up with a plan, or a list of topics, and we can go through them one by one. Sound good?’

  The nodding heads make me smile. I came up with a plan and people liked it.

  Something catches my eye and my smile goes stale, turning into more of a grimace.

  My boss is at the counter. I’m very surprised to see her here. This isn’t the type of establishment I would think she frequents, which is partly why I chose it. I have also never seen her look more like a meerkat. Her head is tilted slightly to the side and her eyes are watching me very carefully. My mouth immediately goes dry. I wonder how long she’s been watching us for.

  Despite the total lack of saliva, I go over after everyone has filed out. There is no way I can hide from this, so I might as well confront it.

  ‘Hi, Mansi.’ I cough and swallow at the same time in an uncomfortable effort to find my voice. ‘I hope you don’t mind, but we were just going over some questions and issues they’re having. We’re not about to do anything like start a revolution.’ Oh God, mentioning a revolution makes me look even more guilty.

  The sound she makes in response is fairly noncommittal.

  ‘We only took an hour over lunch.’ This is a lie, but it came out before I could stop it.

  She nods. She usually has many opinions and her silence is making me very uncomfortable.

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll see you back at the office.’

  I turn on my heel, panicking
as I reach for my throat to check the turtle-neck hasn’t slipped.

  CHAPTER 21

  Luckily Peter arrived five minutes late at my flat on Saturday morning, five minutes that were well spent trying on all of my scarves to find the one that would hide the tiger stripe most effectively. If anything, it has become even more visible since yesterday – the colour has deepened and it has spread out even further – and I haven’t had the chance to wash and dry my handy turtle-neck.

  I open the door to see him wearing a huge grin.

  ‘Hey! I brought cookies.’ By the look of things, he also has his laptop and a load of print-outs.

  I don’t know what vibes I’m giving off that say, ‘If you come to my abode, make sure you bring food,’ but I’m pretty happy about it.

  We hug and I get out a guest plate for the cookies. My favourite triple-chocolate cookies. The ones I usually freeze so I don’t eat them all in one go. He knows me well.

  Remembering why we are here, I feel a bit awkward in my own home once again. My flat normally feels like a sanctuary, but recently I feel as though it’s being opened up and left exposed. The exchange with Mia. Thursday night with Colin. And now with Peter. My business is my business; as dirty and badly set up as it is, it’s still mine, and I’m very protective of it.

  I bite my nails. What if he thinks everything I’ve done is wrong?

  But Peter has done what Peter does best, and has already made himself at home, which instantly puts me at ease. He’s sitting cross-legged on the floor, a pose that makes him seem both very young and too old, long limbs unable to position themselves quite right. I look at his kind face and big eyes, a face that has been my friend for many years, a face I know better than my own, and I realize something – not once has he ever made me doubt myself. I feel very, very slightly less anxious.

  ‘Thanks in advance for your help.’ I decide to jump. Just a little. ‘OK. So I thought I would give you a general overview, and then what I would really love to do is talk about my three main worries – production, marketing budget and what to do with it, and stock control.’