What Are Friends For?

by Lizzie O'Hagan, Lizzie O''Hagan

Genres: Friendship

Synopsis

Everyone gives their friends advice when it comes to dating, but what happens when it all goes wrong?

'You can't put it down once you've started it!'
NETGALLEY REVIEWER
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Eve doesn't have time for dating, but having watched her best friend and flatmate have her heart broken one too many times, she reluctantly volunteers to play her Cupid.

Max is too much of a hopeless romantic to find the algorithms of online dating anything other than clinical, but he lives with his romantically-challenged best friend who desperately needs his advice.

And after all, what are friends for?

As Eve and Max become more involved in their best friends' relationship, they quickly realise there is a fine line between instruction and imitation.

Especially when they find they can't stop thinking about their best friend's date. . .

SLIDING DOORS meets THE FLATSHARE meets ONE DAY IN DECEMBER in this sweeping, romantic comedy for the digital age! Perfect for fans of Josie Silver and Beth O'Leary.

*Lizzie's new novel THE VISA is available to pre-order now!*

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Readers LOVE Lizzie O'Hagan!

'Such a clever book, a beautifully written modern story of 'will they, won't they', but so much more. Highly recommended!'
HOT BRANDS, COOL PLACES

'The perfect will they/won't they romance'
NETGALLEY REVIEWER

'A little piece of escapism'
NETGALLEY REVIEWER

'A beautiful and romantic story that literally took my breath away'
NETGALLEY REVIEWER

'It made me wish there were more pages!'
NETGALLEY REVIEWER

*Lizzie's new novel THE VISA is available to pre-order now!*

Release date: September 17, 2020

Publisher: Headline

Print pages: 352

Sample

Chapter One

Eve

Shit. What was that?

I hear a crash from the next room. My heartbeat picks up pace. It’s probably just Buster. But as fat as he is, can a cat really make that much noise? And my flatmate Becky will definitely still be in bed, refusing to surface before 7 a.m. My mind sifts through the options.

One: switch on the kitchen light, let the murderer know I’m standing, Lycra-clad and defenceless, in the next room. Two: swing open the door, wok in hand, and jump-lunge into the living room for maximum surprise. Or three: crouch in the corner of the kitchen, swipe to my Headspace app and lose myself in some guided meditation whilst a thief takes us for all we’re worth. Which to be fair isn’t all that much.

Slowly I push the door into the living room ajar and peer into the darkness. A meow screeches between my feet and a ginger blur flies past as another thump fills the space before me. Not Buster then.

‘Oh crap,’ I hear a man whisper from the darkness. My heart quickens, my breathing follows, and suddenly I’m not sure which is worse: getting murdered in my gym kit or having a panic attack in front of a complete stranger. Breathe, Eve, just breathe.

The stranger fumbles, a light switch clicks and the living room is flooded with light. Well, I say flooded, but three out of five bulbs have broken in the last two years and we still haven’t got round to replacing them. So not so much flooded as dampened with light. Note to self: dampened with light. Could make good copy. Maybe local nature piece? My heart thumps, so does the stranger, and I’m back in the room. Well, kind of. Peering into it at least. In the low light, I trace the man’s movements, trying to place a face I’m almost positive I’ve never seen before. He stumbles across to the sofa, reaching behind its cushions and retrieving a black leather belt. My life flashes before my eyes. But wait, why would a murderer do that? Through the gap in the door, I watch him thread the belt back through his trouser loops, hands shaking, symptoms clear: here we have the hung-over man.

I breathe a sigh of relief so heavy I’m sure it’s audible, but Becky’s latest conquest carries on regardless. I allow the door to creak open a little further as he spots one shoe on the window ledge. A little further as he almost stumbles into our boarded-up fireplace to retrieve the other. What the hell did they get up to last night? Further still as he reaches behind the TV, pulling his shirt from the floor and shoving his tattooed arms into the sleeves. I push the door wider as he finds his jumper balled up beneath the coffee table and stand in the doorway, arms folded, eyes glued to my best friend’s date, trying my best not to laugh. Buster appears by my side, the Watson to my Sherlock, as I clear my throat.

‘Can I help you with anything?’

‘Shit!’ Becky’s date jumps out of his inked skin as he turns from what he thinks is the front door. Clearly, he doesn’t remember that you enter our basement apartment from the back. The front door’s as redundant as the fireplace, and the microwave, and the . . . Jeez, I wish our landlady wasn’t so sweet that we don’t have the heart to tell her that her house is a hovel. I watch as the tall, dark but sadly not as handsome as he thinks he is guy looks me up and down, all six foot one of me.

‘Cute cat.’ He looks down at my feet as he walks towards the door. Buster growls. ‘Tell Bex to call me?’

I nod. Even though she hates being called Bex. Even though I know she’s not going to call.

I slam our back-front door shut behind him. Mostly because it needs a good thump. A little because I’d like to give him one too. I look down at my watch. Thirteen thousand steps. Thirteen minutes past the hour. And about thirteen new article ideas to type up before they disappear from my memory, forced out by some mediocre piece the newspaper wants me to focus on instead. I walk back through the kitchen and across the living room, Buster still following. I know better than to think it’s because he loves me. It’s almost breakfast time.

‘Eve.’ I turn to see a mess of dark hair and pink pyjamas sprawled on the sofa. ‘I snuck out as soon as I heard him leave.’ Becky lifts her head to look at me, her normally olive skin almost as white as his was. She sits up properly, her black hair cascading down her back, her gesticulating arms thrown out in display. ‘I woke up like this.’

I laugh. Unlike the countless millennials who take hours to perfect the ‘I just woke up like this’ look, when it comes to Becky, I believe her. She hugs a large cushion to her stomach, almost engulfing her entirely. It’s embroidered with an elephant, its swirling oranges and pinks a nod to its Indian roots. It’s one of countless elephants and sparrows scattered around the place, a reminder of the day we met, when Becky found me crying in the toilets of Oceania after he-who-shall-not-be-named called me ‘Eve the Elephant’ and she branded her tiny self ‘Becky the Bird’ in solidarity.

‘I’m so hung-over.’ She grabs my arm like a lifeline.

‘Sorry, babe, I need a shower.’ I look down at my watch: 7.15. I’m not going to have any laptop time at this rate. I don’t wake up at 5 a.m. to get to work in a rush.

‘But I need you to shower me with love.’ She looks up at me, all puffy puppy-dog eyes.

‘Don’t you need to get ready for work too?’ I ask, almost scared she’ll say yes. She’s a mess. And I’m guessing the parents of the children she teaches would agree with me.

‘Please,’ she pleads. ‘Eve, it was terrible. I need my therapy.’ She groans.

‘Okay. I’m going to shower, and then I’ve got a few things to write whilst I have breakfast. You can give me the bullet points then.’ Becky smiles, mission accomplished. ‘We need to talk to Matilda about the mould, too.’

To be fair, we try to talk to our landlady about all the things that are wrong with the flat. She just force-feeds us Victoria sponge and loveliness and we suddenly feel bad for whatever basic human right we were arguing for in the first place.

‘I’m kind of starting to like it.’ Becky smiles. ‘Feel like we’ve got a jungle vibe going on.’

I pick up a sparrow cushion and fly it across the room towards her.

‘Fine, fine.’ She holds her hands up in surrender. ‘Mould and Matthew, both on the agenda.’

Matthew, I think, rushing towards the bathroom. At least this one has a name.

I grab my towel and switch on the shower radio, letting the news wash over me as I exfoliate at speed. Note to self: research female police officers working on sexual harassment cases. I race out of the shower into my room – the bigger of the two despite the fact that I rarely have visitors – and switch on the iron. Becky says I’m the only woman in her late twenties who actually owns an iron. Note to self: research the decline of ironing amongst the millennial generation?

I blow-dry my hair whilst sitting in my towel, eyes scanning yesterday’s Metro. I fold down the ‘Guilty Pleasures’ pages for Becky, then moisturise my hands, circulating my wrists over and over whilst I do. I’m not sure whether the repetitive strain is getting better or I’m just getting better at ignoring it. Either way, it’s not like I can type any less; it’s part of the job. I put on make-up, the same as every day: enough to look pretty, not so much that I look like I’ve tried. Hair in a ponytail, I tuck my now crisp white shirt into dark jeans. Done. I race back into the living room, blood pumping, anxiety surging, wishing I had time for another run. An hour in the morning is usually long enough to keep my anxiety under control; the fresh air on my face, the sound of my feet hitting the pavement. It’s the only reason I sneak out and back into the house before dawn.

The bundle of Becky is right where I left her.

‘Eve?’ I ignore her, heading to the kitchen and returning with two bowls of granola topped with yoghurt and fresh berries. The only food I ever make her.

‘You don’t happen to have a full English in there, do you?’ She sits herself up again.

‘You get what you’re given,’ I quip, but Becky is already tucking in. I flip open my laptop. ‘Right, we have approximately eight and a half minutes. Shoot.’

‘It started well,’ Becky begins as I begin to type up my first article idea.

‘It always does . . .’

‘He looked better than his photos and the bar he picked was really cool.’

‘Shoreditch, right?’ I ask, not looking up from my laptop.

‘Yeah,’ Becky says slowly. ‘How did you know?’

‘Arm tattoos, skinny ripped jeans, floppy brown fringe,’ I recount. ‘It’s textbook.’

‘Wow, you were born to be a journalist,’ Becky laughs.

I usually think that too. I just wish work would give me a chance to be a proper one.

‘Okay, so yeah – cool bar, cool boy. But then he just talks about himself all night, so, so self-obsessed.’

‘What do you think of this top line?’ I say, thinking out loud.

‘Eve, we’re talking about me,’ Becky objects, the irony not lost on either of us. Thankfully, I know she’s joking. Becky may love the drama, but she’s far from self-obsessed. She’s got the biggest heart I know. Which might be why she’s always trying to give it away to someone. Anyone.

‘So why did you bring him home?’ I ask, ideas saved, laptop stashed.

‘Did you see him?’ Her eyes widen along with her smile.

‘Yeah.’ I move across the room to stuff three notebooks into my bag. ‘A lot of him actually. He was okay.’ I shrug as best I can whilst reaching behind the TV to unplug my phones. There are no missed calls, no messages on either. ‘Not good enough for you, though.’ I look over at her. ‘So no second date?’ I ask, already knowing the answer. She wouldn’t have pretended to be asleep this morning if another date was on the cards.

‘The sex was good,’ she muses. ‘But you know I’m looking for more. So no. Thank you, next.’ She clicks her fingers, channelling Ariana. Which for someone sharing her height isn’t all that hard. ‘I’ve got another first date lined up for tomorrow night.’ She smiles, but I can tell it’s not just the hangover wearing her hope thin. She’s been at this online dating game for a while now. ‘What are you doing tonight?’ she asks, her tired eyes struggling to keep up with my movements around the room. I have three minutes until I need to leave for work.

‘Becky, you’re not sitting on my book, are you?’ I’ve run out of places to look.

She reaches beneath the blankets she’s burying herself under and fishes out my thumbed copy of Far From the Madding Crowd.

‘For a girl who eats ideas for breakfast,’ she looks down at Buster, his furry face now hidden in my discarded bowl, ‘you sure read that book a lot. I don’t know why you like it so much.’

What’s not to like? The writing. The romance. The three guys fighting for the heart of one girl. I know better than to say that out loud, though. It’s easier for Becky to think romance isn’t on my radar and I don’t have time for it right now anyway. I don’t even have time for this conversation.

‘I read an article that said rereading books is relaxing.’ I shrug. Becky’s brow is still furrowed in confusion. ‘And then I read another saying that being relaxed makes you more productive.’

She cracks a smile so warm it can’t help but whisper: there’s my friend.

‘And I sure as hell need relaxation today, with the shock your near-naked guest gave me this morning,’ I add.

Becky groans, throwing a hand to her forehead, mortified afresh. ‘I’m so sorry, Eve,’ she says, and though she laughs through her self-inflicted pain, I know she means it. ‘Let me make it up to you. Dinner, Ciao Becca, tonight. My treat.’

‘Becky, your parents own it, we eat there all the time and we’ve never paid them a penny.’

‘And you think they’d do that if I wasn’t their beloved only daughter?’

‘Well, no . . .’

‘So technically it’s my treat.’

I laugh. Becky’s parents are the best. Sometimes, though, I wish hanging out with them didn’t remind me that mine are the worst. I reach down to take the bowl away from Buster – not happy. Then again to kiss Becky on the head – also not happy.

‘Remember you can always text me to stage an emergency if your next date is a dud,’ I shout back to her from the kitchen. God knows I’ve had to do it before.

‘Thanks, babe,’ I hear her smile. ‘But next time don’t go so big, okay? Almost killing off my Uncle Frank in a car accident nearly gave me a heart attack.’

‘You don’t even have an Uncle Frank.’ I open the back door. ‘And what can I say? I don’t believe in doing things by halves.’

‘Evelyn,’ she sighs, forcing herself to stand and tracing my steps across the room to lean on the door frame into the kitchen. ‘You don’t believe in doing anything but completing the whole fucking circle then lapping it ten times before breakfast.’

I laugh. Walking out into the sunlight, I hear her sigh behind me.

‘Sometimes I think I have more in common with you, Buster . . .’

I turn back to see her stroking my fat cat, who has found his way back to my bowl in record time. Maybe she does, but that dogged determination to get exactly what he wants? That he shares with me.

 

Chapter Two

Max

I wake up to the high notes of Sam Smith’s ‘Stay With Me’ not so much floating as forcing themselves through my bedroom wall.

I’m not even joking when I say my best friend Tom sounds like a girl. And never have lyrics been more ironic. As Sam and Tom cry out that they’re no good at one-night stands, I can’t help but snort into my pillow. The fact that Tom is singing this morning is because he is impossibly good at them, or trying to be at least. They say the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else, don’t they? I don’t really buy that, but Tom’s certainly been giving it a good go recently.

I was in bed, halfway through the film Lion, when I heard him come in from his date. From his drunken crashing around the kitchen, I’d say he’d had a good night, but I’d take the orange and pinks of India’s skyline and a multilayered love story over a pint on the common and a quickie at some stranger’s house any day. Plus, if Dev Patel can go from the gangly kid in Skins to that powerhouse of a protagonist, well, there’s hope for us all.

I stretch my limbs to reach the four corners of my bed as Tom soars up an octave before his singing stops altogether and I hear the sound of our sticky bathroom door being thrust open and slammed shut again. When you’ve been living together for as long as we have, you learn to read each other’s movements. This one screams: shower’s free, dude.

I force myself out of bed, replacing my bed sheets for a towel, wrapping it around my waist. Walking down the corridor, my mind runs through the thousand things I have to do today. Tom might get to rock up to work late, but I’ve waited too long for this step-up in the charity not to give it my best now.

Just as I open the door to the bathroom, I hear the shower turn on – and it sure as hell isn’t Tom going in for round two. Shit.

As the steam starts to dissipate, I’m left like a deer in the headlights, blindsided by the fully naked figure of what I assume is Tom’s latest date, from her dampening hair, past her bare back to her tiny waist and, well, beyond. I stare on, fixed to the spot, as she reaches for the shampoo, singing under her breath, serenading the shower tiles. Any second now she’s going to turn around and see me standing here. Me, in just a towel, watching her, in even less. Shit.

I hear the door shut behind me. No, no, no, NO. It’s the kind of old wooden door that expands in the heat. Tom and I know to do our three-minute bathroom routines after we get out of the shower just to give it time to cool down. I yank on the doorknob, trying to use enough force to open it but not enough to make a noise. It’s jammed shut. This is bad. Please don’t turn around, please don’t turn around.

I look round the bathroom for a towel, a loofah, anything, just to cover my eyes so she can see I’m trying not to perv. There’s nothing. Nothing. Not for the first time, I wish we didn’t live like such boys. She’s not even brought a towel in with her. I bet Tom hasn’t told her he has a flatmate. Great, now she’ll be even more thrilled when she turns off the shower to meet me for the first time. I can’t imagine it will bring her much comfort to know that her being here is as much of a shock to me. Thanks for the heads-up, Tom.

With nothing left for it and the steam evaporating any hopes of a better idea, I take off my towel, holding it as a wall between the two of us. Then I hear it. The scream.

‘Aargh!’ she cries, and even though I knew it was coming, I can’t help but join in.

‘What’s the matter?’ I feel a gush of cold air as Tom pulls the bathroom door open to be greeted with my bare arse, me holding a towel out like a father about to swaddle his child. ‘Mate, what the fuck?!’

I turn around so that the towel is facing Tom, and now my arse is facing her whilst his everything is staring at me. He’s as naked as the girl behind me, every part of him so big that he has nothing to hide. Not that he’s even trying to.

‘Tom, what the hell?!’ she yells at both of us.

‘This is not okay!’ I shout at Tom. It’s not the first time his lack of communication has led to an unwanted run-in, but this is by far the worst.

‘You can say that again,’ the woman cries from behind me.

‘Ruby, meet Max.’ I catch the glint in Tom’s eye and I can tell he’s trying not to laugh. ‘Max, meet Ruby.’

She screams again as I push past Tom, wrapping the towel around any last shred of dignity I have.

Which right now isn’t all that much.

‘Why can’t your dates use a damn lock?’ I walk into the living room to find Tom, long legs crossed, sipping a freshly brewed coffee with one hand and holding a book in the other.

‘It’s no big deal, she’s probably already forgotten.’ He grins, but we can both hear her ranting into her phone from his bedroom. I’ll be on some kind of blacklist in no time.

‘I wish I could forget about it.’ I accept the coffee cup Tom points to on the side.

‘I’m sorry, Max,’ he says into his book, trying his best not to laugh. ‘Maybe I should have messaged you to let you know we’d come back here instead. It was late and she didn’t want to scare her housemate by bringing some stranger home.’

‘How considerate of her.’ I narrow my eyes in his direction before noticing what book he’s holding; it’s one of my favourites. ‘Dude, are you even reading that?’

‘I thought it would make me look sensitive.’ He peers over the top of it to see my rolling eyes. ‘Didn’t know he could write, though.’ He shrugs.

‘Thomas Hardy?’

‘Yeah, the hard one from Peaky Blinders? He can act, he’s got that face and now he churns out this Madding Crowd thing. The guy’s got it all.’

I’m mad at him for letting me scare Ruby like that, but I can’t help but laugh. Literature isn’t one of Tom’s strong points.

‘Dude, Far From the Madding Crowd was written in 1874, a hundred or so years before your Tom Hardy was even born . . .’

‘And the dude can time-travel.’ Tom laughs too. ‘So it’s proper old then,’ he continues as I feel the caffeine hit my system and my startled heart begin to settle. ‘I don’t know why you like it so much.’

The writing. The romance. The fact that all three guys know they’re willing to fight for the heart of one girl. I can only imagine what it’s like to know you’ve found something worth putting it all on the line for.

‘Tom, this is not acceptable.’ Ruby storms into the living room, now thankfully fully clothed. ‘I’m there grabbing a quick shower and your housemate thinks it’s okay to let himself in, nakedly watch me shower and then offer me a towel as if that’s totally normal . . .’

‘Classic Max.’ Tom shakes his head, amusement written over every inch of him. ‘Here I am trying to look sensitive and you’re holding a bloody towel out for the girl. Give a guy a chance, bro.’

I risk sacrificing my coffee to punch my best friend on the arm, my clenched fist just hitting hard, dense muscle. Tom doesn’t even feel it.

‘Look, I’m so sorry Ruby.’ I turn to Tom’s date, still standing, arms folded, in front of us. ‘I had no idea you were in the shower, I had no idea you were even in the flat.’

Ruby looks from me to Tom and back again. Tom sips his coffee. I can tell he doesn’t really like her. If it was Yvonne, he’d be up by her side staging a united front by now. Ruby seems to relent, collecting her coffee from the side. Tom’s made it in a keep cup that must have come back with her last night; to her it might look thoughtful, but to me it’s another clear sign: anyway, last night was fun, you mustn’t be late for work now. Ruby doesn’t take the hint, coming to sit next to Tom.

‘So you’re not some pervert?’ She looks at me, softening.

‘No, I promise.’ Even though I can tell Tom isn’t keen, I wouldn’t want her to leave feeling disrespected. ‘No one has a claim to a female’s body but the person who inhabits it.’

‘You quoting that Hardy guy?’ Tom looks at me, darting his eyes back to the book.

‘Nope.’ I take another sip of coffee, embarrassed again. ‘That one was just me.’

‘Good.’ Ruby snuggles into Tom’s side, and he looks at me desperately over the top of her head. Help. ‘I’ve only got room for one peeping Tom in my life.’

‘Anyway,’ Tom says slowly, starting to unpeel himself from Ruby’s grip, ‘it was really great to meet you but I should be getting ready for work . . .’

‘Yeah, I had a really good time.’ Ruby gets up too, gazing hopefully up at him. Even at around five foot eight, she looks small beside him.

‘Me too.’ Tom nods, moving not so subtly towards the front door.

‘Like really good,’ she repeats, pressing a hand to his broad chest.

‘Me too.’ He nods again. She’s baiting but he’s not biting.

‘Like maybe we could do this again good,’ she says, as Tom takes another step towards the door with her hand still against him, shepherding her out.

‘Yeah, sure.’ He bends down to give her a peck on the cheek. It’s a brush-off, but she still smiles at the chivalry. It’s painful to watch. Still, no one really goes on those dating apps for love, do they? What did she expect? ‘Last night was fun,’ Tom says, as I mouth the lines behind my mug. ‘You mustn’t be late for work now.’

‘Good date?’ I ask as Tom thrusts a hand to his hung-over head. He groans. Tom is a great conversationalist when he wants to be, but sometimes takes a little prompting. Usually in the morning. Usually hung-over. As a personal trainer, he spends most of his time teetotal, so when he does let himself drink, it’s a t-total disaster. Tom doesn’t appreciate . . .