The Friendship Fling

9 we found love in a hopeless place （the drinks fridge at Tesco）

9

we found love in a hopeless place (the drinks fridge at Tesco)

Ava

Once we’re outside in the waning daylight, we turn right and weave through narrow, cobbled alleyways to make our way in the direction of the Thames.

To my horror, Finn does not stop talking for the entirety of the eternity-filled four minutes. ‘Where are you taking me? Am I being kidnapped? I have nine-nine-nine primed and ready.’

‘I told you,’ I say, wondering if I might come to regret my spontaneous decision. ‘Tesco.’

Walking with Finn feels a lot like walking with an exceptionally long-legged toddler. When we hit the spot where Fleet Street morphs into the Strand, he takes an interest in a dragon statue softly illuminated by the dregs of evening sunlight.

‘What’s this?’ He cranes his neck to get a better look.

‘It marks the entrance to the City of London from Westminster.’

His head whirls to face me. ‘How do you know that?’

‘I know a lot of things,’ I say, waiting for a car to pass so that I can keep walking. ‘But also, I googled it once.’

He pulls himself away and follows me across the road to our destination; a tiny Tesco Express sewn into the patchwork of twentieth-century buildings lining the street.

As we cross the threshold, it strikes me that there’s something innately intimate about being in a supermarket with someone, so I attempt to make the process as quick as possible, directing us to the drinks fridge.

‘Take your pick. I owe you one after pulling you away from yours.’ He opens his mouth as if he wants to protest me paying, but sensibly, he stays quiet.

Unfortunately, it’s Friday night and pickings are slim. All I can see are cans of whisky and Coke.

‘Want to split some wine?’ he asks.

‘If you want?’ a voice replies. ‘I was going to get some beers, but if you’re offering . . . ?’

My head shoots up and I find a man looking at Finn in total earnest. I’d suspect he were sober if not for the slight sway to his posture.

Half a second of confusion floods Finn’s face before it splits into an easy smile. ‘Unfortunately, I was asking my friend here. But on any other day, I promise I’d have said yes.’

I don’t really know Finn, but I’m certain he’s telling the truth.

‘Oh,’ the man says, looking at me with red-rimmed eyes. ‘Yeah, no, definitely drink with her. I’m not nearly as pretty.’

Finn grabs the man’s shoulder, a compliment rolling smoothly off his tongue. ‘Don’t say that. You’re extremely pretty.’

‘You think so?’

‘I’ve seen many faces in my lifetime, and yours is one of the loveliest.’ Who knew there was a Jane Austen novel set in a Tesco Express on Fleet Street?

‘You promise?’

‘Cross my heart,’ Finn says.

‘Well. Enjoy your bottle,’ the man says, picking up a four-pack of beer. ‘Think of me when you drink it.’

Finn nods sincerely and we watch his new friend walk to the crisps aisle, lightly bumping into the shelves as he goes.

‘Was that a yes to the wine?’ Finn asks, leaning against the edge of the fridge and holding up a bottle in the opposite hand, entirely unflustered by the interaction.

‘Let’s do it.’

When he’s not distracted by signs and statues, Finn matches my pace easily. We make a left off the Strand and head down a side street, the river just about visible in the distance. The buildings to our right cast the whole street in shadow, so as we approach the gate at the bottom, I can’t quite tell if it’s open, and I’m suddenly struck by the fear that this place I’m taking him to will be closed. But then, when we’re a few metres away, relief washes over me.

‘Tah-dah,’ I say, motioning towards the gate, which sits at the foot of a set of concrete steps, flanked by high stone walls.

‘A staircase? Ava, you shouldn’t have.’

I shake my head and make my way up the stairs. At one point, I turn to check he’s following, and with the way his head suddenly whips to the side with a guilty smile, I wonder if he’s following me a bit too attentively.

‘You wanted a rooftop, here you go,’ I say, walking backwards to gauge his reaction as he reaches the top of the stairs. ‘We’re not very high up, so I’m sure there are better ones with better views, but I think this works.’

In the golden-hour light, Finn crests the top step and his eyes dart around, taking in the view, before focusing on me. ‘This works.’

We lean over the far wall, looking down at the road below, which is still busy despite the bulk of rush-hour traffic having dissipated. The sun sends beads of warm light dancing across the surface of the Thames beyond the road. In the distance, the London Eye makes its lazy circuit, while Big Ben’s gold plating glints in the final moments of daylight, and behind them both the sky’s an Impressionist’s delight – sweeping strokes of yellows and oranges illuminating lilac clouds.

Finn takes photos and asks me obscure, unanswerable questions about landmarks and bridges, before we both drop on to the bench behind us. I take the wine out of my bag just as the sun dips below the horizon.

‘I can empty my water bottle if you want to split it evenly,’ he says.

I unscrew the cap and pass it to him. ‘I don’t mind sharing if you don’t.’

‘Fine with me.’ He shrugs and takes a swig. ‘How have I never noticed this place? I come via Temple every day for work.’

His question’s rhetorical, but upon hearing the indeterminate twang in the way he says the word ‘via’, I have to ask my own question. ‘Where are you from? If I listen for English, that’s the accent I hear, but if I listen for American, I can hear that too.’

He takes another swig and hands the bottle back to me. ‘Do you want the long answer or the short answer?’

‘Long.’

‘Are you sure?’ He adjusts his sleeves. ‘When I say it’s long, I mean it’s very long.’

‘Heard that before and been extremely disappointed,’ I say with a sigh, about to take another sip.

He looks at me shrewdly. ‘I’m not known for disappointing people.’ The bottle misses my mouth as he continues, ‘So my dad’s Greek—’

‘Never mind, give me the short version.’

‘You’re funny,’ he says. ‘He’s Greek but was raised in the US. And this is my mum.’ He flashes me his lockscreen and I see a woman with auburn hair. ‘She’s Irish, and she used to be a diplomat, so we moved around a lot during my childhood. I was the textbook definition of a third-culture kid.’

‘What’s that?’

‘Someone who finds where are you from? difficult to answer.’ I nod at him to elaborate, and he says, ‘It’s basically anyone who was raised in multiple countries, or who grew up outside their parents’ home countries.’

‘Look at you,’ I say, taking one more sip before I pass the wine back to him, ‘checking all the boxes.’

He lifts the bottle to his mouth but doesn’t drink yet. ‘Mum worked a lot when I was really young, so I spent more time with my dad back then, which was great for me. I was his shadow. I even had a little American accent like he did. But he left when I was about five to start a company in Silicon Valley.’ He takes a glug of the wine, and then another, before speeding through his next few sentences. ‘He had to do it. He wouldn’t be as successful today if he hadn’t had a base in the US.’ A curl drops into his eye, and I get the inexplicable urge to push it back, but then he does it himself. ‘Anyway, around that time, my mum was set to be stationed somewhere kind of volatile, so she sent me to an international boarding school here in the UK for a few years. She wanted to know I’d be safe while she kept doing her job.’

It’s difficult to imagine this, knowing that Max and I went to the same secondary school as most kids from our primary school, which also happened to be where our parents met, twenty years prior. ‘Was it weird for you to be so far from your family?’

‘A little, I guess, but I got used to it.’ His eyebrows draw together for a fraction of a second, but then his expression relaxes into a smile. ‘A few years later my mum met my stepdad, and then they had the twins.’ He smiles when he brings them up.

Instinctively I say, ‘I’m a twin too. I have a brother, Max.’

His eyes light up. ‘Are you close? Do you see him a lot?’

‘We’re close. But he travels a lot for work, so sometimes I don’t see him for months.’ He opens his mouth to ask another question and I realise he’s latched on to this tiny piece of personal information I’ve granted him, so I quickly add, ‘Sorry. Carry on. Where’d you go next?’

He seems like he’d like to keep the attention on me, but thankfully he continues with his own story. ‘Between us we moved around a few more times,’ he lists them on his fingers, ‘to Brussels, Geneva and Singapore, which is where my family has been for about ten years now.’

‘Your siblings haven’t moved around as much as you?’

He shakes his head. ‘Not as much, no. Mum became a teacher a while back. Her students have probably spent more time with her than I ever did, to be honest.’ His smile freezes on his face for a split second, then he adds, ‘Anyway, to answer your original question, loads of people at international schools have this English–American hybrid accent, which I guess I picked up over the years too.’

I pretend I’m not fascinated hearing about this rootless life so different from mine and ask indifferently, ‘Is that all?’

He gives a short laugh. ‘Almost. I moved to Sydney for uni, stayed there an extra year after graduating, went back to Singapore for a couple more years, then moved to Paris, and now here I am.’

‘Here you are.’ I take a drag from the bottle. ‘What was the short answer?’

‘I have a shit-ton of passports and minimal need for visas.’

‘Yeah, that probably would’ve sufficed.’ A car beeps its horn below and it drowns out the sound of another laugh from him. ‘Do you enjoy moving around so much?’

‘It’s what I’ve always done,’ he says with a shrug, taking his glasses off to clean them on his shirt.

‘That’s not what I asked.’

The sun’s disappeared by now, but it’s not dark enough to miss the intensity in the gaze he fixes on me. He seems like he’s weighing up how much to say. ‘I start to feel kind of claustrophobic if I’m in the same place for too long. I try not to get too attached to any one place or person. It makes it easier to leave.’ He reaches for the bottle and takes another pull. ‘Plus, I only own, like, two and a half suitcases’ worth of belongings. I don’t have space for emotional baggage, too.’

‘Makes sense,’ I say gingerly. ‘Why did you come to London?’

His mouth opens and closes before he replies. ‘My time in Paris ended kind of abruptly, and I didn’t really know where to go. But Julien works at this fintech startup called PaidUp and told me they were looking for a marketing consultant on a six-month contract. It all fell into place. I hadn’t lived in the UK since I was at boarding school, and six months felt like the perfect amount of time to experience London before I move again.’

‘Do you and Julien work on the same team?’

‘Nah, he’s a data analyst. And Rory’s a lawyer.’ At my evident surprise, he shouts a single loud ‘Ha!’, flinging his head backwards as he does. ‘No common sense whatsoever, but incredibly smart otherwise.’

‘I believe you.’ I’m not sure I do, but I’m trying not to judge a book by its cover. ‘Is that your thing? Fintech? And marketing?’ It feels fitting that Finn would know how to get people to buy things. He seems like the type of person who can talk his way into anything.

‘I’m not exactly passionate about it. It’s not dinosaurs. ’ He grins, his knee bobbing up and down. ‘But it pays well, and I’m good at it.’

‘Sounds like me.’ My forehead creases. ‘Except that being a barista doesn’t pay well. So not like me at all, actually.’

He laughs and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Forgive me if this is crossing a boundary, but you don’t seem like you love your job.’

‘Well.’ I purse my lips. ‘I’m not really a morning person. And I’m not exactly a people person either.’

‘I hadn’t noticed,’ he says politely.

‘But it’s easy to get out of my head there. I enjoy some parts of it. The coffee and the routine, mostly. Sometimes I get to be a bit creative with the menus too. That’s usually enough to keep the boredom at bay.’

He swipes through his phone and shows me something I recognise. It’s a photo of one of the menus I drew on our chalkboard a couple of weeks ago, and my heart squeezes a little. ‘I always love the menus. Is art just a hobby for you? Or is it your goal as a career?’

My insides coil at the thought. We’re inching far too close to something real, and I don’t want to go near it. ‘I originally wanted to be a graphic designer, but I dropped out halfway through my degree and just haven’t got around to finishing it.’ I pick at the corner of the wine bottle label and add, ‘One day I will.’

He asks the question I really hoped he wouldn’t. ‘Why’d you drop out?’

The boxes I taped shut long ago flex and pulse at the reminder, like their contents are alive and desperately trying to find a way to seep out and find something new to stain. But right now, while I’m sitting with a man I barely know, is not the time to let my brain go to that place I’ve spent years trying to get away from. In the end, I say, ‘Just family stuff.’

He watches me scratch at the label, then he nods once and says quietly, ‘Fair enough.’ He takes the bottle from me and smooths the label down, and it’s like he’s setting the atmosphere back in place too when he adds decisively, ‘At least the coffee shop’s one of those jobs where you don’t have to think about it when you go home.’

‘Precisely. There’s also a revolving door of employees, and I don’t hate training them.’

‘So what you’re saying is, you’re in the process of building your own personal barista army.’ He drapes an arm across the back of the bench and angles his body towards mine. ‘Who are you fighting?’

‘Customers who give me exact change after I’ve already entered a whole number in the till.’ He barks out another laugh and my mouth threatens to betray me with a smile. ‘I’m serious, I can’t do the maths. I pretend the till won’t let me add their change.’

‘In that case, I vow to only ever pay with my card.’

‘Setting an example to customers everywhere.’

We face the river, where fragments of light dart across a slick of darkness, and I have to tip our bottle almost vertically by this point to get any liquid out. At least Finn’s under no illusions about how classy I am.

My insides are warm and my eyelids are beginning to feel heavy, but I know myself after wine, and I know it’s only a matter of time before tiredness turns into irritation, so I’m about to call it quits when Finn does it for me.

‘Shit,’ he says. ‘I need to get going. I said I’d call my brother before he goes to school. He’s a bit of a talker, so I’d rather be at home for it.’

‘A bit of a talker,’ I repeat. ‘Wonder where he gets that from.’

‘It’s a mystery. But it’s in my best interests to be sitting somewhere comfy if I’m gonna be attached to my phone for an hour.’

‘Fine with me. Let’s go.’ Our shadows ripple down the stone steps as we head back to street level. I drop the bottle in a bin with a wince-inducing clatter.

By this point, I’m ready for a quiet journey home. It’s been a long week, I’ve done way too much talking, and my bed is waiting.

‘I promise I’m not following you,’ he says, as we both take a right.

‘That sounds like something that someone who’s following me would say.’

‘I live in Brixton,’ he says by way of explanation. A sigh escapes me at the realisation that I’ll have a companion for the entirety of my Tube journey.

When we reach the platform, a train’s just pulling away, and the board says the next one is in five minutes. I am an ardent supporter of the Tube, but any wait over three minutes feels like a personal affront.

‘Awesome. Only five minutes,’ Finn says happily, sitting on one of the benches. I drop down too, leaving one empty seat between us.

The tempo of his foot tapping against the floor doesn’t match the tune he’s humming, and I try my hardest to block it out.

‘Isn’t it nice when you can just sit in comfortable silence with someone?’ he says, after no more than nine wordless seconds.

‘Is that what this is?’ I ask tonelessly, watching a particularly robust mouse scurry along the platform and stop dangerously close to a middle-aged man in a suit, who, by all accounts, looks like he’s about one surprise rodent away from crying.

Momentarily distracted, Finn follows my gaze to the end of the platform. The man eventually notices the mouse and reacts in stereotypical London fashion. Which is to say, his eyes widen and he feigns a nonchalance that fools nobody around him.

Finn’s feet go back to striking that discordant rhythm. ‘Just sitting here quietly, watching the world go by.’

I wish he’d sit here quietly and watch the world go by, but he’s clearly got a bee in his bonnet, and my patience is rapidly waning. Eventually, I say, ‘Spit it out.’

‘What?’ He stops tapping, resting both hands on his knees.

‘You’re working up to something. What do you want to say?’

He’s clearly been turning this over in his head, because there’s no build-up when he starts to speak again. ‘Why did your friend think we were friends? When she came in asking about the party?’

I try to read his expression; the tilt to his head, the tiniest furrow to his brow. He doesn’t seem like he’s making fun of me. I think he’s just curious.

‘It wasn’t you specifically. I just needed to give her a name and you happened to walk in at the right moment.’

He nods slowly, taking it in, clearly still confused. ‘But why did you need to make up a name?’

Our train finally pulls in and I step on first, leaning into the alcove of the opposite doorway, while Finn stands a few feet away with his hand holding the bar above his head.

‘Josie thinks I need to get out of the house more. But she’s busy with work at the moment, and she’s leaving for a few months at the start of next year and I think she feels guilty about leaving me to fend for myself, for some reason.’ I let out a long exhale. ‘And she thinks making friends will help me, I guess.’

‘Do you think you should be getting out more and making friends?’

I can’t explain those desperate promises I made long ago. How I refuse to do anything to jeopardise the careful balance that’s kept everything safe these past few years, that’s kept life simple. How I switched off both the sun and the rain and turned my heart into the badlands, because if it’s inhospitable, no one will even try to get in.

Instead of saying this, I reply, ‘Whenever I want to get out of the flat, I find someone new, and then I spend time with them. A very small amount of time.’ I square my shoulders and lock eyes with him, daring him to say anything. From experience, men either find this attitude off-putting, or take it as an opportunity to make a lewd comment.

Finn does neither. ‘Sure. But what about when you’re bored and want to hang out with someone for a coffee? Or a walk?’

‘I don’t think I’m lacking in the coffee department,’ I say drily. ‘And I’m not really an outdoorsy person.’

He shifts his grip on the bar above his head as we pull away from the station. He looks like he wants to say something but changes his mind, and eventually he surprises me by moving the focus to him. ‘I’m only asking because I’m in a similar boat. I don’t have many close friends either.’ I find this difficult to believe, and he registers something on my face that must tell him as such. ‘Honestly. I told you, I move around too much to make good friends. Most people are just friendly acquaintances. Julien’s the only one who’s stuck around, and that’s probably because our families know each other. His parents and my stepdad grew up together in Senegal.’ He shrugs. ‘Well, that, and the fact he knew me when I was a gangly nerd with braces, and you simply cannot unfriend someone like that. They have far too much ammunition against you.’

‘Right.’ I breathe again, letting my mind move away from the topic of my barren heart. ‘And now you’re a gangly nerd without braces.’

‘Exactly. Although,’ he peers at his own bicep, flexing slightly as if to check it’s still there, the muscle expanding to fill out the space in his sleeve, ‘maybe not super gangly anymore.’

I want to roll my eyes. But I’m a drunk, heterosexual woman and he’s an objectively attractive man, so I still watch him do it. To my annoyance, he catches me looking. He raises his eyebrows in a question I’m not sure I want to answer, the hint of a smirk on his face, and I turn away as the doors open at Westminster.

The London Underground gods must be looking out for me, because an American couple grappling with approximately fifty-three bags gets on, positioning themselves directly between us. Almost immediately, Finn’s drawn into their conversation, and I briefly think he’d do well in the US, where people are generally friendlier and more open to a chat with a stranger.

Friday and Saturday nights are arguably the only time that conversation on the Tube isn’t completely frowned upon, which is good for Finn and his new friends, because all three of them seem to operate at a higher decibel level than the rest of us. I attempt to block out the noise by closing my eyes and testing myself on running through all the stations on the Circle line in my head without a map. Unfortunately this game doesn’t last long, because with my eyes closed, my centre of gravity takes a nose-dive. I stumble to the side and Finn catches me mid-topple, warm hands wrapping tightly around my elbows and only letting go once I’ve regained my balance.

I glower at him as if it’s his fault I fell. His mouth twitches at the corners but his voice is level when he asks, ‘You good, Ava Monroe?’

When the doors open at Victoria, we all get off, and Finn picks up two of the couple’s suitcases and places them on the platform. He gives them directions to the coach station and they say goodbye, thanking him profusely.

‘Look at that, I knew how to get them somewhere. Maybe I’m a real Londoner after all,’ he says smugly. The further our feet take us underground, the higher my tiredness rises. ‘Did you know the Victoria line is one of only two Tube lines that’s entirely underground?’ I don’t think he even wants me to respond; he just can’t handle the quiet. A few moments pass and he starts up again. ‘I love the Underground. How each line has different colour fixtures and seats to match its colour on the map? Extremely satisfying to me.’

I make a grunt that might translate to cool but more than likely means please stop talking .

‘I think we could help each other out,’ he says at last, keeping up with the strides I’m taking through the station and ruining my efforts to outpace him.

‘You know where I can find a gag?’ I mutter. ‘I’m on the hunt for one. Like, right now.’

‘Hey, what you do behind closed doors is none of my business.’ I stop mid-stride for just long enough that he has to swerve to avoid me. He answers my glare with an easy smile and steps on to the escalator before swivelling and looking up at me from a few steps below. ‘But look, I have a proposition for you. What if we entered a mutually beneficial friendship?’

‘Aren’t all friendships mutually beneficial?’

‘Sure. But you’re not looking to make friends, I know that. I, however, need company or I will likely go insane. So at the risk of sounding like I’m five, will you be my friend? My summer-bound, deliberately regimented friend?’

There’s a group of drunk women behind us in a cloud of glitter and perfume, and one of them yells, ‘Be his friend!’

I sigh. ‘What would that entail?’

Bolstered by the fact my response wasn’t an outright ‘no’ as he – and I – probably expected, Finn’s words flow out of him easily. ‘Hardly anything, I promise. I’m low-maintenance. Just tell me I’m pretty and laugh at my jokes.’

‘I’m unlikely to do either of those things,’ I say quickly, stepping off the escalator behind him.

‘Do it!’ the women say. I feel like I’m at a panto, so I move down the platform away from our audience and wait for Finn to follow, a train pulling in as we walk.

‘I’m thinking you could help me get through my London bucket list before I leave for a new job sometime in the autumn.’

We step on to the train in single file and claim the two semi-standing benches at the end of the carriage.

I clutch the nearest handle to avoid falling off my perch as we pull out of the station and ask, ‘And what do I get out of this arrangement?’

Finn turns to face me, leaning against the partition. ‘Aside from time spent with me?’

‘I meant the benefits,’ I say, which elicits a snort from him.

He cleans his glasses on the hem of his shirt before squinting through them to check for smears. When they’re back on his face, he says, ‘You can tell Josie you’re hanging out with me and you can stop worrying about how she’s worried about you being lonely or bored or whatever.’ I don’t love that he’s managed to pinpoint the exact source of my concern, but I’m still not convinced. He continues, ‘It’s like . . . a friendship of convenience.’

For a little while, the Tube is too loud to be able to hear each other, so he waits for a quieter moment before he starts up again. ‘But what I mean is, we hang out.’ He sees my grimace and adds, ‘In a friendly way. Just like tonight. I get to explore the city and not go mad in my own solitude for the next few months, and you get to test out all your cutting remarks on someone whose threshold for taking offence is somewhere in outer space. It’s a win-win.’

I untie and retie my ponytail three times while I think it through.

Maybe this is the perfect solution. A sign from the universe. Because it’s not just Josie who thinks I should be getting out more. The spiny fibres of boredom have been itching, and this could be a way to scratch without any repercussions.

He talks a lot. But if tonight’s been any indication, he’s easy enough to be around, and I don’t need to worry about keeping him at arm’s length because he said himself he doesn’t get close to people either, and he’s leaving in a few months. What’s the worst that could happen? It’s just one summer.

‘What’s the verdict?’ he asks, peering at me.

‘If I say yes, and that’s a big “ i f ”, we would run through your list at my pace. I choose what we do and when.’

‘Yes. Definitely.’

‘And you’ll let me do my job in peace next week if I agree. I don’t want this to interfere with my daily life.’

The dam on his smile breaks and it spills across his face, deepening the laughter lines bracketing his eyes. ‘I won’t say a single word to you on Monday.’

Frankly, that alone is enough for me to concede. ‘Fine.’

‘Does this mean you’re accepting my very inorganic offer of friendship?’

With a resigned nod, I reply, ‘I am.’

‘Friends,’ he says, sticking out his little finger for a pinkie promise.

I glance down and back up to meet his eyes, sure the warmth behind his must be a direct contrast to the ice behind mine. ‘I am absolutely not doing that.’

He spreads his fingers and switches to holding out his hand for me to shake instead. I match his grip, momentarily relieved he doesn’t have the kind of limp handshake that my mum always taught Max and me to be disparaging of.

He leans back against his side of the train, a gloating smirk on his face. ‘For the record, telling your friend you’d invited me to a housewarming party was a really weird lie,’ he says, closing his eyes for a few moments before adding, ‘I hope I can say this to you, now we’re pals.’

‘Don’t say pals.’

‘Mates. Buddies. Amigos.’ I scowl, but he continues, ‘Comrades.’

‘All right Karl Marx, pipe down.’

We pull into Stockwell and I step in front of Finn, waiting for the door to open on his right.

‘Chums,’ he declares at last, accompanied by a click of his tongue and not one, but two finger-guns. A second later he adds, ‘I actually don’t think I’ve ever said that word in my life.’

‘Yeah, there’s a reason for that,’ I bite back, stepping off the train.

I turn back to look at him leaning against the bench, neck bowed slightly to look down at me on the platform. Just before the door slides shut again, he says, ‘I think you’re gonna like me.’

It’s accompanied by a smile, but it feels like a threat.