The Friend Indeed

I'm sitting in the backseat of a half-worn taxi that smells suspiciously like old takeaway and stale air freshener. The driver’s just turned on the radio, and, bloody hell, it’s some miserable tune straight outta a funeral march. Violins screech like a banshee’s wail, and suddenly, Monday feels like it’s kicked me square in the gut.

“Oi, could you just turn that bleedin’ racket off?” I bark, way louder than intended.

The poor guy jumps and fumbles with the dial like I’ve just smacked him. “I did ask if you fancied some music…” he mumbles, clearly regretting his life choices. “Some folk are right pains in the neck.”

I sink into the torn leather seat, arms folded like a sulky teen, mentally replaying that moment at the coffeehouse. It been two weeks now. Two entire weeks since that stranger had strolled in like he owned the air I was breathing and said those maddening words.

'Found you.'

And those two words haven’t stopped echoing through my skull. My overactive imagination's gone full cinema mode, rolling out every possible scenario like a cheap crime drama.

“Was it a bet?” I mutter. “Or some twisted code? Mafia maybe? Nah… he looked too clean, not a scar in sight. Cult? Don't think so, that’s just daft. Probably just mistook me for someone else. Yeah, that’ll do. That's totally logical. Normal too. Not creepy at all.”

I take a dramatic breath and slap myself, a bit hard, and the driver catches the act in his rearview and practically jumps out his seat. “Erm… you alright, love?”

“I’m just overthinkin’. S’alright. It’s not that deep. Forget it.”

“Er, madam…” he says, tentative now, “we’re here already.”

“Oh, right. Thanks.”

***

The familiar old building looms ahead, looking about as inviting as a venomous snake wearing a "welcome" sign. Number Six, Melburry Street. Home sweet awkward home.

It’s been years since I legged it from here, trying to make a life that didn’t involve being asked about grandkids before I’d even had a proper relationship. But Evelyn’s flat’s gone full showroom for a posh design mag, and I didn’t wanna mess up her minimalist heaven with my emotional clutter.

Dragging my suitcase up the walk, I groan. “Maybe I should go on a blind date. Might be less painful than this.”

I hesitate at the door like it’s about to bite. Still looks the same. And still gives me the creeps.

“I’m home!” I call out, voice hollow against the silence, even though my lovely parents are right there, sat like royalty in the living room and pretending they didn’t hear me. Oliver is fidgeting nervously. Melinda, on the other hand, is sipping her tea with pursed lips.

She’s doing her silent protest thing again. I already know that much.

“Pa!” I squeal with mock enthusiasm, darting past her evil eye and smothering him in a tight hug. “I’ve missed you proper!”

He wheezes like he’s been strangled. Oops. Melinda eyes him vengefully.

“Sorry, dear,” he coughs between chuckles. “Tried holdin’ my breath. I swear on my favourite coffee.”

“Hmph.” Melinda gets up with a sniff and walks off like she’s just smelt something rotten.

I laugh. “She’ll be tired of that soon enough. It’s not like this is a first.”

Oliver sighs like a man carrying the weight of several decades of marriage.

“Well,” he mutters, “tell me you’ve brought news of a boyfriend at least. That’d cheer your mother up. Maybe even stop her threatening to set you up with that lad from her 'women gathering' group.”

“Right… would you look at the time,” I blurt, staring at my wrist like there’s actually a watch there. “Gotta unpack. Don’t want to live outta my suitcase forever, do I?” I’m already halfway up the stairs before he can guilt-trip me further. “I’ll be in my room if you need anything… as long as it’s not about men!”

***

My room’s exactly how I left it. Like a time capsule of all my failed ambitions and misplaced sentimentality. The same dusty paintings from when I thought I’d become an artist—before life mugged me and ran off with my dreams. The same stuffed toys I refused to bin, even though Melinda probably threatens to torch them every other week.

I flop onto the bed with a dramatic sigh, arms splayed like I’ve been knocked down by life itself.

My fingers drift to the beaded necklace I never take off, tracing it absent-mindedly. I don’t even remember when I got it. But I do remember punching Harry once, in the face, for grabbing it. He never saw my fist coming, and neither did I.

Since then, it’s clung to my skin like a second soul. Shower, sleep, interviews, doesn’t matter. It's stayed with me through thick and thin. Funny enough, Melinda’s got one just like it. Her golden snake-like pendant. I guess we’ve got more in common than either of us wants to admit.

Still doesn’t explain the obsession with my love life though. Well, their marriage is like something outta a retro romcom y'know. It's all cute and predictable, and far too perfect for real life. But me? I’m the glitch in the system.

My last boyfriend? An absolute disaster. Either we were cosmic opposites, or I was just too knackered trying to juggle work, sanity, and basic hygiene. Whatever the reason, it fizzled faster than cheap fireworks in the rain.

Relationships aren't like coffee. I mean, it's not like you can fix bitter with a spoonful of sugar. With people, sometimes no amount of sweetness fills the cracks. And once your cup's empty, what’s left? So I did what any logical person ought to—I bottled it all up and locked it somewhere unreachable. Ta-ra, emotions.

But Evelyn Kohl, my bestie? She doesn’t let anything die quietly. She'd threatened Frankie, my ex, so badly he almost cried. He knelt down and begged, right there in front of the coffeehouse like some repentant sinner on a soap opera. Even though I kept telling her it wasn’t his fault, but mine. To Evelyn, I’m never the one to blame.

She’s always been that way. Fierce in the heels. Despite looking like a porcelain doll, she could break a man’s ego with one sentence and a raised eyebrow. I really do love her for it.

And honestly, I’ve no idea how we’re still best friends till now, considering we're from two different planets.

She’s like, super upper class material. Like, she-walks-like-she-floats posh. Works for Ruiz & Co., the sparkly jewellery brand that sells diamonds the size of my eyeball. Her folks are big shots in the company, so she breezed her way in with a wink and a surname.

She’s confident, sexy and even sassy as hell. And there I am, Charlotte with the cracked phone screen and the sarcasm, tryna act like I’ve got life figured out while wearing odd socks.

But I'm still quite happy she's always been my best friend, and will always be.

That's right, Evelyn!