Lying in bed that night, totally incapable of sleep, I start obsessing about how me and Adam started out. In those days I swear he thought he was the South Coast’s answer to Liam Gallagher. It was the height of Brit pop, and he had straggly, collar‐length hair, an earring and some highly dubious round glasses. He used to take loads of ‘E’s and dance like a monkey, sweating profusely. The fact that he was an economics student from the mean streets of Surrey kind of ruined the effect, but he clearly thought he was pretty cool.
He shared the same student house as Polly, so I used to see him whenever I took refuge from all the sloanes at Exeter. Brighton was a very different kind of town, lined with trendy clubs and bars, and I gradually found myself heading down there most weekends. Adam would always be hanging around their greasy kitchen, nursing a hangover and listening to guitar‐based rock through tinny portable speakers.
We soon developed a weird intimacy via our constant mutual piss‐taking. I would tell him that in ten years he’d be back in the stockbroker belt with a Stepford wife and a job in the city. He’d say I was clearly a social outcast: why else would I keep trekking cross‐country to seek out my only friend? Looking back I think that Polly found our banter kind of excluding, so maybe the fact that she snogged Adam on one particularly loved‐up night was her way to try and get a piece of the action. Although I urged her to go for it – she’d been single for ages, as per normal – I definitely felt odd about it. But I swiftly dismissed my feelings: how could I possibly fancy him? It just wasn’t what our relationship was about.
Not long after that I started seeing a much older man, and my visits to Brighton became less frequent. Jerome was a work‐obsessed chef who drank far more than was good for him. I was kind of in awe of him – the fact I hardly ever saw him added to his mystique – and never stopped to question how little he had to give. He called me ‘angel’ and cupped my face in his hands when he kissed me, and I felt like I was starring in my very own romantic melodrama. I was so eager to impress him, to prove that I could be mature and sophisticated enough to hold his interest, but I don’t think he ever thought of me as a serious prospect. When he unceremoniously dumped me on the way back from a sex‐sodden weekend away, I was gutted. But once the jagged agony had subsided, it was kind of a relief. No more energy wasted desperately willing him to call: he just wouldn’t.
By this time we were nearing the end of our final year. Polly and Adam hadn’t worked out – she said she just didn’t feel it – but luckily they’d stayed friends. As soon as I got back into the habit of making my regular weekend pilgrimages, I realized how much I’d missed him. After my bruising interlude with Jerome, I so appreciated our easy familiarity. I no longer had to permanently hold my stomach in and fake a sophistication that wasn’t truly mine.
One weekend the unthinkable happened: Adam asked if he could visit me. Polly gave me her blessing, and I spent three days in a state of perpetual nerves. What if it just felt weird? We hadn’t even kissed yet; it could all turn out to be a total disaster. What if, even worse, I’d totally misunderstood his intentions and he just possessed a burning desire to see the sights of Exeter? No worries on that score: he snogged me the second he got off the train and, with that, the transition from friends to something more had effortlessly materialized. Perhaps the very fact that it was so painless was ominous. All those years later, it felt frighteningly easy to step back through the romantic looking glass and find I was gazing at a lovely, goofy friend.