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‘But games make sense. You take action, you get results. People are so—well, let’s just say their programming seems to have some serious bugs.’
‘But I think it would be good for us. Get us out of our ruts. And it’s ages since we did anything fun together.’
What rut was Marnie in? She was living the dream, meeting hot guys on beaches and never paying tax. ‘We had dinner literally two nights ago. I still have the hangover.’
‘Come on. I’ll be your best friend!’ It was an ironic yet non-ironic nod to Marnie’s stock phrase all the way through their childhood and teenage years. Aw, Helz, if you don’t steal your dad’s Drambuie we won’t have enough booze! Aw, Helz, have a smoke, everyone else is. Aw, Helz, snog weird Nigel who smells of egg sandwiches! And Helen was the only one who ever got caught, and then her mum would turn to her with cloudy, hurt eyes, and… ‘No,’ she said, surprised at her own firmness. ‘I really can’t. Honestly. Do it without me.’
‘But—I’ll be your best friend.’
‘You already are my best friend,’ said Helen, feeling guilty—but not guilty enough to join in with the stupid dating project. ‘Look, let’s do something just the two of us. How about lunch today?’ Before Marnie left, the two of them used to meet up at least twice a week, sometimes even catching the tube together on the way to other things, just so they could chat and catch up. Maybe they could get that back. Never mind that a spontaneous lunch would throw out Helen’s food rota and she might not eat all the tomato soup before its use-by date. She could hear voices in the background. ‘Are you in a café?’
‘Yeah. I’m just…updating my blog about vintage fashion.’
What blog? ‘Oh. Well, if you’re busy—’
Marnie paused. ‘No, no, I’d love to. I’d have an hour, would that be enough?’
‘Of course. See you at, say, the Milk Bar? It’s this new place. Supposed to be cool.’ What if it had stopped being cool in the two days since she’d read about it in Time Out? Would Marnie sniff and say, God, not that place, we should clearly be going to that café in Shoreditch where you eat all your food off of old CDs.
‘Great. Can’t wait to see you.’
Helen looked at the latest batch of ‘is my partner cheating on me’ emails, and pushed her chair away from her desk. Who cared if Thursday was ‘clean out the shower and mop the floor’ day? Just for once, she was going to do something spontaneous. Marnie was back in town, and that meant things would start to happen. They always did. Though not always in a good way.
* * *
‘Hi, hi, sorry, sorry, I’m late. Gosh, it’s busy.’
Marnie arrived just after Helen had done the hard work of finding a table in the hip but hopelessly impractical coffee shop. She was currently staking out a space on a sagging sofa, beside a bearded hipster with arm tattoos and a Mac. They were both compulsory, it seemed. Marnie was soberly dressed for her, in jeans and a plain black T-shirt. She gave Helen a squeeze, then eyed her, shaking her head. ‘I just can’t get used to you looking so different.’
‘Do I look that different?’ Helen tugged self-consciously at her skirt, worried she was overdressed beside Marnie’s understated look.
‘Massively. You look…pretty. Really, really pretty. I mean, not that you didn’t before, but…you know.’
Helen dipped her head, embarrassed. ‘I was going to order, what would you like?’
‘Oh, I’m not very hungry. Just a green tea, please.’
‘Not coffee?’ Usually Marnie ran on about seventy-five per cent espresso. Did Helen even know her best friend any more?
She shuddered. ‘No thanks.’
After the endless order—butter or spread? Gluten-free bread? Soy milk or dairy? Decaf? Sugar?—Helen squeezed back in, knocking against the coffee of the hipster. He took in a hissing breath. Marnie faced him. ‘Hey, we’re really sorry. It’s just so cramped, isn’t it? Aren’t the suitcases daft?’
Amazingly, the man, who looked as if he hadn’t smiled since iOS 6 came out, was responding. ‘No problemo. You’re right, it’s so pretentious here, but the coffee—’ he kissed his fingers, non-ironically ‘—it’s really the best.’
‘That’s great. Enjoy your drink.’
He smiled back. ‘Here, I’ll move to that table over there. Give you some space.’
Amazing. Helen had forgotten—it was always like this. Marnie winning people over, blagging things, powering through problems. Helen doing the admin, the clear-up, holding the coats. ‘How are you?’ she asked. ‘I meant to ask—you’ve got somewhere sorted? To live I mean?’ She should have checked this before. Bad friend. But then again: reasons.
‘Oh yes. Lovely people, arty types. Cam and Susie and Fred.’
‘Did you know them before?’
‘No, I just moved in yesterday. It’s like guardianship,’ she explained. ‘You know, like we live in an empty building and the rent’s cheap. It’s so cool. It’s an old school. We use the PE showers!’
Didn’t sound cool at all to Helen—no locks and a big draughty building full of dust more like—but what did she know about the latest trends in communal living? She hadn’t even had a flatmate in two years. ‘Great. Great. And work?’
‘Oh, I’m…’ Here Marnie paused. ‘Well, I’m looking into a few things. Teaching and so on, art, drama…’
Perhaps that explained the all-black and the restricted lunch hour. Maybe she was in the middle of a drama workshop or something cool, and Helen had dragged her out to hear her own ‘news’, which would consist of Mr Fluffypants catching a mouse and (not unconnected) her plans to re-cover her armchairs. ‘So tell me all about the trip! Was it amazing out there?’ It must have been for you to stay away for two years!
‘Where?’
‘Brazil. Or was it Argentina?’
‘Oh. Well, both, sort of. I moved about a lot. What have you been up to all this time?’
‘Um…you know. Working.’ And feeling guilty, and missing you, and generally pining over Ed and staying in a lot. Maybe she could work the Mr Fluffypants story up into a better anecdote if she did some impressions. She didn’t tell Marnie about the website, because she was always afraid someone would ask the name of it, and also she didn’t want to mention Karl for some reason. Marnie would only suggest Helen ask him out. Which was clearly a ridiculous idea. Helen tried to think of something cool she’d done in the past two years. Read every issue of Take a Break magazine? Knitted a hat for the cat? Thought seriously about writing some Game of Thrones fan fiction? God, she really was in a rut. ‘Nothing’s changed, really.’
‘That’s not true! You’re living on your own, you’re working from home now… What made you change jobs?’
‘Oh, I just… I felt like something different. Bit more flexibility.’ The flexibility to make sure she rarely had to leave the house, more like.
‘How’s your mum?’ asked Marnie, sipping her tea daintily.
Helen shrugged. ‘Oh, she’s… I think she’s all right. You can never be sure though. She could go at any time. How’s yours?’
Marnie grimaced. ‘Same. On to boyfriend 165, or something.’
‘Have you been to see her?’
‘And be interrogated by Mr “UKIP just say what we’ve all been thinking” about when I’ll find a proper job and get a mortgage? No thanks.’
Helen almost asked about Marnie’s dad, then didn’t. Marnie hadn’t seen him much since she was thirteen, when he’d finally made good on his lifelong promises and walked out. Time to change the subject again. Her mum, Marnie’s dad—both topics to be avoided if possible. ‘Soooo…do you have an ex in mind? You know, for the project.’ Again, Ed’s name seemed to float between them, and Helen waited for Marnie to bring him up, but she didn’t.
‘Depends who it’s for. It’s quite healthy really. I mean why shouldn’t we pass on dates we haven’t sparked with?’
A millions reasons, Helen thought. Because we’re British. Because, ew. Because people are people and not robots and feelings are bound to be hurt and things will get messy. She didn’t say any of this. Instead, she said, ‘And you think it would be OK?’
‘I don’t see why not. I wouldn’t mind if you dated one of my exes. I’d be happy if you were happy.’
Helen bit her lip. At times she had tried to convince herself of this, but she knew one thing was true: not all exes were the same. Which was why she hadn’t, and still couldn’t, tell Marnie anything about it. She changed the subject again to safer things. ‘Any other plans while you’re here?’
‘While I’m here? I’m here for good!’
There was a short silence, during which Helen thought of the past two Marnie-less years. What if she just took off again? Of course, she’d always been a wanderer—Spain, Dublin, New York, and Australia were just a few of the places Marnie had lived over the years—but she’d never stayed away for two whole years before. ‘I just meant, you know, you said London was so money-obsessed, so cold, so joyless.’ This had been the gist of Marnie’s first garbled email from the beach, after she’d up and left with no warning.
‘Not at all. It’s full of theatres and museums and lovely parks and most of all, it’s got my favourite people in it.’ She gave Helen’s arm a little squeeze, then looked at her watch again. ‘Crap, I’ve got five minutes. I better tell you my news—I’ve been contacting people, seeing who’s around.’
Everyone was around. Everyone else they knew had shown a singular lack of imagination when it came to not moving to London, or not staying in Reading, where they’d grown up. Except for Marnie, who had jet fuel in her feet. ‘Oh?’ Helen was starting to feel as if the majority of the conversation was taking place in her own head. ‘Did anyone reply?’
‘Oh sure. Anyway I started looking up a few people I’ve lost contact with, emailing…’
Suddenly, like seeing the mist clear and the cliff top under her feet, Helen realised where this conversation was going. Oh God. Here it was at last.
‘So I dropped Ed a line! It’s been two years after all, I think it’s time we caught up.’
Helen’s heart was racing as if she’d downed a quadruple espresso. Did Marnie know? No, she didn’t. She couldn’t. She heard her own voice try to stay casual. ‘And was he about?’
‘Well, I haven’t heard back yet. He’s probably quite busy, you know with his music and stuff.’
Thank God. And yet there was something else—a tiny treacherous stab of disappointment.
Marnie and Helen had been close, before. So close they were sworn ‘sober death picture friends’. This meant that if one should happen to die suddenly, the other was charged with making sure the officially released photo was one where the deceased looked sober and upstanding, and not one of them clutching tequila shots in a bikini, which would make Daily Telegraph readers shake their heads over the marmalade and decide they probably deserved to be horribly murdered anyway. But now, Helen had no idea what her friend was thinking. Was Ed just another guy to her now? After all, she’d broken up with him.
Marnie was saying, ‘If he is around, anyway, I think I’ll ask him to my welcome-home drinks. It’d be nice to catch up.’ She leaned forward to reach her tea, and Helen saw something round her neck. A necklace with a pale green stone. The birthday necklace. Oh God.
She swallowed hard. ‘You’re having welcome-home drinks?’
‘Well, sure. Why not?’
‘Um… No reason.’ Helen realised she would have to go, and that would mean maybe seeing Ed, after all this time, and being in the same room as him, and talking to him. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t. She would have to. And then, she also realised, all her defences suddenly caving in like a kid’s sandcastle, she was going to join in with the stupid project, and go out with whoever one of her friends picked for her, because anything was better than the way things were after Ed, and nothing was as stupid as what she’d done back then. And anyway, she owed Marnie. Big time.
Marnie was standing up, swallowing the last of her tea. The hipster man paused in frowning at his Mac to watch her. Even in plain black, she was the most striking woman in the place.
‘Hey,’ said Helen, faux casual. ‘That project—you know, if you’re all doing it, I guess I will too. Count me in.’
‘OMG! Really?’
‘Yeah, why not. It’ll be fun.’ In the same way that gouging out your eyeballs was fun.
‘Awesomesauce! We’ll find you someone lovely, I promise. Listen, I’ll pay for this.’
‘Don’t be daft, you hardly had anything!’ Surely Marnie didn’t have a lot of cash right now.
‘It’s done.’ She put some cash down on the counter, then blew a kiss and dashed off. Helen watched her go, off to her cool life, while Helen was heading home to her cat and her box sets. She wondered how it was you could know someone so well, and still not know them at all.
* * *
Marnie.
‘You’re late,’ said Barry, tapping on his oversized Casio watch.
‘I’m sorry, I just lost track of…’
‘No excuses. I’ll have to dock you a quarter-hour’s pay.’ Marnie opened her mouth to say she was only six minutes late, and had he seen how busy the streets were, but she closed it again, tying on her apron. No point in arguing. She needed this job, and as far as Bean Counters was concerned, Barry was the lord and master of all he surveyed—except when the regional manager stopped by once a month. ‘And turn your phone off,’ Barry hissed. ‘We have to give the customers our full attention during their beverage experience.’
Beverage experience? Marnie fumbled her phone out of her jeans, spotting a message from Cam, her new flatmate. That was the one who stood too close, rather than the one who peed with the bathroom door open, or the one who she’d already caught ‘accidentally’ going through her backpack. It said: Party tonite bring ur own stash. She didn’t want to go to a party, stash or no stash. She wanted to cosy up in her own nice place and watch TV. Exactly what Helen would be doing, no doubt. A place that was warm, and clean, and didn’t contain any sleazy flatmates or recreational drugs, or, for that matter, any bedbugs—she scratched her arm, reflexively. She sighed. Would she ever have that?
‘Marie! Get your arse in gear!’ Barry was pointing frantically at the counter, where a line of customers was waiting, tapping their feet at the thirty-second delay. She thought about telling him her name was Marnie, and that her arse was not and never would be any of his concern, but again, what was the point? With a bit of luck she wouldn’t be here long enough for it to matter.
She took her place, pasting on a smile. ‘Good afternoon, welcome to Bean Counters. Are you ready to begin your beverage journey?’
Chapter 6 The Ex Factor (#ulink_cb62f351-aab9-5e2b-ab53-752b3342bd70)
Helen
‘Right,’ said Marnie, looking round at the other three. ‘We’re all here. Time to start…Project Love.’ They had gathered in Rosa’s flat, which she now lived in alone, David having shacked up with The Intern—apparently, a nasty break-up was what it took to get a place to yourself in London, even a tatty new-build on the scruffy end of Willesden Green.
Ani groaned. ‘We can’t call it that.’ She was shoving Kettle Chips into her mouth like letters in a postbox. She waved the bag at Helen, who shook her head. She was prone to anxiety-eating and knew that if she had even one crisp she’d probably end up eating Ani’s head, and then it was goodbye four-stone weight loss, hello being lifted out of her house by a crane.
‘Are you going to stay here, Rosa?’ she said, trying to postpone the inevitable.
Rosa grabbed one of her Moroccan-print cushions and stuck it over her face, her standard response to anything divorce-related. ‘I don’t know. We’ll have to sell, I guess. So enjoy this while you can.’ Rosa indicated her tatami matting, her carved Indian table, and all her pretty ornaments. There was a photo of her wedding day over the piano, happy faces pushed together. Rosa in vintage lace, David with a top hat, and, in the background, Ani, Helen, and Marnie—who’d flown in from New York ten minutes before the ceremony—in red bridesmaid dresses, throwing confetti. Helen averted her eyes from it—her dress had been ordered in a size twenty. ‘I spent years decorating this place,’ said Rosa miserably. ‘I thought we’d be here for ever. Or at least until we bought somewhere bigger in the suburbs. He always said I loved Ikea so much, I must have Stockholm syndrome.’ Ani met Helen’s eyes—they’d have to watch Rosa, or she’d slide into another wine-and-weeping marathon.
‘Well,’ said Helen brightly, ‘I love living on my own. Think of all that fun decorating you can do. I’ll lend you my fabric swatches!’
Rosa gave what sounded like a stifled scream into the cushion.
‘Come on,’ said Marnie impatiently. ‘We need to get started on Project Love.’ She was kneeling at the coffee table with a notebook, like a child playing at school. Today she was wearing a daisy-print dress, her hair in clips. She looked younger than the Intern David had skipped off with. Ani was sitting at Rosa’s feet, while she stretched out on the sofa. Helen had the armchair, a fancy grey modular thing David had liked, but which made her nervous she might spill red wine on it.
‘Do we have to do this?’ she said, hopefully. ‘I’ve brought a DVD of Mean Girls.’
‘We do,’ said Rosa, muffled. ‘I’ll probably get fired if I don’t. And I’ve already been dumped and my husband’s left me for a—’
‘We can do it, but we’re not calling it Project Love,’ said Ani, cutting her off.
Marnie pouted. ‘But that’s what it is! A new approach to finding happiness.’
‘No, no, we can’t. It’s too optimistic. We might jinx it.’
‘Didn’t think you believed in that,’ said Rosa, from behind her cushion.
Ani blushed a little. ‘Trust me. When you date a lot, you start to believe anything. Otherwise you’d have to think it was your fault every time something promising turns into an 18-cert horror show.’
‘That’s not the spirit.’ Marnie frowned. ‘Positivity, people!’
‘OK, OK. Let’s call it Project “Maybe we’ll meet a guy who isn’t awful and a liar and a cheat, or who won’t accidentally propose to you, then burst into tears in an Indian restaurant”.’
Rosa removed the cushion and rubbed Ani’s shoulder with her stockinged foot. ‘That won’t happen again. You’ve definitely taken one for the team there. Hey, why don’t we call it the Ex Factor or something? You know, because… exes.’
The others considered it. ‘Did you just come up with that right there?’ asked Ani suspiciously.
Rosa picked at a thread in the cushion. ‘Um… It was Jason’s idea actually. For the article, you know.’
Another look from Ani to Helen. Helen said, ‘Is it “Jason” now then? Not “Scary Editor Surf Dude”?’
