Brand New Friend (6 page)

And that was Rob’s main problem.

Working from home.

Other than fielding occasional work-related calls and emails from Phil, Rob was left to his own devices, which was the opposite of how his working day had been in London. In Wandsworth, Rob had spent his day taking calls from friends and arranging nights out for the week, holding meetings with Phil at the pub across the road from their office, occasionally dealing with a midday drop-in from Woodsy, looking for a companion and a lunchtime pint, as well as an awful lot of work. Now, however, his London friends weren’t calling to arrange nights out, meetings were happening mostly over the phone. Woodsy was having his lunchtime pint alone and, with no interruptions, Rob was getting more work done than he’d ever done before.

Bad as things were, Rob took some consolation from the knowledge that at the end of the day he would be with Ashley. There were times when he felt as if it was only when she returned home that he could start living. So, when he wanted to go to the pub, he went with Ashley. When he wanted to go to the cinema, he went with Ashley. In fact, when he wanted to do anything outside the house but didn’t want to do it alone, Ashley came with him. It wasn’t just that Ashley gave Rob access to a social life, she was his social life.

As much as Rob hated to admit that he needed anything (until this point he had scoffed at the idea that ‘no man is an island’) the truth was that he did. And while Ashley was a great way of linking him to a social life on the mainland of humanity, Rob really needed some friends in Manchester whom he could call his own.

‘I’m a Billy No-mates,’ he explained to his mum, one Thursday evening when, to her surprise, he called her for a chat. ‘I haven’t got a single friend up here.’

She thought he was exaggerating, so he put her straight.

‘I’m not making this up. Mum. And I’m not going to realise suddenly that actually, yes, I do have friends – like the old man who says hello to me in the corner shop, or the young couple who live in the house next door and smile at me whenever I get into my car. And your suggestion about the guy in the supermarket who always asks if I want help packing my bags? It’s not true. Mum, none of these people are my friends. The old man who says hello in the corner shop can often be seen greeting various inanimate objects around Chorlton, including lamp-posts, mountain bikes chained to railings and the ancient Dr Barnado’s box in the shape of a small child outside the newsagent’s. The couple who live next door only say hello if, by mistake, they come out of their house at the same time as I’m coming out of mine. When they’re on the ball they spot me first and either linger in their hallway, pretending to pick up the post until I’ve gone, or sprint down the path like Olympic athletes on steroids and drive off like the clappers. Honestly, Mum, it never ceases to amaze me just how far we English will go to avoid saying something as potentially embarrassing as ‘Hello’.

‘And as for the guy in the supermarket, I can tell by his voice that he doesn’t care whether I want my bags packed or not. Why should he? He’s probably got far more important things to worry about. So, to answer your question, have I made any new friends yet?, the answer is one hundred per cent, no.’

It was just after eight o’clock on the following Friday night and Rob was sitting at a table in the bar at the Cornerhouse Cinema on the junction of Oxford Road and Whitworth Street when he spotted his companion for the evening.

‘Hello, mate,’ said Neil, and shook Rob’s hand formally. ‘Good to see you.’

‘Good to see you too,’ said Rob.

‘Have you been waiting long?’ asked Neil, taking off his coat.

‘No,’ lied Rob, who had seen the same group of students wearing ‘UMIST Hockey Club Pub Crawl Mania’ T-shirts walk past the window twice.

‘What are you drinking?’ asked Neil.

‘Carlsberg, if that’s okay,’ said Rob.

‘Of course,’ said Neil. ‘I remember now. Ash once told me you’re particular about your beer. So, you’re a Carlsberg man?’

‘I drink Guinness too,’ added Rob, in an effort to make himself seem less picky. ‘Although it depends what mood I’m in.’

‘And you don’t like anything else?’

Rob shook his head. ‘I’m a bit weird like that.’

‘Not at all,’ replied Neil. ‘If you know what you like why bother with anything else?’ He smiled. ‘I usually go for Tetley’s but tonight I might join you in a Carlsberg.’

Rob watched Neil make his way to the bar and sighed. He was beginning to feel uncomfortable. He was well aware that Neil hadn’t called out of the blue – he’d obviously been put up to it by Ashley. It was a pity drink, an invitation to go out based on nothing more than obligation to a friend. Rob had known this, yet had still said yes – out of politeness and genuine desperation.

Until now, the longest Rob had been away from his London friends was a three-week touring holiday he and Ashley had had in Canada two years ago and even then it had been almost too much for him. But the withdrawal symptoms he had experienced in recent weeks were much worse. Rob had days’ worth of conversation stored in his head just waiting for an appreciative audience. One night, as he and Ashley lay in bed, basking in post-coital bliss, some of it had leaked out.

‘Which do you think is U2’s best album?’ he had asked.

‘Pardon?’ responded Ashley, taken aback.

‘You know,’ he had continued, ‘U2, as in the rock band. Which do you think is their best album?’

‘Well, the only one I’ve got is
The Best of: 1980-1990
,’ she replied.

‘You
can’t
count compilation albums,’ Rob had chided. ‘
Studio
albums
only.
’

‘What are you on about? Why are there rules to this conversation suddenly?’

‘Never mind.’ Rob had turned on to his side and decided that the answer to his question was a tough choice between
The Joshua Tree
(an obvious crowd-pleaser) and
War
(still obvious but not quite as easy to love). But there could be only one winner: which would he choose?

‘Have I done something wrong?’ Ashley had asked.

‘It’s just me.’ Rob had sighed and turned back to her. ‘I’ve got a lot on my mind.’

Ashley had reached across to her bedside table and switched off the light. Rob lay quietly in the darkness next to her; when her breathing had slowed into the rhythm of sleep he had closed his eyes to join her. And just as he’d been about to drift off, he’d whispered, ‘
The Joshua Tree
– definitely.’

The following evening, out of the blue, Neil had called.

‘So,’ said Neil, returning from the bar, ‘how are you settling in? Weather not too much for you?’

‘Everything’s pretty good, actually,’ said Rob.

‘And you like Chorlton?’

‘Yeah. It’s a nice place.’

‘It is,’ confirmed Neil. ‘Very nice indeed.’

There was a long pause and the two men simultaneously took sips of their beer. Rob was just about to ask Neil about his car, a four-year-old black Porsche Boxter, when Neil suddenly reeled off the first of a huge list entitled ‘Questions to ask Rob should the evening get a bit tough’. It was bizarre. He enquired about the hardware and software Rob used at work, projects he was working on and the graphic-design industry. Then he moved on to music: what were the latest CDs Rob had bought, who did he think should’ve won last year’s Mercury music prize, did Rob rate Badly Drawn Boy – Neil knew somebody who knew somebody who drank in the same pub as him. Then he moved on to films: what films had Rob seen lately; had he heard of various new releases. Neil went on like this, frantically covering topic after topic, as though the evening would fall apart if he stopped for a moment. But it wasn’t a conversation they were having – at least, not in the sense that Rob used the word: it was an interrogation, brought on by the fact that the two men simply weren’t clicking. Rob was a square peg and Neil was a round hole.

Just after ten thirty things started to get really desperate. The silences between them were longer and they were scouring the bar’s clientele for inspiration, but as Neil was Ashley’s friend and Rob was Ashley’s boyfriend they couldn’t even pass comment on the small number of attractive women around them. It became obvious to Rob that the evening would soon grind to a halt, leaving them both embarrassed and stranded in conversational limbo. However, just as he was about to excuse himself and go to the gents’ for the third time in the last half-hour, Neil introduced a subject on which they both had something to say: Ashley.

They talked about her early days at college and exchanged amusing stories about her. They dissected her positive personality traits, and even a few of the negative ones. And for what remained of the evening, even though she was at home preparing for some up-and-coming exams, it was as if she was a third person sitting at their table.

Several times Neil made a few carefully-thought-out jokes about her, which were accurate enough to make Rob laugh, but not so accurate as to indicate that he knew her better than Rob. In return Rob made a few jokes about her that got a belly laugh from Neil, but made it clear – even though it hadn’t needed pointing out – that no one knew her better than he did.

At the end of the night they went their separate ways without making a plan to meet up again. There was no doubt in Rob’s mind that Neil lacked the potential to be a new Phil because the only thing they had in common was Ashley. And friendship, as far as Rob was concerned, would never grow out of that.

‘How did you get on?’ asked Ashley. ‘Meet any nice people?’

‘It was a complete waste of time,’ replied Rob. ‘Honestly, we ought to go home now.’

It was quarter to eleven on a Saturday night in March, two months into Rob’s new life in Manchester. He and Ashley were in nearby Didsbury at a party given by Ashley’s work friend, Miranda, to celebrate her husband Carl’s thirty-seventh birthday. Before he and Ashley had arrived at Miranda and Carl’s, Rob had been reasonably optimistic about the party. He had still not made a single new friend and, dissatisfied by the sporadic contact he had with his London mates, had persuaded himself that this party was his big opportunity to find one. From the moment he had walked through the door until now he had worn his most welcoming expression, attempted to be at his most charming and generally sent out the most positive vibes he could muster to anyone who would have them.

‘What went wrong?’ asked Ashley. ‘When I last saw you in the kitchen you were really positive about tonight.’

‘Where to begin?’ asked Rob, unable to hide his frustration. ‘I should’ve known what kind of do this would be when Miranda kept referring to it as a “gathering” instead of a party. It’s a gathering, all right. A gathering of the undead. Where’s the fun? Where’s the dancing? Where’s the atmosphere?’ Rob pointed to a balding young man in jeans and a T-shirt talking to a plumpish woman in denim dungarees. ‘Look at him! He’s drinking Pepsi Max.’

‘How do you know?’ asked Ashley.

‘Because I’ve been watching him all night. And he’s not alone. Half the people here are on soft-drinks.’

‘And that’s a crime, is it?’ Ashley laughed. ‘Who died and made you Minister of Boozing?’

‘It’s not a crime,’ said Rob. ‘At least, not yet. But the only reason so many people are on soft-drinks is because they’ve driven here. Why didn’t they get a minicab like most normal people? I’ll tell you why. It’s because they’re only here to prove to themselves that they still go to parties, even though they never drink, rarely talk to anyone new and always leave before midnight, thereby missing out on the reasons why people go to parties in the first place.’

Ashley looked embarrassed. ‘Will you keep your voice down?’ she whispered hoarsely. ‘One of Miranda’s friends might overhear.’ She added, ‘Look, I know they might not be the most exciting people in the world and, yes, some of them are a bit stuffy, but give them a break, Rob.’

‘I
have.
I really have. Since I left you talking to Miranda I’ve had around eleven different conversations.’

‘Well, that’s good, isn’t it?’

‘Now ask me how many of those conversations were about house prices in Chorlton and Didsbury.’

‘Six,’ replied Ashley, laughing.

Rob shook his head. ‘How about all of them?’

‘All of them?’ repeated Ashley, incredulously.

‘Every single one. That’s eleven different conversations with eleven different people about the price of bricks and mortar in south Manchester. It’s unbelievable. Ash. Do people talk about nothing else round here?’

‘It’s an easy conversation starter,’ explained Ashley. ‘It can’t offend anyone – apart from you. Anyway, stuff like houses, DIY and renovation, foreign holidays, jobs, kids and things we read in the weekend papers is important to people our age.’

‘But it’s not what I talk about with Phil and Woodsy,’ said Rob.

‘That’s because all you guys ever talk about are those weird sort of nebulous bloke topics that you can never remember afterwards. I’ve lost count of the times when I’ve listened to your so-called conversations and haven’t been any the wiser. As far as I can see, you all take it in turns to be the butt of each other’s jokes, do a lot of blokey laughing and one of you tells a daft story about something that happened at work and you laugh some more. It’s like watching one of those New Wave French films where nothing happens v-e-r-y s-1-o-w-l-y.’

Rob laughed. To a degree, Ashley was right. He could never remember what he and his friends had talked about after a night at the pub. But often a night at the pub wasn’t so much about talking as it was about sharing each other’s company. Some of the best nights he’d ever had with Phil and Woodsy had involved nothing more complicated than a four-pack of Carlsberg, a few packets of crisps and an evening of good telly.

‘Well,’ began Rob, trying a different line of attack, ‘do you know what else the people I met tonight spoke about?’