THE QUACK

*Names have been hidden for protection. 

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It was Sunday, and Carrot* and I were slouching in chairs after wolfing down pizzas.

“You know, we’ve been friends for half our lifetime,” Carrot said.

“Stop. I already feel fat. I don’t need to feel old, too.” I said, staring down at my belly, which had formed into a dough hill. 

I met Carrot in the city of Reading in 2008. He looked like a heartthrob from a teen movie. He had floppy brown hair, a chiselled jawline, a rugged satchel, and around his neck was a Nikon camera. 

He and my great-great-great-great boyfriend, were taking photos for their GCSE art. I was there because, well, when you’re sixteen, there is nothing else you would rather do than lurk around your boyfriend as he takes photos of McDonalds.  After they took many photos, we got frappés from Starbucks and watched the skaters as they did tricks. I told Carrot I could skateboard, but it didn’t impress him as much as I hoped.

“That’s cool. It’s not really my thing,” he said.

That summer, Carrot and I saw each other at a lot of parties. We had finished our GCSEs, and everyone was draped in Abercrombie & Fitch and attached to iPods listening to Bloc Party. Girls were whispery and giggly. The boys were abusing each other and calling it ‘banter’.

Carrot, though, was more contained than the rest of us. He was in the room, but not. It gave him an air of mystery that made girls think about him more than they would like to admit. We had theories as to why Carrot was still single and concluded he was waiting for a girl that we would hate – an A* student like himself, naturally beautiful, and who he could play tennis with. (Very important).

School started, the leaves shrivelled and died, but the parties lived on. It was October half term, and one guy had a garage free on his uncle’s farm. It was dank, with no ambient lighting. The catering offered was a bowl of stale Doritos, a bottle of Smirnoff and a range of cheap beers. 

Carrot had cut off his floppy hair into short back and sides. He had highlighted it over the summer, and his all-boys catholic school didn’t approve.  

I sat beside him on a blow-up mattress and asked if he was ok. He was keeping to himself more than usual at this party, and I wasn’t sure if, like me, he was regretting attending a party in an unheated Chainsaw Massacre garage. 

He fiddled with an empty bottle of Peroni and made a, “mmm” sound.

“Do you want to talk?”  I asked.

He did anouther unsure, “Mmm” sound and then said, “can we go outside?”

As we walked out of the garage beneath the starry autumn night, I began to think of what to say when Carrot confessed his love to me. I decided I would play the tortured damsel and say something like, “Oh, Carrot, I know we have buckets of chemistry, but we simply can’t…”

We found a concrete step surrounded by farm tools and opposite a rusting pickup truck. I wiped under my eyes to clear any Rimmel black eyeliner that could have run, then I puffed up my hair like an aroused pigeon. 

I turned to Carrot, and he looked me straight in the eye.

“I’m gay.”

“Ooooooh,” I said, as if I’d been told the answer, to a very simple question. 

One year later.

 I was parked near the all-boys-boarding school in Bubbles, my baby blue Fiat 500. The clock on the radio said 22:42. I nervously tapped the steering wheel and checked front, right, left, right, left, front. It was now 22:45. Suddenly, I heard running footsteps. From the right, a familiar shape was charging towards the car. I turned the ignition just as Carrot jumped in.

“Drive, drive, drive,” he said, and I hit the car into reverse and sped away from his boarding school. It was the night Twilight: New Moon

was released, and we were desperate to see Edward Cullen and his pale, sparkling torso, so we bought tickets for the first showing at midnight. We just had to make sure Carrot was back before the morning roll call. It was worth the risk.

When Carrot and I turned eighteen, we stepped into a gay bar in Reading. We perched on the edge of a booth for a second, then ran out again. “Eugh, they’re all so old,” Carrot said. We went back to the safe haven, which was Revolutions, and drank popcorn-flavoured shots to Black Eyed Peas.

We visited each other’s university, and during the holidays, I would pop to his house and sit at the kitchen island, drinking wine with Mama Carrot and Papa Carrot. (Thank you, Mama Carrot and Papa Carrot for letting me drink all your wine).

Now, as grown-ups with jobs and bills to pay, we weave in and out of each other’s lives. Sometimes, a year will go by without a word, but we’ll always cross over at some point.

Last Sunday was one of our crossovers.

Next to Carrot was his gorgeous partner, Gazpacho*. They live in a house with a fish tank full of exotic fish. There is a patio where Carrot is trying to keep some plants alive. And they buy Hello Fresh boxes.  That’s how old we are now, Hello Fresh age. 

After an afternoon of discussing the old days and the present days, the bad habits we’re trying to stop and the holidays we have booked, the three of us sat quietly in our pizza haze. 

There was a precious, comfortable silence. The kind that can only be earned when you’ve known each other for half your lifetime. 

Say hi to your half a lifetime friend today
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