Up until now, I’ve found the concept of a “best friend” a bit twee and primary school.
It’s not that I don’t have close friends, I just prefer flitting between them. And I find the modern expectations of female friendship groups a bit intense. When a group of my female friends told me that in their shared house they keep the doors open so they can wander into each others’ rooms, I recall squirming.
I didn’t buy that “maybe our girlfriends are our soulmates” line from Sex and the City, which single women my age are always mentioning.
My best friend and I met at a party three years ago – I was 27 and she was 25. As is the case with all great love affairs, it never occurred to me we were each other’s type – all my mates were my age or older. But we agreed to go for a coffee – my intent was to offer some career advice – and since, the coffees have never stopped.
In many ways, we have little in common. She’s been with her high-school sweetheart for 12 years but is in an open relationship; I’m generally single. She is non-judgmental, while I, in some facets of my life, can be put off easily, which I think might be why I’ve been reluctant to adopt a best friend, and potential partners.
I live in very north London, she lives very south, so we always meet somewhere mutually inconvenient to make it fair, or equally unfair on both of us, depending on how you look at it.
She once said she and her boyfriend work because they are both “nice but mean” – and I suspect that is why we are compatible as friends too. I once edited her CV and saw her extracurriculars are full of Samaritans and so on, but her humour tends towards the wicked and inappropriate. We once had an earnest discussion about whether it was sexier to be a worrier (me) or susceptible to feeling down (her), and agreed that unfortunately depression is a bit sexier than anxiety.
She has what I call “soft edges” – if in a mood about something she will explain rather than be defensive about it. Importantly, we are safe in the knowledge we both overthink things well beyond the comprehension of other living humans, so can message one another asking to chat on the phone about whatever the inane mental tangle du jour we have chosen for ourselves.
We fail the Bechdel test every time we’re together because we’re generally talking about boys and if not boys, then feelings – which is even worse, feminism-wise.
Oddly, our friendship has taught me a lot about the ways I get put off in dating: I struggled to put a label on us as “best friends” until this year because I feared committing. What if she ended up giving me the ick? What if I was missing out on the spice and variety in life? There are so many people in this world I haven’t met yet.
But I’ve learned that you have to forgo novelty to be conferred richness and depth – the more time I spend with her, the more I realise other qualities I like about her that I could never have discovered at first. And that of course, someone will always have habits which irk you; the point is they’re outweighed by what the person adds to your life.
Having a best friend has made me better at relationships. I spent the day with her at Glastonbury this year even when I was itching to do my own thing, because she prefers not to be alone: a minute sacrifice, but old me would never have done that.
Then, while on holiday last month, I was on the phone to her, counselling her about something we have long disagreed on. A girl in my hostel overheard, and told me I sounded open-minded, and that I must be a good friend. It moved me more than it should – because I realised that I can relinquish my judgement in the face of love.
It’s quite hard to say all this without sounding like I secretly harbour lesbian impulses towards my best friend (we have obviously made this joke already). So I should say that what I appreciate most about her is that she is my wingwoman – sometimes to a fault.
At the lido this summer, she insisted a cute guy had checked me out and offered to accompany me to go speak to him. “I think I left my goggles here, have you seen them?” I asked him. But he took the question very seriously and told the lifeguard, who told another and it very quickly escalated – so we decided to leave before they started announcing my non-existent lost goggles on the tannoy system. As we sloped away, the guy asked me what colour my goggles were. “Blue” I said, as my friend simultaneously exclaimed “pink”.
Last week, I was explaining to someone a quote I’d read about how the appeal of a lover is like that of a waterproof jacket – you feel buoyed even amidst the storms, because you know you have the protective effect of someone’s unconditional love. I paused mid-sentence, because I realised I already had that.
I never really found what I wanted in a best friend at school or in my twenties – so the idea I’ve found my first best friend at 30 is special. And has made me realise it’s entirely possible I’ll one day meet The One romantically, too.
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