Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (27 page)

“I know what you mean,” I said. “But a bit of revenge is called for in this case. Once I reveal it’s me, it’ll all be fine
again.”

“No, no, not the revenge thing. I think the revenge thing is
good. Called
for. You
have
to get him back. I just mean…”

The pub crowd started to applaud. Initially I thought someone had scored. But they hadn’t. Penalties were starting.

“You just mean
what,
Ian?”

“Well, you’re trying to
meet
everyone else, it seems. The Loughborough people. The IT guy. All you’re doing with this Ben fella is
phoning
him.”

“He’s in LA, mate. LA’s a bit further than Loughborough. Cameron and I met up in London. And I’m going to meet Peter here
too. No—this is new media revenge. Something he’d never have dreamed of fifteen years ago. This is the right and proper way
to pay Ben Ives back… and I’m enjoying it. It’s the best way.”

But inside, a little pocket of sadness had opened up. I knew Ian had a point. The spirit of the activity demanded a meeting.
But what else was there to do?

“Do you
want
to meet him?”

“Course I want to meet him.”

“Then you should meet him.”

Ian had had an idea. There was a sparkle in his eye.

“If England win this game,” he said, pointing at the screen, “then
you
have to go to LA.”

“What’re you on about?”

“It’s a bet! You
love
bets!”

“Ian, I
don’t
love bets.”

“You
used
to.”

“Once. And it was only
one
bet!
One
bet and I’m tarred for a lifetime!”

“Quick, get drunk,” he said, trying to hold my pint up to my lips.

“
One drunken bet
in the
last century
and that’s all people think I do all day!”

“If England win on penalties, you have to go to LA to reveal yourself to Ben Ives in person! You have to stroll up to him
and say, “It was me all along!
Now
who looks like a weeping bloody sparrow!?”

“I’m not doing it, Ian.”

“It’d be such sweet revenge! Bet it!”

“I’m
not doing it!
”

The pub started to make the noise it usually makes when someone’s about to kick their penalty. A low, rising “oooh,” stopping
the split second the ball’s kicked… the ball kicked by…

“Lampard’s missed!” shouted Ian, but he was all but drowned out by the other shouts of anger and sadness. England were one-nil
down.

“I’m
still
not doing it.”

“The odds are in your favor, Dan! Do it!”

Portugal’s turn. Simao bashed his in. One-nil to Portugal.

“I’m still not doing it,” I said, and I’d curse myself for this moment of weakness later on, but I was actually considering
it, now.

“Come on! Quick! Decide now!”

Hargreaves equalized for England. The pub exploded. One-one.

“Ian, this isn’t one of those times. This is a more grown-up me.”

“That’s what you’re supposed to be
fighting.
”

“No—this is what I’m supposed to be
accepting!
In my own way.”

“Do it!”

Viana for Portugal. The pub went quiet. He jogged up, struck the ball…

And missed his penalty.

The pub exploded again, louder, harder, more fiercely.

“I
won’t
do it!” I said, but Ian couldn’t hear me. It didn’t matter.

“Go to LA! Put your fate in the hands of the football gods! You used to say yes all the time, for God’s sake!”

“I do say yes! I say yes
more!
And it’s led me towards growing up. I live in north London. I get paint out of carpets and nearly varnish tables. We’ve
established
this.”

“You’re supposed to be reconnecting with the past.”

Gerrard stepped up to take his penalty and the pub fell silent. He kicked the ball hard and fast, but—unbelievably and to
the cries of the people around me—
missed.
Somewhere, a woman nearly fainted. A fat man swore loudly and a Portuguese bloke in the corner kept very still.

“Your chances are better than ever,” said Ian. “England’s losing! Agree to it!”

“No…”

“Agree!”

“No…”

Petit ran at the ball and struck it. Portugal had missed again too. The windows shook in time with the cheers. This was shredding
my nerves. England were still
in
it. But time was running out. Who was taking it? What would I say to Ian? I just had to stay strong…

Jamie Carragher stepped up.

“This,” said Ian, “is your
chance
to hang on to your youth.”

“It’s not about hanging on. It’s about
moving
on…”

“This is your chance to do something big and stupid and
just like the old days.
The days when you’d jump on a plane and head to Inverness at the drop of a hat! The days when you’d text me to say you’d
be late for the pub because you’d decided to go to Belgium!”

“But I’m
married,
Ian. I’m nearly
thirty.
”

“Fight it!
Do
something! Take action!”

“I
am
doing something! I’m reconnecting! I’m updating my address book!”

“And you’re not even willing to leave the country? For an
old friend?
A friend’s worth more than a flight. And this is your chance,” said Ian.
“This is your chance!”
And I looked into his eyes. And I looked up at the TV screen. And I saw Carragher preparing himself. This was his moment
to take the lead. To win it for England. To send me to LA to come face to face with an old enemy; to make that old enemy
a new friend.

Fuck.
How would I explain this to Lizzie? How much DIY would equal a
trip to LA?

“Okay,” I said. “Let’s do it.”

The whistle blew. Carragher bounced on his heels and began his short run. Ian and I involuntarily stood up. The crowd’s shouts
grew. The world slowed down by a third. Carragher struck the ball with power and grace and elegance…

… and…

Carragher had missed, and two minutes later both Postiga and Ronaldo had scored for Portugal. And that was that. England was
out of the World Cup.

And I was walking back to the tube, utterly relieved that I would never have to go to LA. Never have to meet Ben Ives in the
flesh. That I was
moving
on, not
hanging
on…

So why was I so annoyed?

Ian’s words were ringing in my ears.

A friend’s worth more than a flight.

And when I got home, and I turned on my computer, I still found myself annoyed, and I still found those words bouncing around
my ears.

So much so that when I saw the words “New Mail,” and read the contents within, I had booked myself a flight just twenty minutes
later.

Sod
it.

I was taking
action.

To: Ben Ives

From: ManGriff

Ben,

Did you get my photo? Is the 21st still on?

To: ManGriff

From: Ben Ives

Hi

Okay! Yes. I did. Sorry I needed “evidence.”
I guess stranger things have happened. 21st okay.

To: Ben Ives

From: ManGriff

Great. I will let everyone know.

To: ManGriff

From: Ben Ives

Everyone? Thought it was just the three of us.

That is still best for me. A coffee and a chat only okay?

To: Ben Ives

From: ManGriff

Well, I’ll do what I can.

To: ManGriff

From: Ben Ives

?

To: Ben Ives

From: Gamron the Viking Dog

Hi Ben!

Gamron here (Simon)!

I hear we are all meeting up on the 21st to run through some of the Stormy Leopard’s poetry.

We’re all really excited to see what she’s come up with this time!

We’ll see you soon,

Gamron the Viking Dog

P.S. Would you be up for an interview for our website?

To: Gamron the Viking Dog

From: Ben Ives

Er, Hi Gamron/Simon,

Can I ask: how did you get my email? ManGriff did not
mention you were coming. Think it would be best if it’s just
me and
ManGriff and his girlfriend right now.

Ben

To: Ben Ives

From: Katherine Jameson [
[email protected]
]

Hello Ben,

What time on the 21st?

Betty

To: Betty the Frog

From: Ben Ives

Hello Betty,

Did you get my details from ManGriff? I’m just having a
quick coffee and a chat with him on the 21st—
sorry you were misinformed.

Ben

To: Ben Ives

From: Betty the Frog

Ben,

I actually heard about the event thanks to dark fox, who forwarded me an email that JaJa Bah at DKB (!) received. But ManGriff
Lord of All Enemies is a friend of mine too.

See you on the 21st for the big event!

Betty

To: Betty the Frog

From: Ben Ives

Betty,

It is not an “event.”

Ben

To: Ben Ives

From: Jon Bonnaud

Subject: Yes

Yes I would like to attend the brainstorming on the 21st.

Jon Bonnaud

To: Jon Bonnaud

From: Ben Ives

Jon,

Who are you? It is not a brainstorming.

Ben

To: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

From: Ben Ives

ManGriff,

Slightly concerned. Am happy to meet up briefly to talk
about the article, but have started to get mails from strangers.
Not
appropriate, really, I’m very busy all afternoon. If
that’s a joke, stop please. If not, then the same.

Ben

To: Ben Ives

From: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

I’ll take your details off the mailout.

But we *are* definitely on for the 21st?

To: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

From: Ben Ives

Yes, so long as there’s not hundreds of you.

From: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

To: Ben Ives

Cc:
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]
;
[email protected]

Subject: Poetry and Fun in LA!

Dear all,

Okay, we have to sort this out. I know that there has been some excitement about the poetry event on the 21st. But we need
to put a limit on numbers as I believe Ben is getting nervous about lunch orders etc.

Just myself and the Stormy Leopard will now be attending. Stickleback Stan and Tickles the Spider—sorry, guys… next time!

Betty—we need to take this out of the newsletter and off the website ASAP! Also, remove Ben’s cell number from the mailout.

I will let you know how it all goes.

ManGriff

To: ManGriff the Beast Warrior

From: Ben Ives

ta.

I
had spent the several days before the flight wondering whether perhaps I should cancel. Whether perhaps I should stay in
London and work on the house. Whether perhaps I should make do with a phone call and a catch-up.

Well, I’d been wondering all that,
and
emailing Ben Ives ever more obsessively.

But Ian had been right, in some senses. To reconnect fully and properly required a face-to-face meet-up. And hey—it’s not
like this was in danger of going on forever. I had until November 16th. The day after, I would buy Lizzie all the cushions
and potted plants she could eat. Literally.

Plus… this felt…
fun.

That’s not to say I didn’t feel slightly guilty. I did. I wasn’t working at the moment and I’d asked Lisa, my agent, to turn
down any meetings for the time being. When she’d asked why, I’d cited “personal” reasons, which is an excuse you can use on
any occasion without fearing any follow-up questions. But really, it was because I was
excited.
Plus, a deal’s a deal—Lizzie had set out the rules and I was obeying them. To make up for the fact that I would be gone this
weekend, I’d mown the lawn, replaced a doorknob and bought a new doorbell. I’d begun to enjoy myself somehow, so bought a
tin of paint from the man at the DIY shop who had inexplicably started calling me Rhodri, and I’d painted the window frames.
They looked
amazing.
So I tried to find other things I could paint. I painted the handrail next to the stairs. Immediately, it looked brand new
and I patted myself on the back for being such an expert. I went outside and painted the little garden wall that surrounded
the flowers and bushes. I was proud. It lent the garden a Mediterranean feel, and so I moved a terracotta pot that the previous
owners had left behind and suddenly it all looked like something out of a magazine. But terracotta is such an
orangey
color, and so, in an amazing moment of creativity, I painted it white. And then I’d noticed I still had more than half a
tin left, so I started to paint the shed. This was going
well.