Nineteen
I’ve never been so pleased to see Adam. I never appreciated all those Saturdays when he was engaging me in endless conversation about Spurs’ mid-season performance or the latest flavour of protein shake. But now that I have my own space – it all feels empty and Adam-less.
I feel a bit strange as I get off the Tube at Clapham Common and walk the familiar route to the house. I really like Sir John’s, but it’s just not the same as living with one of my best friends. I miss Adam’s silliness, our late-night chats over cups of tea and chocolate Penguin bars, and our wine-fuelled movie nights, introducing him to all those “ancient classics” that predate Jurassic Park . I reach the front door and root around in my bag for my keys before pausing. Should I be opening the door myself? Should I knock? I’m a guest now. I drop the keys back into my bag and ring the buzzer. No answer. I wait a couple of minutes and buzz again. Nothing. I pull my phone out of my bag and WhatsApp Adam. Last seen three hours ago. Hmm. Maybe he’s been held up at work. Reluctantly, I reach for my keys and let myself in, thinking I’ll just watch a bit of TV until Adam arrives.
Half an hour later I’m starting to get bored and a little annoyed. Finally, my phone pings: Damn. I totally forgots. Went to pub. On way now. Will pick up pidzza.
That sums up our friendship entirely. I’m all excited, and Adam completely forgets. Fortunately, I still had an episode of Housewives of Eastbourne to work through.
When I finally hear the key in the lock, I hastily turn off the TV, rearrange my features into an annoyed look, and cross my arms grumpily, trying to look at my most abandoned.
“Sorry, cuz! I am a bad person,” Adam’s words are slightly slurred.
“Hmm.”
“Oh, come on… I’ve missssssed you.” He jumps on the sofa and smothers me in a hug.
“Get offffff!” I scream, but secretly, I’m pleased. I give him a friendly shove, which sends him backwards over the arm of the chair. His squark of indignation dissipates any residual irritation as I dissolve into chuckles and help him to his feet.
“Ooops. Forgot pizza.”
Irritation creeps back slightly.
“Ordering now!” He pulls out Deliveroo, keen to avoid enraging the dragon once again.
While we’re waiting for the pizza, I tell Adam all about my conversations with Sir John.
“I knew it!” he crows. “I totally recognised a fellow hit with the ladies. It’s all about the eyebrows.”
I roll my eyes. “Anyway, he got really quiet when I probed about his family. There’s definitely something more there. He never talks about his daughter.”
“Who knows,” Adam shrugs, losing interest. “Let me tell you about my flatmate interviews.”
“I don’t want to hear. Too sad for me. I just assume I’m totally irreplaceable.”
“Well, you’re certainly unique… But, anyway, you DO want to hear. It’s been hilarious.”
“Oh,” I perk up. “Go on then.”
“Well, there was this one girl called Candice. She seemed great on paper. Then she turned up, and she was super hot! I thought I’d found the perfect flatmate. Then she says she recently was fired from work for gross misconduct. She had sex on the boss’s desk… classic, right? Then she starts telling me about how she used to date a biker guy with a criminal record, and he wanted her back and stalked her sometimes.”
“Wow! I’m assuming you said no?”
“Of course not – she was hot!”
I hit him with a pillow. “Even you aren’t stupid enough to put sex above keeping your kneecaps. Who was next?”
“Then there was a French guy called Jean-Marc. Didn’t like him.”
“Why not?”
“Arrogant.”
Knowing Adam as I do, I take this to mean that Jean-Marc was very attractive and would be unwanted competition for Adam’s debauchery. “You know, Sir John had a wingman called Peter. Jean-Marc, with his gallic charm, could have helped you up your game!” I’m deliberately goading him here.
Adam glares at me, so I know I’ve hit the nail on the head.
“So, who did you go with?” I ask, ignoring his look.
“Some guy called Javier. Good job, likes the gym, friendly. Probably won’t drunkenly order a bulk load of frozen seafood or cry on any of my dates until they run away.”
“Ooh! He sounds great,” I reply, ignoring the needling.
“Don’t get too excited. He won’t be interested in you. Oh… he may have a brother!”
“Actually…” I hesitate, not sure whether to tell Adam about Ryan or not.
He knows me too well, however, and he pounces. “You’ve met someone! Tell me everything immediately.”
Reluctance bubbling over into excitement, I tell him everything… and I mean everything… That’s one of the great things about Adam. He’s so self-absorbed that he doesn’t really bother to judge other people unless it directly affects him. I feel a slight pang of guilt at my ability to be completely honest with him when I can’t be with Bea, but that’s just a mark of how lovely Bea is. It’s easier to confess to a fellow sinner than to a saint.
He reacts appropriately in all the right places and limits himself to simply shaking his head, wondering and saying, “You really do get yourself into some holes.”
When I get to the bit about the barbecue, he demands that not only do I go, but he goes as my plus one.
“I can’t go, Adam. He thinks my name is Anastasia, and my great-grandfather emigrated from Russia. I can’t expand the lie and drag you in, too. Oh God, and his friends.”
“I’m enjoying the irony of you living a lie after years of constant lectures about my treatment of women.”
“Shut up. I’m not going. We’re not going.”
“We are,” he says firmly. “It’ll be fine. We’ll work out a way to tell him the truth. Maybe get him drunk? That’s what I did with Clarissa when I revealed after six dates that I didn’t actually know her name and that she was saved in my phone as hot girl . She found it hilarious.”
“He’s not like you. He’s sensitive. He’d be furious.”
“Well, we have to do something. I genuinely haven’t seen you this excited about anyone in a long time. We need to keep Ryan. You can’t lose him over something so silly. Million times better than Chris.”
Part of me really wants to go to the barbecue, but I just can’t face telling Ryan the truth. He’ll never understand.
“I just can’t.” My lip borders on a slight tremble, and Adam goes white with horror.
“No, no, no, no. It’s fine. Don’t cry.” He hands me the corner of the blanket on the couch in lieu of any tissue. I resist both tears and that gross misappropriation of a sofa throw. “We’re going to come up with a plan,” Adam reassures as if he’s boosting one of his personal training clients. “We’re going to win this thing!”