Friends Like These: My Worldwide Quest to Find My Best Childhood Friends, Knock on Their Doors, and Ask Them to Come Out and Play (39 page)

Andy had been a good friend, and a good human being. Someone who was loyal, and upbeat, and funny. You think if you’re not
in touch with someone, everything is probably okay with them. Life just ticks along. They do the same things as you. They
grow up. They meet a girl. Maybe they get married. They progress in their work. Perhaps they get into IT, or move abroad,
or have a kid. Maybe they get rich, maybe they stay poor. But you never, ever think that maybe they’re dead. Because actually,
the cold, hard truth is that you don’t know
what
can happen to them. To you. To
anyone.
And actually, the cold, hard truth is that bad things
can
happen to good people. And if you rush in, unprepared, this is a horrible truth that becomes all the more horrible when it’s
so very unexpected.

And so I’d stopped looking for old friends. I’d met Cameron, and Anil, and Mikey, and Simon, and Tarek, and Ben. I’d nearly
met Peter. I hadn’t found Chris. I’d been rejected by Tom. And Akira had never found the time to write back. So what was the
point in continuing? What had been the point all along? To make me feel better? To make me feel that everyone was going through
the same things? To make me feel I was part of something—a random group of people about to start their thirties? Because Tom
had made me realize that just because we went to school with people, ultimately, what does that mean? That means
nothing.
Yeah, we share a classroom. We learn about the water cycle and crop rotation and oxbow lakes and we learn about these things
at about the same time.
And?

There was no mystical reason for this, no destiny guiding us together. We had nothing in common, apart from the fact that
we just
happened
to live in the same school catchment area, as decided by some faceless bloke in a cheap two-piece suit on the town council
dozens of years before. Apart from the fact our parents just
happened
to have conceived around the same time,
happened
to take us with them,
happened
to have had us at all. And that was it. These were the two facts. Two facts which mean absolutely nothing in the world. Why
should
we get on, stay in touch, be friends? If any of this actually meant even a scrap of a hint of anything, then surely Tom,
for one, would have felt the same way?

Tom had it right. I hadn’t seen it at the time, but Tom had it right.

Yeah. So I’d had some fun. But fun isn’t what life is about. Life is about growing up. Getting through. That’s what you do.
And that’s what I’d been avoiding. So that’s what I should now do.

Lizzie had been concerned for me. I’m not saying I was walking around with a dark and brooding face all the time. I wasn’t.
I’d accepted Andy was gone pretty quickly. But as one week turned into two, and two weeks threatened to become three, it was
clear that something was missing. A little bit of joy canceled out. A friendship finished, first and foremost. One that could’ve
continued, and could’ve been great, but one that I’d ignored or lost sight of, and which I’d now never have again.

“Are you okay, baby?” she’d said, one night, as I’d pretended to watch
Life on Mars.

“Yeah! Course. Yeah.”

“You’re sure?”

“Sure I’m sure.” I’d smiled. But I was looking through her.

“How many left to track down?” she’d asked.

“Oh. You know. Not many. Though I think I’m kind of okay at the moment for all that stuff.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I think I’m done for a while.”

And then I’d turned the volume up, and pretended I was watching some more.

I’d just wanted everyone to be okay. But at the time, that had meant happy, and healthy, and enjoying life. I’d never for
a moment considered that for one of them life could have ended.

And so I’d cracked on with the house. This time for me. And for Lizzie. Not for childish Man Points. Not to buy me time. But
just to do it. I was, after all, a man. Not a boy.

The earthquake, the one that had started its rumble that night in a friend’s back garden—the one I’d been doing my best to
put off or avoid or run away from—had finally, forcefully, hit home.

And as evening crept up, I didn’t check my email. I turned my phone off. I watched some telly, and then, slowly, I went downstairs
to bed.

And I lay there for an hour or so, staring at a dark and featureless ceiling.

To: Danny Wallace

From: Peter Gibson

Subject: Hello!

Hey Dan—Just thought I’d remind you we STILL haven’t met up! Will have to be soon as I’m finishing work and moving on… would
be good to tell you all about it before I go. Am having leaving drinks soon—do you want to come along?

Pete

To: Danny Wallace

From: Anil Tailor

Subject: London

Hiya mate,

Me and Sunil are gonna be in London next week. Sunil is working at a dojo in Docklands for a bit and then we thought we could
grab a beer. Can you make it?

Anil

To: Danny Wallace

From: Lauren Medcalfe

Subject: Blast from the past!

Daniel! (or should I call you Danny now??)

My mum tells me you are looking for me because you want to send me a Christmas card! It’s been a while—you owe me about seventeen
of them! Funnily enough I have seen you on some strange TV shows once or twice but didn’t realize it was you!

Only just got the message as have been traveling through Thailand, Australia, China etc having a whale of a time before I
turn 30 (eek!). I’m moving to Dublin in the new year but am back in Britain now. Would LOVE to meet up! When were you thinking?
Lx

To: Danny Wallace

From: Cameron Dewa

Subject: Potato!

Potaaaaaaaaaaaatoooooo!!!!!!!!

T
he phone was ringing. Why was the phone ringing?

I rubbed the sleep out of my eyes and tried to find my glasses.

“Hello?” I said.

But I was speaking into the telly remote. That would never work. The telly wasn’t even
on.

I found my glasses, and then the phone.

“Hello?”

“Pub!”

“Eh?”

“Pub!”

“It’s… not even ten o’clock!”

“Pub at
eleven,
then!”

“Who
is
this?”

“Who do you think?”

“Ian?”

“No! The other one! I’m back off tour for a couple of days!”

“Wag!”

“So—pub?”

I thought about it.

“I
guess
so!”

It was great to see Wag again. A little bit of normality. He’d been away for what seemed like months now—and, in fact,
was
—but he was back in London for a few days’ R&R before jetting off again, to…

“Moscow!”

“Moscow?”

“Moscow!”

“Wow. I got all your postcards. Thanks for that.”

“S’all right. Cheaper than a text.”

“It really is
great
to see you again, Wag. What’s been going on?”

“It’s been wild. Sleeping on tour buses. Whiskey and cigars. Great audiences.”

“That’s brilliant.”

“And you?”

“Yeah. Pretty much the same.”

I didn’t really want to tell Wag too much about what I’d been up to. Especially not lately. Because what I’d been up to lately
wasn’t too much.

“Come on—you must’ve been up to
something.
Any more TV stuff?”

“I’ve taken a sabbatical. Too many things I needed to do.”

“Like what?”

“I sacked a builder,” I said, and Wag made a very impressed face. “And I’ve been sorting out the house. Ian and I made a canopy.
That kind of thing.”

“How
is
Ian?”

“Um… I’m not sure. He’s left a couple of messages and I’ve been meaning to call him back, but you know how it is.”

“Canopies to build?”

“That kind of thing.”

“And that’s it, is it? That’s all you’ve done?”

“Well, I’m nearly thirty, Wag. Time to sort things out. Get my affairs in order. I’m not a boy anymore.”

“What?
Yes,
you are. We both are! We’re… the
boys!
”

“We’re a boy and a man, now.”

“What are you saying? That you’re my father?”

“I am not saying I’m your father. I’m just saying there comes a time in a man’s life when he has to stop sleeping on tour
buses and buy himself a minivan. And then not sleep in it.”

“I’m confused. Are you talking about you or me, here?”

“It’ll come to you, too, Wag. You mark my words.”

I felt wise. But I also felt old. I may as well have had a pint of bitter in front of me.

“And why,” asked Wag, “did you order that pint of bitter?”

“Forget that. Tell me tales of the road.”

And so he did.

“What are you doing tonight?” he said, after lunch. He was wiping food off his mouth with a serviette but he’d missed a bit.

“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t really know
what
I’m doing these days.”

“Well, Friday night, my friend—that’s when the fun will reenter your life. I’m having a few drinks to say hello and goodbye
again. Ian’s coming. You better be there!”

“Yup,” I said. “Although it depends on whether there are any other canopies to build…”

I guess, in a sense, I’d been robbed of some purpose. I’d robbed
myself
of some purpose. The emails I’d received from Peter Gibson and Anil Tailor and Cameron Dewa I’d kind of batted away. Those
asking me if I wanted to meet up, I’d replied to with non-committal non-answers, like “yeah—I’ll give you a bell!” or “love
to—bit snowed under right now.” This had kind of happened to me before, and I knew the best way to combat it was to do precisely
the opposite, but I also knew I needed some time to myself right now. And maybe that was more important. Sometimes Mikey would
pop up while I was absent-mindedly playing Call of Duty, being bashed on the back of the head by the Bald Assassin, which
didn’t even have the power to stir up anger or annoyance in me anymore. Up the words would pop:
theblindsniper_1977 wants to play.
And I’d say hi, and maybe play half a game, and then most of the time I’d say I had to go off and do a thing.

And then there was Lauren’s email.

So Lauren had got back in touch. I’d found her. Just a little too late. A pity. Perhaps if I’d met her sooner, things might’ve
been different now. Perhaps it would have kept me going. Or perhaps it would’ve stopped things altogether.

I hadn’t really known how to reply to her, so had just sent something generic back. Something along the lines of, “Yes! Great
to be back in touch! Maybe I’ll see you in Dublin someday!” No plans, no promises, no real encouragement.

But Lauren hadn’t left it there.

“I’m going to be in London quite a bit!” she’d say. “I could come to you!” And she’d list dates, and I’d kind of look at them,
and I’d feel rude and silly and awkward, and I’d write back and apologize, saying I wasn’t around on those days.

And she’d joke, and say, “You seemed a lot keener when you first got in touch,” and she’d suggest more dates, and I wouldn’t
reply for a day or two.

And then, one day, and out of the blue, a phone call.

“Hello?”

“Daniel?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s Lauren.”

And I was slightly shocked.

“Lauren? How did you…”

“I asked my mum to call Martha to get Lorraine to ask your mum for your number…”

“Well… how are you?”

And we talked.

And finally, and in the end, and because it’s so much harder to avoid something when you can hear the person asking the actual
question, we agreed to meet up.

Lauren Jessica Medcalfe was born in the same year as me: 1976. A year which anyone born before then would come to tell me—and,
I imagine, her—was the summer of the Great British Heatwave. That nearly thirty years later people still boast of a particularly
hot summer tells you more about Britain than it does about 1976. Plus, they’re forgetting: I was still in the womb at that
stage. How did they think
I
felt? To say it was a bit parky in there would be to do the babies of ’76 a great disservice.

It was also the year Concorde made its first commercial flight. The year Apple made its first computer, and the year Microsoft
became a trademark. The year the first space shuttle was unveiled. The year Renée Richards won the US Women’s Open, despite
the fact that she’d been a man the year before. The year everyone thought they could see a face on Mars.

Among the many pretty hats, bonnets and teddy bears I received to welcome me into the world, a family friend in Dundee also
presented my proud parents with
The World of Wonder Book 1976.
It seems to me now quite an optimistic gift to give to a baby. Bearing in mind I could hardly see, let alone read, I wonder
now whether he’d really thought that gift through, or whether he’d simply decided that boys—no matter what age—would be fascinated
by its educational chapters, such as “The Story of Wool,” “Inside the Egg of a Fish” and “The Moving Staircase!—The History
of Escalators.”