Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (7 page)

Lizzie’s eyes lit up.

“Get them!”

“And who’s that?” asked Lizzie.

We were sitting on the floor eating fajitas.

“That’s Anil Tailor,” I said. “His mum used to force-feed me curries. Not that I complained. Although I was once sick in a
neighbor’s bin because of it.”

“Why’s he dressed as a cowboy?”

“It was Wild West Day at school.”

“And you haven’t seen him since you were a kid?”

“Actually, Anil’s about the only one I
have
seen. Just once. For an hour or two. He’d stumbled across my name on the Internet and got in touch.”

“What was that like?”

“It was a bit weird because he was still dressed as a cowboy.”

“Really?”

“No. But it was good despite that. I was passing through Yorkshire where he was living. He’s an architect now. And we met
up and hung out and it was fun.”

And it
had
been. And even though we’d decided and promised and sworn we’d definitely do it again, the moment had seemed to pass. I had
to be in London. He had to be in Huddersfield. I suppose we could have met halfway, but halfway would have been Peterborough,
and meeting in Peterborough would have taken a friendship of epic proportions. We’d said, as kids, that we’d be friends forever—but
time and distance and life somehow got in the way. I suppose as adults you learn the simple and sad fact that sometimes it’s
just not possible to
be
friends forever.

“Who’s Andy?” she said, leafing through a bundle of letters. “He liked writing you letters, didn’t he?”

“Andy ‘Clementine’ Clements, yeah. But I’m not sure I ever replied much. I feel slightly guilty now.”

“He
does
keep asking why you haven’t written back. Never mind. I’m sure he’s over it now.”

I hoped so. Why hadn’t I kept in touch? I guess it seems friendship is something you just have to keep working at. Because
if you don’t, one day you’ll stop getting letters.

“All this stuff is great,” said Lizzie, studying an article from the
Loughborough Echo
about me winning a conker championship at age nine. “Granted, conkers is pretty easy. It’s just two small boys who’ve managed
to attach horse chestnuts to pieces of string wildly flicking them at each other in the vague hope of destroying each other’s
‘conker,’ but still… it’s a sport! And it turns out you were good at conkers! Imagine how proud that makes me as a wife.”

“Don’t tell your friends about the conkers, as it’s not fair on them.”

“What else were you good at in school?”

“Mainly spelling,” I said.

“Spelling?” she said. “I’m better at spelling than you…”

“I’ll have you know I am an
excellent
speller,” I said. “I can spell
all
the words in the sentence I have just said. And that one.”

I was glad Lizzie liked seeing this stuff. Touched that I’d found someone who took an interest in things. I thought about
showing her the address book, and telling her about how it’d made me think about life, and growing up, and about whether the
friends in the book were feeling the same way I was… but I couldn’t quite bring myself to do it. I didn’t want her to think
that lawnmowers and display cushions and brushed aluminum frames were making me worry about what I was becoming. And I didn’t
get the chance, anyway, because moments later she said, “So… shall we have a woman of wine?”

“A
woman
of wine?”

“Yeah. A ‘glass’ of wine. I’m just trying that manly thing out.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works. You can’t just call everything a woman. It’s more subtle than that. It’s a grammar honed
over generations of sexist tradesmen. But yes, let’s have a woman of wine…”

We were on our second woman and Lizzie was telling me about her day.

“The weirdest thing is, the people on the show, they’re not even allowed to tell their friends,” she said. “Their
friends!
Imagine going into that house and not being allowed to tell your friends. And then when these people come out, they’ll be
like this completely different person. What must
that
be like?”

“I dunno,” I said, shaking my head and finishing my glass. “It’s weird.”

“Months must seem like
years
in there,” she said. “I wouldn’t do it. Not for all the tea in China.”

“Is that the prize this year? How does China feel about that?”

“They’re very angry,” she said.

We smiled. And then she stifled a yawn.

“You go to bed,” I said.

“Yeah. I have to be in early. Are you coming?”

“In a bit.”

Lizzie got up from the sofa and rubbed her eyes.

“You know,” she said, “I’m a little worried about you.”

I made a confused face.

“Will you be okay?” she said.

I nodded, as confidently as I could.

“Yeah,” she said, moving away. “I know you will. You’ll find
some
way to amuse yourself.”

I smiled.

“See some mates,” she said, clicking the door shut.

And I smiled again. But this time, it seemed sad.

I listened to her walk down the stairs, and stared at the ceiling while she brushed her teeth, thinking about the old days.

I flicked through the address book one last time, and noticed that on one of the pages near the back, I’d written something
in an excited, blue scrawl…

Friends Forever!!!

And then I closed my eyes.

A couple of hours later and I was asleep on the sofa. Something woke me up. I squinted, and then looked at the clock. It was
half past midnight. And then, it happened again.

Bzz. Bzz. Bzz.

My pocket was vibrating.

A message.

Danny! Neil here! Blimey! Long time no see! I got a missed call from you! Would call but thought you might be asleep. Listen—it’s
my thirtieth on Monday—would be great to see you after so long!

I
was slightly annoyed as I stepped off the bus at Primrose Hill and tried to find the pub. Not because it was a balmy summer’s
night and I was already quite sweaty. Not because I’d had to stand most of the way on a crowded bus while a man kept hitting
me in the face with his paper and standing on my feet. But because my ultimate nemesis, the Bald Assassin, had once more managed
to best me, as I hid behind a small garden wall, my sights trained upon the only door he could
possibly
have been hiding behind. I had laughed the laugh of the finally victorious. I felt merciless to his plight. I had a full
complement of grenades, a sniper scope, machine gun, three smoke bombs, a pistol and the best position possible. I had every
exit covered and all I needed to do was wait. And yet moments later he’d managed to somehow sneak up behind me and slap me
on the back of the head. To make matters worse, he’d run away giggling straight after and didn’t seem able to stop.

“Well done,” I’d said into my nerdy headset, moodily moving to switch the Xbox off, and noticing I’d still done nothing about
that socket.

“Thanks!” I heard him say, just as the screen went blank. To hear his voice annoyed me even more. Either he was a eunuch,
or he was about twelve.

I decided he must be a eunuch.

But now my annoyance faded as I found the pub—a vast and sprawling place, covered by ivy and with huge, polished windows.
What would the Bald Assassin be doing now? Probably his homework. Whereas I, a
man,
was going to the pub on a summer’s evening to meet a friend I hadn’t seen since the Bald Assassin would’ve been the Baby-Faced
Killer.

Neil.

“Neil! Happy birthday!”

“Hello, mate! Blimey! How are you?”

Neil hadn’t changed one bit. I’d first met him when I’d started at the BBC as a trainee radio producer. He’d started just
weeks before, making trails for Radio 4 dramas and the like, and we’d ended up sharing a table in the much-maligned BBC canteen.
We’d emailed each other that day, and he’d taken me under his wing, showing me around Broadcasting House, introducing me to
the tape library, pointing out where the best coffee machines were, and which sand-wiches not to buy. Since I’d left, we’d
talked about meeting up, but never quite made it happen. Until now.

“Are all these people here for you?” I asked, amazed.

I looked around. The place was
rammed.
There were balloons. Banners. Small posters of Neil with “I Am 30!” written underneath. And some very happy people indeed.

“Yeah… good turnout, eh? Nothing better than a big bunch of mates taking over a pub… let me introduce you around!”

And so he introduced me around.

I met Tom, who now works with Neil. Tom wants to write a book for children about a lamb and a turtle who don’t get on.

I met Dan, who
used
to work with Neil. Dan likes dancing but says he’s got three left feet. He most enjoys the samba.

I met Fiona, with whom Neil was at university. Fiona once met Rosie O’Donnell, and has an interest in Grenada.

I met Al, who traveled round Australia on his gap year with Neil. They once had a fight over a bagel in Adelaide, and once
kissed the same girl without knowing it.

I met Joanne and Ben, who went to school with Neil. He used to cheat at his maths exams and sent a valentine to his history
teacher.

And I met Simon, who’d grown up next door to Neil, had started school the same day as him, had known him all his life, despite
different high schools, gap years, universities, girlfriends, moves to London… and Simon had a story for every day of Neil’s
life. I instantly thought of
my
first best friend. Chris Guirrean. How different things could’ve been if I’d stayed in Dundee, stayed at that school, stayed
in touch.
Maybe I’d be going to
Chris
’s thirtieth, just as Simon was at Neil’s.

Each person I met seemed to have known Neil that little bit longer than the last. And with each story they told me, I understood
Neil a little bit more. Each tale was delivered with affection and kindness and love. I looked over at him. He was gratefully
accepting another pint from another friend, and holding court, and introducing strangers to friends they hadn’t met yet. I
felt bad. All
I
could really tell these people about Neil was that I liked him, and that he’d once shown me where the best coffee machine
in the BBC was. As stories go, it’s not like there’d be a fight over the film rights.

“So,” I said to Simon. “You’ll be turning thirty soon as well, then?”

“Next month,” said Simon. “I’m looking forward to it.”

“You’re looking
forward
to it? But do you feel… ready?”

“For what?”

“For… you know… being a…
man.
”

“We’re all moving forward. All growing up. Most of the people in this room are the same age as us. People Neil went to school
with, or university with. Everyone in this room’s either just turned thirty or is about to. Makes it seem less worrying, doesn’t
it, when you know
everyone’s
doing it…”

Suddenly, from somewhere behind me, someone started singing “Happy Birthday,” and within moments the whole room was cheering
and whooping before, on one of the big tellies on the wall, a video kicked in…

The title came up…
30 Years of Neil Findlay!

Neil’s girlfriend, Beth, had put together a special video presentation charting Neil’s life.

The music began… the Wham! Rap…

And there we saw him… a baby… then as a little boy… picture after picture, bits of old cine film and videotape, edited together
as a record of his life.

“That’s me!” said Simon, pointing at a small boy looking grumpy next to a tiny Neil. “That’s me right there!”

I smiled, and laughed, and the crowd cheered as the pictures of Neil moved on to his gawky, teenage years to the strains of
“The Power of Love” by Huey Lewis and the News. Neil with big glasses on. Neil with his sleeves rolled up trying to look cool.
Neil and his first girlfriend, Rebecca, who was here tonight and whom everyone cheered and pointed at.

Then there was Neil in Australia with Al. Neil on the day he met Beth. Neil at the BBC. Neil passed out on a bench.

And then Neil—the
real
Neil—was standing on a chair, taking the applause, before quieting everyone down to say a few words…

“All I want to say,” he said, looking genuinely emotional, “is that you’re the best bunch of friends a bloke could have. And
friends really are the most important thing you can have… so
thank you.
Not just for coming. But for being my friends.”

And the crowd went wild.

I arrived home late that night, starving, and slightly confused about life.

On the one hand, I was happy: I hadn’t known Neil as well as anyone else there, but I’d been welcomed into his world—and into
his circle of friends—with great grace.

But on the other hand, it had made me think.