Just Friends

by Holly McCulloch

  Obviously, we have met before. She recognizes me – she just wants to be a bitch. Fine. I can deal with that.

  ‘We took about six modules together over three years and were in the same tutorials for most of them. But don’t worry. It was a while ago. My name is Bea.’

  ‘Oh, Bea, of course. Sorry – you’ve changed so much.’

  She means I’ve put on weight. She’s not wrong, but she is rude.

  ‘You too.’ Ha! ‘But I guess that’s only natural … it has been a long time since the Cold War. Learning about it, obviously.’

  ‘Obviously.’ She not-so-subtly angles away from me. ‘So, Mia, what have you been up to?’

  I keep my face as open and approachable-looking as possible, but inside I shut down. After tonight I will never have to see these people again. I will never be hoodwinked into coming to another one of these things.

  At least at school reunions you get to wander around previously forbidden places like the staff room, but here I am scared to walk away in case I look like a crab and give Harriet even more ammunition.

  It’s such a random collection of people too. I doubt the majority of these people ever spoke to each other at university, so why do they think they’ll have anything in common now?

  I’m reaching the maximum amount of time I’m able to listen to Harriet’s voice and start to look for an escape route. I resort to an oldie but a goodie – I finish my drink and head away for a top-up. As soon as I move, mini burgers come out, and yep, they head straight to where I was standing. Still, missing a mini burger is a small price to pay for the safety of your future hearing and sanity.

  It’s like a minefield of foes in here, and I can’t see a safe way to the drinks table. I opt for the route that has the most backs facing my path.

  Safely at the drinks station (a table covered with a whitish cloth), I ask the person behind the table for another glass of red wine, and I’m left exposed as she hunts around for a new bottle. Apparently someone underestimated the popularity of the red.

  ‘Hi.’ I turn to face the voice. ‘You probably don’t remember me but, well, this is embarrassing, we kinda used to study together. I’d always sit in front of you in the library.’

  Holy shit! It’s the man I potentially identified as Rupert MacDonald. I was right.

  His voice is different from how I imagined it to be. It’s quite, well, feminine.

  ‘Hi. And actually yes, I do remember. I spent a lot of time staring at your back.’ Oops. ‘Because we were in the library, I mean. I spent most of my time staring at anything that wasn’t actually a book.’ Awkward.

  ‘Yeah, I get what you mean. Honestly, I always sat there because I felt I would be letting everyone down if I didn’t show up.’ He has no idea. ‘Like we were all studying together and if one of us failed, we all would. That’s what I told myself anyway. It’s the only way I got good enough grades to pass.’

  ‘Hey, you gotta do whatever works for you.’ Like ogling a stranger’s back for three years. ‘So what do you do now? Except go to awkward social gatherings.’

  ‘I’m a curtain manager.’

  ‘Oh! Cool!’ A what?

  ‘Yeah, it’s slightly unusual I guess, as careers go. I get to see a lot of shows. Although I’ve been on the same show for the last year, so it’s probably time to move on. It’s pretty fun though.’

  ‘Yeah, I can imagine.’ I’m getting there. Curtains at the theatre. Can’t be as simple as it sounds. ‘So what does it entail? I’m so intrigued.’

  ‘Well, I basically open the curtain at the beginning of the show, close it for the interval, and repeat for the second half.’

  Huh. It is as simple as it sounds. It’s not the life I’d thought Rupert would have. I’d assumed he would work for a bank and be a part-time model. I find it quite inspiring. He’s following his dream.

  Thankfully the person who went to hunt down the red wine has returned, and not a moment too soon. I don’t really know where else to take this conversation. ‘Here’s your drink. Sorry about the delay.’

  ‘Oh, no worries. Thank you.’ I turn back to Rupert. ‘It was really nice to talk to you. I hope you have much success with … finding new curtains to open.’

  Oh God. Did that sound like a euphemism?

  I smile, hopefully in a kind, not a creepy, manner, and turn away.

  Something adjacent to a laugh cuts through the noise of the room. It’s Harriet. I wonder if my strength has replenished enough to re-join the circle that has formed around her. I wander closer to the group.

  ‘… and then when we realized it was tap water we all got up and left. Who would serve tap water to people you should be trying to impress?’

  Nope. I can’t help it; I shake my head. She’s not someone I need to make more effort with.

  I sail straight past, suddenly finding a painting in the corner of the room very interesting.

  I think the painting is really very bad, but I do the head-tilt thing anyway.

  ‘I think I would demand to get my money back if I’d commissioned a painting of myself and it came out like that.’

  I turn towards the face behind the voice; I don’t recognize either.

  ‘Hi, I’m Bea.’ I hold out my hand. I still don’t know if people still shake hands any more, but it’s too late to back out now.

  ‘Michelle.’

  ‘I don’t think we met at uni.’

  ‘I don’t think we did either.’ She meanders closer to the painting. ‘Good lord, I don’t know why I came here this evening.’ She looks so confident. Her dress isn’t one I would choose, but it makes me want to go out and buy more clothes with colours. ‘Well, no, that’s a lie – I know why I came. My husband made me come, but now I’m here and I wish I wasn’t, so I’ve been trying to find somewhere, or someone, safe to hang out with. That woman’s voice –’ with a nod towards Harriet – ‘is driving me nuts.’

  I can’t help but let out a laugh. ‘Oh, thank God. I’m so glad it’s not just me.’

  ‘It isn’t. I think my husband took one module with her in first year, learnt from his mistake, and chose all his other modules based on whether or not she was also in the class.’

  ‘Who’s your husband?’

  ‘That man over there with a handful of snacks.’

  ‘I like him already.’

  ‘Me too. Although I would like him more if some of those snacks were for me.’

  ‘So why did he want to come?’

  ‘Apart from the food? I think he genuinely wants to know what people are up to. I think he’s actually interested. I lean towards the idea that I keep up with everyone I want to keep up with anyway.’

  ‘I’m in that camp too.’ I take a sip of the horrible wine.

  ‘So, seeing as I know nothing about you except for the fact we went to the same university but never met, tell me about yourself.’

  Tell her what about myself? ‘What would you like to know?’

  ‘Anything you’re willing to share.’

  I exhale and shift my weight from one foot to the other. What do I want her to know? I remember my prepared answers, but my run-in with Rupert has left me feeling like it’s OK to just go with the truth. So I do.

  ‘I am so frustrated with how I’ve been living my life. For years I’ve been working at a job that I don’t particularly like, I avoid any kind of real intimacy, and I’m uncomfortable about the idea of putting myself out there because I’m so afraid of failure. And I do all this because I think that doing these things, or not doing these things, will make me happy, or at least keep me from being unhappy, but they don’t. I’ve been burying my head in the sand.’ I keep my eyes on the painting. ‘I think I’m coming out of it, and I think I know what it is I want to do, but I still don’t quite know how I’m going to do it, and I’m still really afraid that I’m going to fail. And the irony is, the further I go down this path and the more I try not to fail, the worse failure is going to feel.’

  I’m on a roll now and I c
an’t stop, so I keep going. My hands are flapping everywhere, and I’m at risk of spilling the wine.

  ‘But I can’t keep going through life like a zombie. I want to work for myself. I want to cut myself out a little piece of the world, a unique identity that is totally mine. I want to work at something that actually feels like me, something more creative, more challenging.’

  I breathe slightly more deeply. Michelle is looking at me. She’s either processing all the words I just threw up or she’s working out an escape route.

  ‘Oh, and I’ve also just realized that I fancy my best friend.’

  I feel lighter than I have in months. My jaw has even stopped clenching.

  ‘Sorry. I think I might have taken that a bit too far.’ I look down at my glass. How strong is this wine?

  ‘No, you didn’t. I get it. I come from a family of lawyers. I studied law at university. I even got a first. And then I decided what I really wanted to do was own a shop, where everything was an item I had picked out and curated.’

  ‘How did that go down?’

  ‘At first, not well. But now they see I’m happy.’ She smiles. ‘I think they needed some time to come to terms with the idea that their version of happy wasn’t necessarily mine.’

  She’s right. Someone else’s version of happy isn’t necessarily my version of happy.

  I am going to stop going to yoga.

  ‘So, what is it that you actually want to do?’

  Maybe kickboxing?

  Despite wanting to be more confident, I can’t help the slight insecure grimace that I make. ‘It sounds ridiculous, but I make cards – as in greeting cards. Mainly funny ones, plays on words. They’re for the sophisticated pun maker.’ I try to pull a sophisticated face.

  I expect her to nod in general understanding, but instead she asks, ‘Do you have any on you?’

  ‘Yes, actually I do. These are some I’ve been working on during my down-time at work.’ I rustle around for them in my bag and hand them over. ‘They’re mock-ups, but you can get a feel for them. High-quality paper, high-quality puns.’ I do a goofy grin and a shoulder shrug. Both came much more naturally than a sophisticated face.

  She spends some time inspecting them, both the puns and the paper. She also sniffs them. Maybe I was too harsh on the lady at the fair. Maybe lots of people sniff cards.

  ‘These are actually pretty good. And funny. I was worried I was going to have to pretend to laugh.’

  ‘There are a lot of jokes that get culled for that very reason.’

  ‘Can I keep these?’

  ‘Sure. If you sell them, feel free to give me a fair share of the money.’

  She just laughs. ‘Sure thing.’ She puts the cards into her bag. She looks like she’s about to leave.

  ‘Here.’ I rummage around in my bag and find a business card. I’m so glad I made some for the fair. And that I had most of them left over. ‘This is my business card. I don’t know what you sell in your shop, but if you’re ever after a card supplier, let me know. I promise I’m not normally so … talkative.’

  She nods and takes the card. ‘I’ll bear all of that in mind.’ She magics up one of her own with far less fanfare than I needed and passes it to me. ‘Here are my details.’ She motions behind her. ‘Now I’m going to go collect my husband and see if I can encourage him to take me to dinner. It was nice to meet you, Bea.’

  ‘You too.’ I smile and do a mini wave as she retreats.

  From the looks of things he doesn’t need much encouraging.

  Now that Michelle has escaped, both me and the reunion, I get my phone out so nobody else talks to me, and message my mum about Harriet. She also disliked her intensely, solely based on my reviews, and I know she will relish the fact that Harriet is still wearing matching layered outfits.

  CHAPTER 31

  Whilst I’m still in wedding mode (and not fancying Peter mode) and currently in the midst of a neon-driven online shop (essential prep for Tilly’s eighties-themed hen party), Joan’s face pops up in front of my desk. Unfortunately I was too distracted to notice her until it was too late to run away.

  ‘Hey, how are you?’

  She sounds far too chirpy and nice. She must want something. I double-check my glass, just in case it’s accidentally her mug.

  ‘I’m good thanks, you?’ Sometimes I hate pleasantries, but sometimes pleasantries are all you have.

  ‘Yes, very well, despite the awful weather.’ Ah, weather talk, aka the bridge between pleasantries and requests. ‘I wanted to say thank you for the help you’re giving Emily and the others. I don’t know quite what you’ve been telling them in those little sessions of yours, but their work is going through a lot more smoothly. Less confusion and reworking.’

  This is interesting. This almost sounds like an apology. I like it. Although I do not appreciate the term ‘little sessions’. These ‘little sessions’ have been going on for months, and are now accompanied by a helpful digital guide I created.

  ‘We are so alike, you and I.’ I stop myself from scoffing in the nick of time. I most certainly hope not. ‘We just want to make sure we get the very best results.’ She takes a long inhale and I wait, not in the slightest bit eagerly, to hear what she’s going to ask for. ‘So anyway –’ finally we get to the request – ‘I was wondering if I could suggest a couple of topics for you to cover. I’m having issues getting through to Emily on some development points, and, well, you seem to be able to talk her language, and so I was hoping you would be able to speak to her about them?’

  She has some nerve. She condescendingly calls them ‘little sessions’, but then requests more topics to be added.

  I churn on an idea and come up with something I think I might enjoy.

  ‘Fine. Sure. Send me over the topics you think need covering. But you’ll have to give me your reasoning behind the development areas. And you’ll have to remember that people don’t improve exponentially overnight.’ And then I add the cherry on top. ‘And you’ll also have to be willing to take some feedback from me too.’ Emily has told me a lot about Joan’s managerial skills, which I think mainly amount to Joan shouting at Emily through doors. I like Emily and she doesn’t deserve to be shouted at.

  Joan chews her cheek at the mention of me giving her feedback.

  ‘Fine. Deal. I’ll send a list through this afternoon.’

  With today’s wedmin all done and Joan’s list not yet hitting my inbox, my afternoon is oddly free, punctuated by a quick trip to the new coffee shop around the corner. The coffee is fine, but I am delighted to find that the food samples are generous in size, taste and variety, covering both the savoury and sweet palate.

  Perhaps it’s the bewitching combination of sugary baked goods and caffeine (especially as the former was free), or possibly the fact I have escaped the office, but I feel liberated and decide to do something I haven’t done in a while.

  I sit down to drink my coffee in the actual coffee shop.

  As I watch all the people, I realize that everyone here is working. It would be gloriously dangerous for me to work here – they would have to reassess their taster policy – but it would also be just plain glorious. I have never been productive in an office. I need change. I need snacks. I need good coffee.

  And then I realize. I have space and time now. So I put down the coffee and get out my phone.

  I scout out more potential new stockists.

  I email Michelle with a mini follow-up.

  I make my personalized Christmas cards – a ‘Boast in the Post’ – available on my online shop. I hoped they might help phase out those awful family update letters aunts seem so keen to send at this time of year.

  I write a backlog of social media posts.

  I imagine what my studio might look like when I’m rich and famous.

  I start doodling new card designs.

  It feels good.

  When the end of the work day eventually rolls around, I feel very satisfied with myself.

  Norma
lly I love escaping, alone, to the sanctuary of my apartment on a Friday evening, but tonight I’m not in the mood.

  I could just accept my fate and go home but I don’t want to. I could go to the pub with work ‘friends’. I could text Mia to see if she’s free. I cannot text Peter.

  I text Mia. She’s not free.

  I ask who’s going to the pub after work. Joan is the only definite. Penny is busy, and Emily has a date.

  Still not ready to accept my fate and still determined not to text Peter, I meander through my phone and my recent messages, using it to jog my memory and remember what friends I actually have.

  I don’t think I could handle more Tilly right now.

  My mum and my brother are too far away.

  Colin.

  I could text Colin.

  It’s been quite a while since he branded my neck, but since the spa day I’ve been following the beautician’s advice and have been keeping up my admin, meaning my vagina is prepared for visitors.

  Why does Peter’s face loom in my mind every time I think of my vagina?

  We’ve all heard the phrase, ‘If you want to get over him, you’ve got to get under someone else’.

  I can do this.

  He might even bring chicken.

  CHAPTER 32

  Colin’s knock comes sooner than I hoped it would, as I am currently in a downward swing of confidence, unsure if I’ve done the right thing inviting him over.

  Knowing I can’t leave him outside (no matter how many excuses I come up with in my mind), I open the door.

  ‘Hi.’

  ‘I brought chicken.’

  ‘I thought I knew that smell.’ I’m impressed with my fake confidence.

  He comes in, gives me a kiss that has more tongue in it than I would have chosen, and puts the chicken in the kitchen.

  It isn’t a nice kitchen, and I only rent the apartment, but I really want to put the sweaty, greasy bag on a plate and preserve the nasty countertop that I am now apparently overprotective of.

  But there’s no time; he turns around and heads towards me, his intent clear in his eyes. And because I’m pretending to be a confident sex-tress instead of someone who feels uncomfortable about where he put the chicken, I try to get my eyes to give him a sexy look.