Page 8 of Textbook Romance

‘How do you know someone who works in a sexual health testing laboratory?’ I ask her softly.

‘Zumba. She has stories.’

‘I’ll bet.’

‘I can seriously leave you her number.’

‘Stick it on the fridge.’

‘That’s my girl.’

Jack

I left university eight years ago and, every year since then, my friends and I have attempted some form of annual reunion to try to hold on to that time of our lives and all those precious friendships. In those first years, reunions would involve the pub. Actually, it wasn’t just one pub, it was many pubs, and we’d drink and partake in recreational drugs, and dance and basically attempt to recreate our university experiences in Clapham, trying to reclaim the lost vestiges of our youth. I once slept outside a Tesco Metro after one of those reunions. I woke up to find a rat eating the remnants of my chips. Oh, the memories. Looking up at the newbuild house in front of me today, though, I feel like that’s not going to happen this time, is it? I do hope there may be chips, though. I gaze at its very shiny red door, the Ring doorbell, the bay trees to either side and do you know what I see? I see adulthood.

‘JACK ATTACK!’ Sarah opens the door. I wish she wouldn’t call me that anymore, but she does and flings her arms around me, looking vibrant and relaxed in a classy polka dot number. ‘You found it then? Where did you park?’

‘Oh, I walked from the bus stop.’ I won’t tell her I rang three different doorbells before hers, though, because all the houses on this estate look the same. Behind her, I can see the buzz of this small gathering in full flow. This is not the pub, we’re not going to dance, are we? ‘And I also bought you a housewarming gift. It’s a money plant,’ I tell her, hoisting it into the air. I carried that on a train all the way from London, so she’d better keep it alive.

‘Gorgeous. Come in, come in…’ I sense her looking around me to see if I’ve brought company, but that would be a no. It’s just me and the plant.

Sarah and I were on the same course at university and lived together in a shared house. What I liked about her was that she came to university with a boyfriend and left with the same one, so there was no chance to ruin a perfectly good friendship by getting drunk and sleeping with her. She’s reliable, sane but very sensible. You feel that she bought this newbuild with money she saved and a plan. We walk through the kitchen, and I wave at said boyfriend, Hakeem, who’s wearing oven gloves and balancing serving utensils. This whole place is how I imagined our thirties to look, with its sleek counters and floors, and bifold doors that open out to the garden.

‘Bowie’s still going then?’ I ask her. I look down. Bowie is her little Shi Tzu who I once dog-sat when she went on holiday and who took a Shi Tzu in my bed, on my pillow. Apparently, that was a sign of love. He looks up at me with curious eyes and I smile down at him.

‘Of course,’ she says, picking him up. ‘You remember Uncle Jack, don’t you?’

Bowie doesn’t show any sign of recognition. Maybe if I left him a gift on his pillow, he might. I head outside, the sun flooding the patio, the furniture clearly straight out of its packaging.

‘JA-AACK!’ a chorus of voices chime in harmony and I put my arms in the air to signal that yes, I am here.

‘Beer, mate?’ a voice says, and Ed appears next to me, a BrewDog in his hand. If there’s one thing I like about being older, it’s that the quality of alcohol has improved.

‘Always,’ I say, putting an arm around him, relieving him of the beer. It was a university house of six and Ed was another comrade-in-arms, part of our motley crew who used to survive off toast, awful house parties and far too many afternoons watching quiz shows that made us feel clever. We loved Ed because he came to university with a full dinner service that featured six cereal bowls which is basically all we ate out of for two years. The last time I saw Ed was four months ago at his wedding. ‘How’s tricks? I am liking this tan on you. You look so healthy.’

‘That’s Florida sunshine for you.’

‘Is Mia here?’ I ask him, looking around the place, noticing the glimmer of silver on his ring finger.

‘Oh, she’s buzzing about…’ he says, pointing to some sort of makeshift bar where she seems to be mixing large jugs of something. She spots me and waves animatedly.

‘So… this is it…’ I say, looking around this small garden space. Since our days at university, we’ve all splintered off in different directions, taken on different lives. Some of us moved home, some of us didn’t. Sarah was one of those clever sorts who realised she’d get more for her money in Manchester. I inhale deeply. I’d be lying if I didn’t say that in the past two or three years, these social gatherings have been more of a comparative exercise in who’s the most grown up. Now that we were all thirty or approaching that age, it’s an exercise in demonstrating who has achieved the most, who has made the right life decisions. God, I still have trouble working out what shoes to wear most days.

Sarah literally posted a video in our group chat of when she viewed this house. I know that on the stairs, she went for a Slate Sky carpet because she put a poll on our group asking us to vote. I won’t lie, I think I may have gone for something with a little more character, but I see the pride in Sarah’s face that she has made a nest and it’s all hers. In the corner of the garden, a barbeque is in full swing and another of our friends, Rafe, stands there with a tea towel in his back pocket, posing with tongs. I hear him gabbling on about wagyu. I don’t mind Rafe, but he went into finance and bought a flat in Canary Wharf, and often sends us pictures of him in yachts. It’s only a matter of time before I get so drunk that I tell him I think he’s turning into a wanker.

‘She has an ensuite, you know?’ Ed says, plainly.

We smile at each other. This was a big thing for Sarah which was probably fuelled from years of having to share a bathroom with people like us who used to steal her toothpaste. There are lots of Sarah touches about the place. She’s big on candles, fairy lights, scented crap. There’s also a sign in the kitchen. It’s a picture of a cheese grater, and underneath it in cursive font BE GRATEFUL. Ed catches me looking and we stare at it together, clutching our beers, one hand in our pockets. It’s how a man should stand at a barbeque.

‘Did you buy her that?’ I ask. Ed laughs into his beer. To be fair, if anyone is the most grown up in this place, it’s young Ed here. Ed who is now married and entered into a legal binding agreement to share his life and worldly possessions with another. ‘So, tell me, mate – how is married life?’

‘Honestly? Pretty much like when we were just living together except we had a big party and I have photos as evidence.’

‘It was a very good party.’

‘I am glad you enjoyed it and many thanks again for the gift. Did you get the thank you card?’

I smile. I did. It was very Ed. Handwritten and very sincere, like his mum had told him to do it. He always had excellent manners.

---