Lindsey Kelk - A Girl’s Best Friend

‘Are you wearing denim dungarees?’ he asked, trying not to laugh. ‘And what has happened to your hair? It’s massive.’

‘It’s raining,’ I said defensively, pulling my hair back into a cack-handed ponytail and wrapping a hair tie around the split ends. ‘I got caught in it. And yes, I’m wearing dungarees, only we call them overalls now and they’re very trendy.’

‘You look like a giant toddler who’s come round to fix my toilet,’ he replied. ‘Why are you covered in paint?’

‘It’s make-up,’ I muttered, scratching at the multicoloured smears on my clothes and wondering if he had noticed the extra pounds I’d picked up in Italy. Amy said you couldn’t tell, but I could. Why had I come over without sorting myself out first? What a bloody rookie mistake. ‘I was working.’

Charlie cocked an eyebrow. ‘As what?’

‘Photographer’s assistant,’ I replied. ‘We were doing a shoot for a magazine.’

He nodded slowly. ‘Better than a magician’s assistant, I suppose,’ he said. ‘Milk and sugar?’

‘The usual.’ I sat down on the edge of his settee and tried not to read too much into the fact he was asking how I wanted my tea when he’d been making me tea almost every day for the last ten years.

‘Two cows of milk and three sugars it is then,’ he replied, disappearing into the kitchen. Phew. He hadn’t forgotten, he was just being weird. Brilliant. ‘I haven’t got any biscuits so if that’s all you’ve come for, you might as well go now.’

‘How can you not have any biscuits?’ I shouted, still searching his flat for evidence of what he had been up to for the last one hundred and thirty-seven days and coming up with nothing but a well-thumbed copy of GQ . Even for a slow reader like Charlie, that hadn’t taken almost five months. ‘What’s wrong with you?’

How could nothing have changed in five months? The same books sat on his coffee table, the same pair of trainers lay at the side of the door and the same dusty red Netflix envelope was wedged between his Blu-ray player and the PlayStation. My entire life had been turned upside down and he hadn’t even sent his DVDs back. How was that possible?

‘Health kick,’ he said, emerging from the kitchen with two mugs in his hands. The same mugs. His mug and my mug. ‘No biscuits, no sweets, no chocolate.’

‘Are you dying?’ I asked, only half joking.

‘Just trying to take better care of myself.’ He held my mug out to me and went to sit down on the sofa. Just before his bum made contact he shot back up and perched himself decidedly on the armchair he never used instead. ‘Can’t live on biscuits forever.’

‘That’s a lie and you know it,’ I said, wrapping my hands around my mug, even though it was far too hot. ‘Biscuits are the staff of life.’

‘Isn’t that bread?’ He pinched his shoulders together and fell silent, the awkwardness of the moment finally winning out over our terribly English desire to drink tea and pretend nothing was wrong.

I stared into my mug and tried to remember the last time I’d been so tongue-tied around Charlie. It hadn’t been this bad since the first week of university when I’d watched him playing a Smiths’ song on his guitar outside our halls of residence. A verse and a chorus of Morrissey’s finest and, just like that, I lost the power of speech.

‘So …’ He broke the silence, pulling off his Converse and kicking them underneath his uncomfortable chair. ‘What’s going on?’

‘Not much,’ I said in a voice much squeakier than I had intended. ‘I’ve been running my toddler plumbing company and Amy’s in New York. She’s working for Al Bennett – you know, the man I was taking photos of in Hawaii? She’s his Vice President of Special Projects, isn’t that amazing?’

‘What kind of projects?’ he asked, puzzled. ‘Is he building a house out of Dairylea Triangles?’

‘No, he’s opening these clothes stores, these boutiques.’ I held my tea in one hand and waved the other around as I tried to explain. ‘And starting a clothing line and, you know, she’s got loads of experience in—’

‘I don’t really care, if I’m honest,’ he said, interrupting. ‘I meant, what’s going on with you ?’

I opened my mouth to answer but nothing came out. Instead, I held on to my scorching hot cup of tea and sat in silence.

‘Why are you here?’ he went on. ‘It’s been months since, er, since I saw you. Why did you come today?’

Pulling on the end of my ponytail, I sipped my tea and focused on the Netflix DVD, wondering if he even knew it was still there.

‘Why not?’ I asked quietly.

Now it was Charlie’s turn not to have an answer.

He was sat right on the edge of his chair, his white-socked toes curled underneath each other, clenching and unclenching every other second. I waited another minute, watching him watch me, not saying a word, before I gave up.

‘Do you want me to go?’ I asked, then stood up to leave. At least if I offered, he wouldn’t feel like he was kicking me out. ‘I’ll just go. I shouldn’t—’

‘No.’ He jumped to his feet. ‘Sit down, stay. I’m sorry.’

‘It’s fine.’ I grabbed my bag and swung it onto my shoulder, my camera smacking me in the shoulder blade to remind me what an imbecile I was. ‘I’ll go. I should have called or not come or got run over on the way or something. My mistake.’

‘Tess, stop.’ As I made for the door Charlie grabbed hold of my dungarees by the shoulder strap and my mug flew out of my hand. It bounced off the blue cushions and clattered onto the floor, breaking into three large chunks as it landed. ‘Just stop.’

‘Oh balls, I’m sorry,’ I whispered, as I bent down to pick up the pieces. ‘I’m so sorry, Charlie.’

‘I know,’ he said, yanking me by my shoulder strap until I stood up to face him. ‘So am I, I’m sorry.’

Chewing my bottom lip so hard I thought I might break the skin, I turned towards my friend.

‘Come here, you daft cow.’ He wrapped his arms around my shoulders, pressed his lips against the top of my head and sighed. I felt one hundred and thirty-seven days fall away from the calendar as I buried my face in his armpit, greedily breathing in his teenage boy deodorant, smiling and ignoring the tickling in my ears and lump in my throat.

‘Your hair smells like a wet dog,’ he said, squeezing me tightly.

‘I know.’ My voice was muffled by his damp football shirt and smiles. ‘It’s a new thing I’m trying. All the rage in Milan.’

‘I’m glad you’re here.’ He squeezed my shoulders once more and then let me go. Without the weight of his arms around me, I felt so light I worried I might float away. ‘I’ve been feeling like shit for months.’

I’d never been so happy to hear that someone I loved had been miserable because of me.

‘I wanted to say something but the longer I left it, the more I felt like a dickhead,’ he said, avoiding the broken mug and throwing himself onto the settee, arms and legs all over the place. I sat down next to him, our denim-clad knees just touching, just barely. ‘And then you went quiet and I thought it was too late.’

‘You didn’t answer any of my texts,’ I said, working very hard to resist the urge to clean up the broken mug. Now was not the time. ‘I didn’t think you would want to be friends again.’

‘I didn’t.’ He leaned back against the settee and closed his eyes. ‘I was so angry with you, Tess. I don’t think I’ve ever been so angry about anything. But, you know, feelings go away eventually.’

I pursed my lips and cocked my head thoughtfully. Did they? Just like that?

‘I should have been honest with you,’ I said slowly. The peace between us felt fragile and every word out of my mouth seemed heavy and dangerous. ‘About you know, about the other situation.’