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Greg glanced around the restaurant, his heart in his throat. He should have spotted the familiar auburn-tinged grey head by now, or at least the eye-wateringly colourful jumper that usually accompanied it, but he didn’t see anything.
He hesitated, glancing down at his phone, his thumb hovering over his text thread with Alex.
[From: Alex Horne] Can you do me a favour?
[From: Greg Davies] Of course.
[From: Alex Horne] Thursday, 2pm.
And then Alex had sent an address for a relatively upscale restaurant in North London.
Now here Greg was, at the restaurant on Thursday, at 2pm, and Alex was nowhere in sight.
“Well,” a voice said from Greg’s elbow, and Greg jumped about a foot in the air. “I suppose I should have expected this.”
Greg whirled around, staring down at the bearded man who’d popped up at his side with no warning. “Tim?” he managed, hoping he sounded more confused and less like Tim Key had almost just startled him out of his skin. “This is a hell of a coincidence.”
Tim just smirked up at him. “Who said it was a coincidence?”
Greg blinked. “I don’t—”
His phone buzzed and Greg glanced down at it automatically, his brow furrowing when he saw Alex’s message. What do you call a seeing-impaired fruit?
Greg stared at the message, which, even while typed, had the same tenor of a joke that Alex would make knowing that it would wind him up, and if Alex had sent him all the way to fucking north London just to tell him some godawful joke… “What the fuck—”
“It’s a blind date,” Tim said, sounding bored, and Greg transferred his glare to him.
“Pardon?”
Tim nodded at his phone. “The answer to Horne’s stupid joke,” he said, still in that same bored tone. “A seeing-impaired fruit. A blind date.”
He shrugged and Greg glanced from him down to his phone, feeling like he was beginning to lose his mind. “I don’t understand.”
“Christ, you’re thick,” Tim said, amused, which for Tim fucking Key to call him thick was really just insult to injury— “Al’s set you up on a blind date.”
Greg blinked. “With who?” he asked stupidly.
“Whom, surely.”
Greg sucked in a deep breath and counted to five in his head. “Tim, I swear to God—”
Tim grinned at him. “Come on, that’s no way to talk to your date.”
Greg felt rather like his legs had just been kicked out from underneath him. “What?” he managed, a little weakly, even as his overtaxed mind was slowly coming to the same conclusion.
Tim backed slowly away, Greg following him automatically. “Always fascinating watching someone put the pieces together in real time,” he said brightly, settling down at a table by the windows, his coat already hanging from the back of a chair, and Greg wondered for a brief moment how long he’d been waiting. “Well, have a seat. The meal’s on Horne, drinks included, so you may as well get your money’s worth before you march out to Chesham and wallop him.”
Greg didn’t sit. “You don’t seem surprised by any of this.”
Tim raised both eyebrows as he looked up at him. “Only thing surprising is how short a time it took,” he said. “I had the over on 25 series.”
“25 series for what?”
“For you to fall in love with Alex.”
Greg sat.
He thought about denying it, dismissed that as a stupid idea, and then contemplated knocking the stupid, smug smirk off of Tim’s face some other way, all in the time it took for Tim to take a sip of water. In the end, Greg settled for asking, his voice cracking pitifully as he did, “How’d you—”
“Know you’re in love with him?” Tim finished. “Well, you’re not exactly subtle, for a start. And also, Horne’s a, er, a lovable guy.”
Greg glowered at him, certain Tim was mocking him somehow. “Fuck off.”
But Tim just held his hands up defensively. “I was being sincere for once. Pretty sure just about anyone who’s spent more than five minutes with the gel winds up a little bit in love with him.”
“And how would you know that?” Greg didn’t let him answer, having figured it out himself as soon as the question was out of his mouth. “This isn’t your first time.”
Tim looked offended. “What, on a date? How pathetic do you think—”
“On a blind date that Alex set up,” Greg interrupted.
Tim shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time. “Ah,” he said, fiddling with his fork. “Well, that is true.”
Greg nodded slowly, thinking rather ungenerously that it was exactly the twerpy sort of shit that Alex would pull with a sort of wide-eyed faux-innocence that made Greg want to pummel him. “So, what, you get his cast-offs?”
“That what you think you are?” Tim asked coolly.
The question stopped Greg in his tracks.
In truth, he didn’t know what he and Alex were– or more accurately, what he was to Alex. Alex, who had been so patient, listening with those wide blue eyes that didn’t betray a single emotion as Greg had spent what felt like two hours a few weeks ago finally stumbling through the feelings he’d tried and failed to curtail over the past few years. Alex, who had offered him a hug without any hesitation when he was through. Alex, who hadn’t so much outright rejected him as told him repeatedly that his comedic partnership with Greg was one of the most important relationships in his life, and that wouldn’t change despite this revelation.
Alex, who had evidently decided to handle this by setting Greg up on a blind date with Tim fucking Key.
Greg’s ego would figure out a way to forgive Alex someday for rejecting him, but he didn’t know if he’d ever forgive him for this indignity.
Tim was still looking expectantly at him, and Greg glared down at the tablecloth. “I don’t know,” he grumbled. “We didn’t really talk—” He broke off, scrubbing a hand across his mouth. “I don’t know why the fuck I’m telling you anything.”
“Why wouldn’t you?”
Greg gave him a look. “Because you’re one of Alex’s oldest friends.”
Tim’s lips twitched. “I’m choosing not to dither that you said ‘oldest’ and not ‘best’.”
“Right, because bringing it up in the first place isn’t dithering.”
Tim’s smile widened. “Mate, if you think that’s dithering, strap in, you’ve not seen anything yet.” The waitress chose then to appear to take their drink order, and Tim’s smug smile lingered on Greg as he told her, “Yeah, I’ll be having whatever your most expensive scotch is, and a glass of lager, cheers.”
“And for you, sir?” the waitress asked.
“Vodka Red Bull,” Greg told her, somewhat automatically, though he really should’ve stuck with water.
She nodded and left, and Tim smirked at him. “Vodka Red Bull?” he repeated with a snigger. “Classy.”
“Fuck off,” Greg said with no real heat. “I didn’t realise you were a scotch drinker.”
Largely because he couldn’t picture Tim and Alex sitting in some dim room in a private members’ club, sipping from snifters of whisky.
And Greg certainly couldn’t picture Tim without also picturing Alex.
“Oh, I’m not,” Tim told him, and Greg blinked. “Can’t stand the stuff.”
“Then why—”
“Did you miss the part where I said Alex is paying?” Tim asked. “If he’s going to set me up on an absolute faeces date, I’m going to run up the ol’ tab as much as possible.”
Greg shook his head. “You’re a true friend, Tim.”
Tim just laughed. “Fuck off,” he said cheerfully. “Though I’ll note you didn’t deny that you’re a shit date.”
Greg didn’t even bother to feign offence. “I have made a not insignificant portion of my comedy career out of being a shit date,” he said dryly. “Literally and figuratively.”
“Touché,” Tim said with a chuckle. He leaned forward, propping his elbow on the table and resting his chin in his hand as he gave Greg a long look. “You don’t seem particularly cross with Al.”
“I– part of me wants to be,” Greg said, though it was lacking conviction. “Like, flipping tables, smashing things up furious.”
Tim nodded. “At least wait til we’ve finished eating.”
“I said part of me wants to,” Greg said. “The larger part of me…”
He trailed off and Tim smirked. “Quite a large part, I’d say.”
Greg gave him a look. “You’re doing a good job of making the fury part larger with each passing moment.” Tim’s grin widened but he didn’t interrupt again, and Greg continued, “But the larger part of me is…curious, I guess.” He shook his head and glared at Tim again. “Mainly what the fuck Alex was thinking.”
The waitress returned with their drinks, forestalling Tim’s retort, especially as she lingered to take their food order. Tim ordered the lobster, and Greg rolled his eyes before ordering a steak. When Tim pulled a face, Greg sighed and reluctantly added a lobster tail, eliciting another grin from Tim.
When the waitress left, Tim raised his glass in a toast. “To Horne’s bank account,” he snickered.
Greg rolled his eyes again, but raised his glass regardless. “Thankfully, he can afford it.”
“And he owes you one,” Tim added after taking a long sip of his beer.
That wasn’t quite how Greg would put it, and he pulled a face. “So, what, he thinks this will make up for him not, er, returning my feelings?” he asked sceptically.
Tim shrugged. “Seems so, yeah.”
Which was a harebrained notion even for Alex, who had practically made a career out of harebrained ideas. “How the fuck—” he started hotly, but Tim cut him off.
“The thing about Alex that makes it so hard to be cross with him is that what he wants more than anything is to make everyone happy.”
Greg stared at him. “Obviously not.”
Tim sighed, crossing his arms in front of his chest. “That’s what I mean, though.”
“What?”
“Alex has only ever known one kind of happiness,” Tim said. “So I suspect as far as he’s concerned, he thinks it’s the only way to be happy. And he knows you’ll never have that kind of happiness with him.”
Greg shook his head slowly. “Maybe not, but—”
“So he’s tried to go for the next best thing.”
Greg choked on an ill-timed sip of his drink. “What, with you?”
“Hard not to take offence to that,” Tim said mildly.
“Sorry,” Greg said, coughing into his fist as Tim rolled his eyes. “I just– you and Alex aren’t exactly similar. I mean, you’re both absolute lunatics—”
“Can’t argue with that.”
“—But that’s really about where the similarities end.”
Tim scratched his cheek. “We’ve a similar sense of humour,” he offered.
Greg snorted a laugh. “That’s one way of putting it.”
“We like a lot of the same things.”
“You’re really selling it, mate,” Greg said flatly.
Tim shook his head. “Look, I can’t explain Horne’s idiocy any more than you can,” he said, shrugging again. “But I learned a long time ago that it’s not worth questioning it.”
Well, that certainly was true. Greg swirled his drink and took a sip before asking, in a deliberate attempt to shift the conversation, “So who was the first?”
“Pardon?” Tim asked.
“Who was the first person Alex fobbed off on you?”
Tim looked strangely caught out by the question. “Not really your business, is it.”
“No?” Greg said, raising both eyebrows. “How many times has he done this, then?”
Tim waved a dismissive hand. “There’ve been a fair few over the years. Most of the usual suspects, I’d wager.”
Greg didn’t exactly have any usual suspects that sprang to mind, and wasn’t inclined to think too hard about the other poor sods who’d fallen for Alex. “Have any of them lasted longer than a single, disastrous date?”
“A few.”
“How many is a few?”
“More than one. Less than three.”
“So two.”
“Not as thick as I thought, then.”
Greg gave Tim a look. “At least I don’t need to wonder if it was your charming personality that scared them all off or something else,” he said sourly.
“All but two, at least,” Tim corrected with a grin.
“Well, I wouldn’t bank on a third.”
“Yet.”
“Fucking hell,” Greg sighed, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “So how does this usually work? We eat, drink, and fuck off to go our separate ways?”
Tim looked amused. “I mean, if you’ve some other idea for how this would go under normal circumstances…”
This time, it was Greg’s retort cut off by the waitress bringing their meals, which was good since he’d mostly been about to admit that it’d been so long since he’d been on a date that he honestly didn’t even remember what normal circumstances looked like.
A strangely comfortable silence settled between both men while they ate. But even as he stuffed his gob in a way that his cardiologist would punish him for later, Greg couldn’t help but study Tim, trying to piece together the one part of the equation that he couldn’t quite figure out.
Largely because he could understand why he would fall for this, trusting Alex as he did.
But after all this time, surely Tim would know better.
Wouldn’t he?
“You were the first,” Greg said abruptly, setting his fork down with a clatter, and Tim frowned at him. “Weren’t you.”
He didn’t pitch it as a question. “Sorry?” Tim said, and Greg couldn’t tell if he genuinely didn’t know what Greg meant, or if he was just playing stupid.
“You were the first person Alex set up on a blind date,” Greg clarified.
Tim blinked. “Well, obviously, for his little scheme to work—”
“I don’t mean the first time he set someone up with you,” Greg said impatiently, refusing to let Tim worm his way out from this one. “I mean you were the first. The first person who fell in love with him whose feelings he tried to divert elsewhere.”
Something tightened in Tim’s expression. “Ah,” he said. “That first.”
“Am I wrong?”
Tim jerked a shrug. “I wouldn’t know, would I.”
Greg eyed him warily. “What do you mean?”
Tim shrugged again, prodding at a piece of broccoli with his fork. “I mean, it’s not like he and I have ever discussed it.”
“Which part?” Greg asked. “Him setting you up on blind dates with everyone who develops feelings for him, or all of this starting because you developed feelings for him in the first place?”
Tim’s lips twitched but he didn’t quite smile. “Firstly, I doubt highly it’s everyone who’s ‘developed feelings’ for the gel since the new millennium," he said, and Greg could practically see the air quotes. "No one’s got that kind of time, not even me.”
“Here I thought you were going to make a joke about not that many people developing feelings for him,” Greg said.
“I said it before, I’ll say it again – Horne’s a very lovable guy.”
“And you would know.”
Now Tim did manage a smile. “You’ve got me there, I suppose.” He sighed. “But no, he and I never discussed that either.”
On the one hand, Greg wasn’t entirely surprised. On the other– “How?”
“Sorry?”
“My maths are shit but you’re telling me that you’ve been in love with him for 25 years now—”
“Not difficult maths there, in the end,” Tim muttered.
Greg ignored him. “—And you’ve never once spoken about it.”
“Nope,” Tim said, popping the ‘p’ in nope.
Greg stared at him. “I reiterate, how?”
Tim leaned back in his chair, seemingly unconcerned. “We talk about other things, mostly.”
“Of course,” Greg said, far more irritated than he had any real right to be. “I forgot who I was talking to. I don’t think you’d know a serious conversation if it hit you in the face.”
Tim’s eyes flickered to his and away. “Another thing Horne and I have in common.”
Greg barked a dry laugh. “That is true.”
For once, Tim didn’t look triumphant at being correct. Instead, he frowned down at the table, his brow furrowed. “We did almost talk about it,” he said, after a long moment. “Once.”
Greg sat back. “What stopped you?”
“Myself, I suppose.”
Greg ground his teeth together. “I suppose it’s too much to expect anything even in the same realm as a straight answer.”
Tim sighed. “I tossed a coin,” he said, somewhat reluctantly.
“You tossed a coin,” Greg repeated, uncertain where this headed.
Tim just nodded. “He was spending the weekend at Rachel’s, but we were meant to be working on something, his show, maybe, so he phoned me and we chatted.” Greg didn’t pretend not to know which ‘he’ Tim meant. “Must have been for two hours, just like it always was. And I just had this thought…”
“What thought?” Greg prompted after a moment.
“That this was it,” Tim said simply. “This was- this was as good as it was going to get. And if I didn’t do something about it, I’d never have the chance again.” He shrugged, leaning forward to rest both elbows on the table. “So I got out into the garden, and I go into the shed, and, er, I stand next to my bicycle. And I think that I should cycle over to Rachel’s to see him.”
“Jesus.”
“Yeah, I don’t think the Captain of Industry would approve,” Tim said, the joke seeming almost automatic. “Anyway, then I think– I’m gonna toss a coin.”
Greg shook his head, incredulous. “You what?”
Tim screwed his face up. “I thought – well, it doesn’t really matter what I thought, does it.”
“Pretty sure it does, mate.”
Tim took a sip of beer, but his voice was still hoarse as he told Greg, “I think I thought that if it was meant to be, then this would prove it.” He shook his head and continued, “So I get a coin, and I say heads, I cycle over to Rachel’s, tails, I stay.”
Greg’s chest felt strangely tight. “And it was tails.”
“No.” Tim said it almost dully. “It was a head.”
“I don’t—”
“I was- I was so scared of the idea of rejection, of it not working out, of me losing my best friend, that I think, well, best of three.”
It was an odd feeling, Greg thought numbly, staring at Tim, witnessing someone self-sabotage in ways you’d never even dreamed of. “Fucking hell.”
Tim nodded, though Greg hadn’t asked a question. “Two tails, back to back. And that was that.”
There was an air of finality to how he said it that Greg immediately ignored. “Are you serious?”
“Yeah.”
“Do you regret it?”
Tim sighed, the release of air drenched with what Greg knew all too well was longing. “Every single day.”
Greg looked away. “And you’ve never told him.”
“Never.”
“So he doesn’t know—”
Tim shook his head. “Ah, well, I didn’t say that,” he hedged. “I think– I’d like to pretend that he doesn’t, but we’ve been friends for so long and he’s always been able to read me like a fucking book.”
Greg knew a little of what that felt like. “Yeah.”
“It’s a kindness, really,” Tim said evenly. “That he’s never said anything.”
“Horseshit.”
Greg didn’t mean to blurt it like that, but, well, it was. “What?” Tim asked, almost defensively.
“That’s not kindness,” Greg told him, something heated in his voice. “That’s– I don’t know what the fuck it is, but it’s not that.”
Tim pulled a face. “What, you think it’d be better if he told me that he knows how I felt about him and that he doesn’t feel the same?”
“Yes!” Greg said, the answer obvious to him.
But Tim just raised both eyebrows before asking, “Is it better for you?”
The question landed like a blow, and Greg flinched. “That’s not the same thing.”
“How is it not?”
There was something of a taunt in Tim’s voice, and Greg glared at him. “Because I’ve not been going out on dates with his sloppy seconds for 25 fucking years all to prove, what, how good of a friend you can be despite how you feel about him?”
Tim didn’t flinch away from Greg’s words. Instead, he leaned in even closer. “Why are you here?” he asked.
“Sorry?”
Tim cocked his head. “When Horne texted you a random address and time, did you even hesitate before agreeing to show up?”
“I—”
“So why are you here, Greg?” Tim repeated. “And what are you trying to prove if not the same thing?”
Twice in one afternoon – that had to be a new record for how many times Tim Key was correct about something. Greg sat back, scrubbing both hands across his face. “Fuck me, I wish I had a cigarette.”
Tim barked a short, surprised laugh. “You and me both,” he said. “What a pair we make.”
“Maybe Alex was onto something,” Greg said, lowering his hands from his face.
“Broken clock’s right twice a day, as they say.”
For one long moment, Greg and Tim just looked at each other before both men fell over themselves with laughter. It wasn’t really funny, and yet it absolutely was. Funny in an absurd, insane way, like some high concept Fringe show that only made sense after a full afternoon of drinking.
When they had both sobered somewhat, Greg swiped the back of his hand across his mouth before telling Tim, with a blunt sort of honesty he thought the man had earned, “You’re not really in love with him, Tim. Not after all this time. You’re in love with the idea of him.”
“And you’re not?” Tim asked, the sharp question equally honest. He reached for his beer but seemed to think better of it, instead tracing his finger around the rim. “I know that- that he and I are never…” He shook his head, sitting back in his chair. “But I always think that maybe, if I drill down deep enough, if I can get through all of Alex’s bullshit and hyperbole and humour and everything else, then maybe…”
Greg eyed him carefully. There was no hint of Tim’s usual humour. “What?”
Tim jerked a shrug. “Maybe I’ll figure it out.”
“Figure what out?”
Tim looked up at him. “You know.”
Greg shook his head. “No, I don’t.”
“Come on, man,” Tim said with a bite of impatience. “Of course you do. It’s the same thing you’ve been sat here wondering this entire time.”
“And what’s that?”
Tim managed a short, humourless chuckle and looked away as he practically spit the words. “Why he doesn’t love me back.”
The breath seemed to catch in Greg’s throat, and he was saved from having to come up with something, anything, to say in response to that by the waitress’s again impeccably timed return to ask if either of them wanted any dessert. “No, just the bill, cheers,” Greg muttered.
“The meal’s been paid for already,” the waitress told him, and Greg managed a tight smile in thanks before glancing back at Tim, who was looking at him strangely.
“Did you not believe me when I said Horne was paying?”
Greg shook his head. “I did,” he said. “I just– I don’t want him to feel obligated. He doesn’t owe me anything. Least of all an answer to that question.”
He didn’t mean it to sound like a rebuke, but Tim still flinched as if it was one. “No,” he agreed quietly. “He doesn’t.”
Greg studied him for a long moment. “And yet you still let him do this.”
Tim shrugged. “It makes him happy,” he said, and Greg couldn’t help but wonder at the very strange dynamics of their friendship. “And that’s all I really want for the gel, in the end.”
For half a moment, Greg was tempted to call bullshit on that, but all he said was, “Yeah. Me too.”
They gathered their coats and headed outside, Tim pulling a face immediately at the cold, jamming his hands in his pockets while Greg dug in his own for his vape. Neither man made any move to leave, both lingering together outside of the restaurant.
After a long moment, Tim glanced up at Greg. “This was…”
He trailed off and Greg snorted a laugh, exhaling a plume of vapour. “Descriptive, for a poet.”
Tim scowled. “Fuck off,” he said, turning to rub his chin against his shoulder as if scratching an itch. “Not as bad as it could have been?” he offered.
“Yeah, we’ll go with that,” Greg agreed. He looked at Tim before saying, “Maybe we should do this again sometime.”
Tim stared at him. “You’re joking.”
Greg shrugged. Part of him was, but the other part of him– well, it hadn’t been entirely rubbish, spending some time with a friend, if he used the term extremely loosely, with the small benefit of realising he wasn’t as alone as he’d felt over the past few weeks. “It’s not like we haven’t got something in common.”
“Oh, right, because both of us being in love with the same twat’s really the bedrock of a good relationship.”
“Could be.”
“Jesus wept.”
Greg refused to be deterred. “How about this, then. We toss a coin for it.”
Tim sighed again. “I knew I’d regret telling that story,” he said to no one in particular.
Greg ignored him, digging in his pocket for a pound coin, which he held up triumphantly. “Heads, we do this again sometime, Tails, we never speak of it again and pretend like it never happened.”
“Fucking Christ—”
“What do you say?” Greg asked insistently
Tim pulled a face. “Yeah, go on,” he said grudgingly.
Greg grinned and tossed the coin, catching it and flipping it onto the back of his other hand. Slowly, he pulled his hand away, and both he and Tim stared down at it. “Well,” Tim said, straightening. “That’s that.”
“That’s that,” Greg agreed, palming the coin.
Tim glanced up at him, a small smile playing across his face. “Best two out of three?” he suggested.
In the car on his way home, Greg’s phone pinged with a notification, and he glanced down at it automatically, his brow furrowing when he saw it was a notification from instagram, which Greg very rarely used, preferring to leave that as with most social media to his publicist. He tapped on the app and clicked on the message icon, rolling his eyes when he saw that it was a message from Tim.
He clicked on the message, which took him to Tim’s story, the screenshot of a poem that Greg could only assume he’d written just now from the tube.
Despite himself, Greg felt a smile spread across his face, even as he shook his head before opening WhatsApp to send a message to Tim. Nice poem.
Only a few seconds later, his phone pinged again. Thanks.
Greg tapped out another message. So I’ll see you next week?
The three typing dots appeared, lingering on the screen for what felt like a minute before disappearing, and Greg shook his head as he looked away from his phone, staring out the window instead. But then his phone pinged again, and he glanced down at it, smiling once more.
See you next week.