Page 4 of Here for a Good Time
It’s okay,I tell myself as I climb into bed. I just need a change of scenery, new activities to inspire me. I’m only nine days away from inspiration.
As I’m setting my alarms for the morning, a text notification appears at the top of my screen. The name readsSoraya Mazhary.
U up?
Soraya lived in the room beside mine during my first year at university. She was studying geography, and even though I didn’t know anything about geography and she “didn’t give two shits” (her words) about English, it was one of those relationships that, from our first conversation, felt like we were always supposed to have been in each other’s lives, it had simply been a matter of time.
We had both signed up for the same Freshers’ week club night event, and fell in step at the back of the pack on our way to Neon Bazaar in the chilly October air.
I’m starting to think this won’t be worth it, I’d half joked, already regretting wearing a little black dress with no tights.
Wanna ditch it and go get ice cream?Soraya asked.
I laughed. She didn’t.You serious?
She shrugged, and gave a head tilt at the group, almost all of whom were already drunk.Most of them sound like proper twats, don’t you think?
I studied them, yelling and whooping down the cobblestones of High Street like they already owned the town.They do, I admitted.
And that was it. I’ve never been one of those people with a core friend group, and it turns out Soraya wasn’t either; we liked that hanging out with each other meant hanging out with only each other, only two schedules to sync up, two similar tastes in restaurants and concerts and clothes shops to consider. When everyone was forming their little cliques during Freshers’ week, Soraya and I were content being a team of two.
Now, she’s got a toddler, and is a professor at the university.
Unfortunately, I type back.Trying to write. What’s up?
Why are you writing in the middle of the night?
My thumb hovers above the video button at the top right, but in the end, I stick to texting. If I call Soraya now, I’m going to be up for two more hours, and I can’t sleep in tomorrow due to the signing.
Why does any writer forgo sleep to frantically write nonsense in the middle of the night?I write.
Masochism?she offers, which makes me snort.
A contract with a looming deadline and an advance that I’ve already used,I reply.Anyway, what’s up?
My screen fills with a selfie of Soraya flashing a peace sign. From her surroundings, I can see that she’s on the tube.
Not much, in London for the day but heading back to Oxford soon. Just wanted to check in with you. Haven’t heard from you in a while. Wanna FaceTime next week?
Soraya is generous to say that she hasn’t heard from me in a while when the reality is that I’ve failed to respond to her last several texts. I want to explain to her that it’s not personal and I’ve gotten terrible at responding to anybody, but that feels a bit cruel because Soraya isn’t just anybody. After Zwe, she’s my next closest friend. Long-distance friendships are hard, but we’re quite good at keeping in touch. Or used to be.
I feel even more guilty as I type my reply:
Sorry, will be soo busy next week. I’m going away on holiday and need to get work done beforehand. But can FaceTime when I get back? I’ll be gone for two weeks.
I swear Soraya repliesbeforeI press Send.Where? WITH WHOM?she types.
Fancy island resort getaway. With Zwe.
Oooh. Are you two finally going to rip each other’s clothes off and have hot, sexy beach sex?
I let out a “ha!” into the silence of the room. The first time I introduced Soraya and Zwe, she pulled me aside and said, “That man is obsessed with you, and not just in the wayIam obsessed with you.” Over the years, Soraya has gradually let up, but not by a lot; a few Christmases ago, she insisted that she has “a gut feeling for these types of things.”
Definitely not,I respond.
Because you’re allergic to kind, hot men?Soraya shoots back.
I go to typeBecause he’s Zwe,but then delete it.Good night, Soraya,I write instead.
