The Friendship Fling

1 repeat after me lying to men is not a hobby

1

repeat after me: lying to men is not a hobby

Ava

It is fundamentally against my morals to tell a man he’s funny.

For starters, he might believe it.

And if he does? He might take it upon himself to try stand-up comedy.

This is, incidentally, how I’ve found myself folded on a too-small, cracked plastic chair at a club in North London, watching a man I met on Hinge tell jokes into a microphone with the animated cadence of someone raised amidst the YouTube furore of 2013.

As always, there isn’t enough space for my legs, which means I spend most of Harry-from-Hinge’s set trying to rid myself of the pins and needles radiating from my toes to my left calf. When a violent squeak of microphone feedback jolts me to attention, I look up to find Harry attempting a final bout of crowd work, before ending his set to lukewarm applause. Once the lights have come back on, we move to the bar for after-show drinks and I push my shoulders back, steeling myself to play an exhausting game where I pretend to care about this near-stranger’s life.

Flirting, I’ve realised, is just small talk with an ulterior motive. I channel all my years of experience working in customer service – feigning enthusiasm when he mentions an obscure comedian I’ve never heard of and asking him questions that I try moderately hard to listen to the answers to.

‘You have such a unique perspective,’ I lie. He’s an Australian living in Clapham. He has no such thing. But he’s tall and hot (arguably the same thing) and if I go home with him tonight, at least it won’t be a long journey back to mine afterwards.

All I need from him is one night. One night to satisfy this urge, one night to stomp out the boredom without tipping the scales.

We sit there for a few moments, sipping wordlessly, the silence made even more glaring by the fact there’s vibrant chatter at every other table in the vicinity. I’m not even two drinks in by the time Harry looks across the sticky table at me, apology written all over his face.

‘Ava, I don’t feel like I’m getting much from you. You seem kind of closed off.’ His eyebrows draw together in earnest. ‘I’m just not sure there’s a spark, and I’m so sorry, but I don’t want to string you along. I think it’d be best if we called it a day.’

Damn, he took my line.

‘Well, that was a colossal waste of time,’ I say, barrelling my way into the flat I share with my best friend, careful not to leave anything on the floor that she might trip on later.

‘The show was good then?’ Josie asks, pausing her podcast and twisting her copper hair up into a claw clip. Relaxing on the sofa in feather-trimmed silk pyjamas, silicone under-eye patches resting on her face, she’s the picture of elegance.

Meanwhile, I don’t need a mirror to know my eyeliner is smudged and my fringe is stuck to my forehead, and after a Tube journey in the almost-summer heat, sweat has made its way down my back and my thighs have started to chafe under my skirt. I stomp over to my room, wading through the mess to find some semi-clean pyjamas, settling on a pair of shorts and a massive, ratty T-shirt.

‘You know,’ I raise my voice as I get changed so she can hear from the other room, ‘I think I’ve been operating under the delusion that comedians are supposed to be funny.’ When I rejoin her in the living room, I hand her a plastic tub. ‘I got you those fancy olives you like on my way home.’

‘Ava Monroe, you are the love of my life,’ she says, peeling back the plastic lid while I open my crisps. ‘Now tell me what happened.’

I bypass the sofa and sit on the rug with Josie’s giant black Lab guide dog, Rudy, whose paws twitch as he chases squirrels in his sleep after a long day leading Josie around London.

‘The man said he didn’t think we had a spark. Do we really need a spark if all I’m going to do is join him on his lumpy mattress for one night of mediocre sex and then leave his life forever?’ I grab a handful of crisps and shove a few too many in my mouth in one go. ‘I made it very clear I’m not looking for anything serious. And by that, I mean, my profile literally says, I’m not looking for anything serious. ’

‘Maybe you’re just so . . . alluring,’ her mouth curls into a grin at the last word, ‘that when he saw you, he thought, “Oh my god, if I impress this woman with my side-splitting comedy, she’ll fall in love with me and we’ll have one-night stands every night until we die.”’

‘Right.’ My eyes water as a crisp pokes my windpipe, and I have to wait for it to move before I speak again. ‘Or maybe he just ignored what I said.’

‘I don’t understand how you even find these people.’

She wouldn’t, because she’s been with Alina since before we moved into this flat, and consequently never once had to dip her toe in the piranha-infested waters of London’s dating pool.

‘Dating apps are dire right now.’ I open my phone and start to lazily swipe to prove my point. ‘Always have been, come to think of it.’

‘Read me some profiles,’ she says with a wave of her hand, settling back against the arm of the sofa as she waits for me to play our usual game.

‘Right, okay. This guy rhymed “geezer” with “Bacardi Breezer”.’ I swipe left.

She shrugs. ‘A wordsmith.’

‘This one said he doesn’t like Parmesan.’ Immediate swipe left.

‘Could be lactose intolerant.’

‘This man,’ I play a voice note aloud, ‘is doing an impression of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo . And it’s not even a good impression of Shaggy from Scooby-Doo .’

He’s six-four though, so I swipe right.

Josie heaves a full-body sigh. Unfortunately, she’s one of those hopeless romantics who’s convinced there’s someone for everyone, even me.

‘Don’t you think you could be judging them too harshly?’ she asks. ‘That maybe you’re being a little too . . . pernickety?’

‘Me? Pernickety?’ I try for an indignant gasp, but it comes out as a snort.

‘We live in London. You could be living through an early noughties romcom and you’re not . ’ She leans forward, loose strands of hair swinging past her face. ‘More importantly, I could be living one vicariously through you, and to put it plainly, I am not. ’

‘I’m so sorry that me not wanting a relationship is ruining your fun.’

‘Dating apps have killed romance,’ she whines, and her head may as well be transparent, because I can practically see her imagination dropping me into a story where a young Hugh Grant comes into the coffee shop and immediately falls in love with me, floppy hair and boundless charm and all. ‘Where’s the courtship? Where’s the tension?’

‘You met Alina at a musical-theatre-themed bottomless brunch. What tension?’

She narrows her eyes but her mouth twitches traitorously. ‘The moment our voices mingled for the first time was fraught with it, actually.’

‘The moment you met, you were singing “On My Own” from Les Mis ,’ I point out.

‘Okay, technically, yes. But this isn’t about me.’ Her phone pings with a text and she’s distracted for a second as her screen reader reads it aloud, forever too fast for me to understand.

Our relationship has always been like this. We were the only two girls in flat 1A in our first year of university, stuck together amidst the chaos of the boys’ endless drinking games and terrible kitchen etiquette. We’d have movie nights with Baileys hot chocolate and popcorn (she liked sweet, I liked salty, so naturally we both grew to love a mix) where we’d watch all the Twilight films in a row, reciting every line word for word. Not much has changed in our activity roster since that first term, except nowadays we live in her parents’ so-called investment property in South London, and when we watch Twilight we fancy Carlisle and Charlie more than Edward and Alice.

‘Have you ever considered meeting someone in real life? Off the apps?’

‘And have you ever considered doing stand-up? I hear they let anyone in these days.’

‘What? You could kill two birds with one stone. Get out more and meet someone new.’

It’s not like I’ve ever had a massive circle of friends, but I used to get out of the house more, at least. Since Josie’s been working long hours at the gallery recently, I’ve largely been left to my own devices. Devices that are, frankly, guided solely by my libido. Because there’s no other type of socialising that I’m in need of.

‘Ava, people do this all the time. It’s really not that weird. All you need to do is go out, do something fun,’ she lists the items on her fingers. ‘Find a hobby or whatever, and meet someone while you’re there. It’s simple.’

‘But have you met me?’

‘I believe so, yes.’

‘Okay, well, we have two issues here. First, my only hobby is listening to mid-2000s pop punk while staring wistfully out of windows.’

‘You could do something arty. See if you can get university credits for evening classes on graphic design or something.’ My stomach twists at her words but she continues, ‘Or go pottery painting. I know you’ve always wanted to try it.’

‘Pottery painting classes are exactly where I imagine the most torrid of love affairs to begin.’ No one gives a disparaging eye-roll quite like Josie, and it’s one of my favourite things about her. ‘My second issue is that if any man out there is looking for a woman with the cheer of a tombstone and the emotional intelligence of a rock, he probably has some issues of his own that he should sort out first.’

She finishes her olives and says, half fondly, half insultingly, ‘You’re not nearly as unpleasant as you think, you know.’

‘Josephine, flattery will get you nowhere.’

‘Please don’t take this the wrong way—’

‘This feels like something I’m going to take the wrong way.’

‘—but can you tell me honestly if you have other friends?’

I splutter for a moment. ‘I have you.’

‘Sure. But I said other friends.’

She waits. I offer a weak, ‘Max, then?’

‘You shared a womb with him twenty-six years ago. I don’t know if he counts.’

‘Yeah, well, let me tell you, you’re a far better co-tenant. He took most of the food, and I ended up coming out looking like a scraggy little weasel.’

‘I’m very sorry to hear that. Your wombmate and roommate aside . . . If we ever have a friend break-up, where would that leave you?’

From someone else this might be offensive, but I know it’s coming from a place of care. Josie doesn’t understand that having a routine life with a small circle of friends works for me. Though by ‘circle’, I do mean ‘line’, because she’s the only other person in it. ‘Why are you making contingency plans for the breakdown of our friendship? Are you trying to hint at something?’

‘I’m a Virgo moon, I make contingency plans for everything .’ She runs a hand along the textured pattern of a cushion before playing with the tassels at the corners. ‘What happens when I’m gone?’

‘God, we have at least a few more decades before we need to start worrying about that,’ I say, despite knowing that what she’s referring to is not her departure from this mortal coil, but the period she’ll be away from London next year while she tours with her art exhibition. ‘Josie, I’ll be fine. You know I will.’

I’m not lonely . I’m happy with the way I live my life.

Yet, every so often, my thoughts drift of their own accord and I wonder what might happen if I let myself make leaps like Josie does, like my brother does. But then I remember how much there is to lose, and the thoughts weave themselves into the ever-tightening knot in my stomach that keeps me right where I am.

‘Look, you were there for me in first year when I needed it, now I’m helping you.’ She tucks her hair behind her ears and straightens her posture. ‘We’re in this incredible city, and it’s time for you to get out there. You’ve spent too many years hiding yourself in the dark. Now’s your time to learn to glow again.’

‘Was that a quote from a Disney Channel Original Movie?’

She ignores me. ‘I’m just saying, I am one of the lucky few to know the real you.’ I find myself grimacing at her sincerity as she goes on, ‘You should do it. Really make an effort to put yourself out there, meet new people. It doesn’t have to be a man. Just a friend. I don’t want you to be by yourself, and – wait.’ Her expression turns gleeful, and I dread learning what she’s about to say. ‘You owe me. For the flat. You promised me when you moved in that in return for my parents charging you what I can only assume is London’s lowest rent, you would do something of my choosing. Well, this is it. This is what I’m choosing.’

Shit. I’d forgotten I’d said that. I drag myself up from the floor to sit on the sofa, pulling my knees up and tugging my shirt over them. ‘That’s low, Joey.’

‘Don’t call me Joey.’

‘I’ll call you Joey if you blackmail me.’

‘Is the blackmail working?’ Her green eyes glitter in mischief. Josie may be tiny, but everything about her is mighty. It’s like every personality trait is concentrated into this barely-five-foot package.

‘Of course it’s working, that’s why I’m annoyed.’ If I agree, she might get off my back, so I clear my throat and tell her what she wants to hear. ‘I’ll do my best to put myself out there.’

She nods, though I’m not sure she believes me. Her phone buzzes, a reminder of the time, and she says, ‘I need to go to bed. But I’m glad you left the house for the comedy show at least, even if it was distinctly lacking in comedy.’

‘To be fair, the woman who went before my date was hilarious.’

Josie stands, brushing non-existent crumbs from her pyjamas. ‘Maybe you should’ve gone home with her instead.’

She sweeps over to her bedroom, Rudy devotedly trailing behind. Sometimes I think back to both of us huddled together in her uni room, and I realise I can’t imagine her in such a small space now, with no one else around to see her shine.

But I’m not Josie. I don’t take risks, and I certainly don’t intend to let go of the careful control I have over my life any time soon.