“Didn’t come with an expiry date. I still got it! Shall we say seven?”
“Perfect.”
“I’ll bring the wine, you order the takeaway?”
Damn. I shouldn’t… “Deal.”
Sod it.
Three
Helen
By seven o’clock that evening, I’d sifted through some work emails, cleaned my bathroom, vacuumed the stairs of my two-bedroom terrace, and eaten an apple. An apple, which meant I deserved to lose at least one pound. When Chrissie’s knock rapped on the front door, my Netflix profile was open and waiting on the TV, my Just Eat order had been assigned a driver, and I let her in wearing my ugliest, but comfiest, pyjamas.
“The essentials,” said Chrissie, holding out two bottles of rosé as she stepped over the threshold, kicking the door closed behind her.
Grinning, I kissed one of the bottles. “In the fridge you go.” The front door led straight into my living room, which adjoined my kitchen, separated by an archway. I took the wine through to let it chill and returned to find Chrissie making herself comfy on my settee. “How do you do that? Look at you,” I said, huffing as I settled down next to her.
She looked left and right, as if the answer would fly into her face. “Am I missing something?”
“Only my green eyes.” Fitting. I really did have green eyes, too. “You’re wearing leggings, and a jumper you’ve owned since before we met, and you still look hot as shit.”
A weird sound ricocheted off her lips. “Oh, piss off, I do not. I’ll accept barely presentable, and you can thank the four layers of concealer under my eyes for that.”
Whatever. She had a gorgeous figure, the kind of silky dark hair that dried in natural, perfect curls, and the most symmetrical face. “You’re right. I was being polite. You actually disgust me a little.” I scrunched my nose, tried to stay serious but broke into laughter within a second. “Food won’t be long. What are we watching?” I picked up the remote, ready for action.
Chrissie’s tongue clicked as I scrolled. “Funny, obviously. Early mid-life crises aren’t cured by tragedies or hopeless love stories.”
“Agreed.” Like we had any experience with early mid-life crises. Were they even a real thing? “Film or series?”
She shrugged, then almost immediately threw a hand into the air. “Hm, stop!”
I surrendered my hands, remote in the air, alarmed by the panic in her arm as she pointed ferociously at the TV like we’d have lost her selection forever if I accidentally scrolled past.
“Schitt’s Creek. I’ve never seen that; supposed to be brilliant.”
“It is,” I told her. “So’s Sex Education.” That was listed right next to it.”
“Right! Of course, though. It’s Gillian Anderson.”
“So…Schitt’s Creek?”
“But you’ve seen it.”
This could go on all night. I pressed play. I could watch the Rose family a hundred times and laugh as hard as I did the first. Our food arrived soon after; pie and chips for me, and sweet and sour chicken with spring rolls for Chrissie. Within minutes, I’d realised this night was just what I’d needed. The food was great, obviously, the telly was funny…but the company? I’d missed company. At times, we didn’t even talk. Just stretched out, ankles crossed over on the coffee table, heads rolled to one side on the settee cushions. I had no words, no thoughts. I just existed, mind numbed by the film we’d later ended up watching on TV…and possibly the wine.
“My high school was nothing like that,” Chrissie commented, nodding to the TV as she unscrewed the second bottle of wine. “Like, seriously, weren’t they all being super ‘badass’ last night and getting wasted at that college guy’s party? Now, what? They’re all perfectly fine; not a strand of hair out of place, not so much as a smudge in their makeup. At my school, we drank until we threw up in the nearest bushes, then the next day we threw up some more.”
I don’t think either of us knew the name of the movie we’d switched on after some thoughtless flicking on Prime, but it’d been quite amusing so far following the drama of American teens navigate their way through love and high school.
I held out my glass, let Chrissie top it up. “Mine either. Also, it’s so funny how American teen shows always have these stunning girls and beefy guys strolling the corridors. Where’s the acne and the wonky eyeliner? The wristwatches drawn on with biro or the toilets graffitied with Paul Hammond sux donkey dick pass it on.”
Chrissie laughed. “Poor Paul.”
“Nah,” I said, laughing too. “Probably deserved it. Paul Hammond was a prick.” Despite our shared memories of our respective high schools, I wasn’t sure Chrissie and I would’ve clicked in those days. I was almost certain she would’ve been in the popular clique, whereas I fitted the misfit category more. Since primary school, I’d spent almost all my time with Hugo. The same things that pushed the crowd away from us pulled us together. He was the socially awkward autistic kid who kept his head buried in a notebook, and I was the loser fat girl who spent all her time drawing. Neither of us had siblings. We were both left alone a lot while our parents worked, or got drunk in Hugo’s case. We just…fit.