Eva Woods - The Ex Factor

‘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?’