**A Bond of Brotherhood**
Oliver pulled his Mercedes into the shopping centre car park, reluctant to leave the warmth of the car. The previous day’s sleet had turned to rain, and overnight, the icy wind had hardened the slush into treacherous ridges, sending pedestrians slipping and sliding.
His mother’s birthday was tomorrow, and, as usual, he’d left gift shopping to the last minute. The department store would have something suitable.
Stepping out, a gust of wind flung his coat open and tossed one end of his scarf behind him. Gripping his coat, he locked the car and headed towards the entrance—only to slip, nearly falling. The pavement hadn’t been gritted yet, and his designer shoes had no grip.
After an unsteady trek to the doors, he sighed in relief as he entered the warmth. He made for the scarves and gloves section before remembering—he’d given his mother a silk scarf last year.
“Ollie! That you?” called a familiar voice near the jewellery counter.
Harry, his oldest—and, as it turned out, only—friend stood there, grinning.
“Blimey, how long’s it been? You look sharp, very posh.”
“Hey. Just flew in,” Oliver said, awkwardly guilty.
“Funny, I was just thinking about you. Fancy a coffee?”
“Can’t—present shopping,” Oliver muttered.
“Wait, Margaret’s birthday’s soon, isn’t it?”
“You remember? It’s tomorrow. Left it late again…”
“Alright, pick something, I won’t distract you.” Harry held up his shopping bags. “But let’s catch up properly, yeah? Here—” He handed Oliver a business card. “Call me. Or I’ll hunt you down.”
Choosing earrings for his mum, Oliver couldn’t shake the surprise encounter, regretting how stiff he’d been. Of course he was happy to see Harry—just caught off guard.
At the till, he fumbled for his card and found Harry’s business card tucked beside it. *Associate Director – Brightstone Constructions*. Impressive.
“Sorry,” he said, noticing the cashier waiting. “Ran into an old mate—haven’t seen him in years, you know how it is.”
After paying, he drove home, thoughts fixed on his friend…
***
Their friendship had started on the first day of primary school, standing side by side at assembly with near-identical bouquets of lilies. Both wore the same nervous, excited grin. When they filed inside, they’d instinctively reached for each other’s hands—then shared a desk.
They fought, of course—petty, silly spats—but Harry always made the first move to reconcile.
Even when they chose different universities, they didn’t argue. They knew life would take them separate ways, but nothing could stop them staying friends if they wanted to. Harry studied engineering, Oliver languages. Weekends were for catching up, talking for hours.
Harry’s course was male-dominated; Oliver’s was the opposite. Among the sea of clever, charming women, one stood out: Clara. Petite, quick-witted, with a laugh that lit up rooms. Her curls bounced as she walked, and Oliver couldn’t look away.
He took weeks to work up the nerve to speak to her. When he finally did—claiming he needed translation help—she’d smirked.
“Just say you fancy me.”
“I do. Can I walk you home?” The words tumbled out.
“Go on, then,” she’d said, flashing him that smile.
Strolling through springtime London, Oliver’s heart soared. That night, he replayed every glance, every smile—but none of their conversation. Morning couldn’t come fast enough.
He walked her home most days. Cool April gave way to balmy May, but Oliver still hadn’t kissed her. Exams loomed—then she’d be off to Spain with her parents, then her gran’s in Edinburgh until autumn. The thought twisted his stomach.
His birthday—the last Sunday of May—was his chance. He’d invite her home, introduce her to his parents, and finally tell her how he felt.
She agreed instantly, no fuss. Emboldened, he asked her to bring her usual companion, Sarah.
“Sarah?”
“Yeah. My best mate Harry—engineering lot, not many girls there. None like you, anyway.”
“Alright. What if she’s not his type?”
“Just needs someone to chat with. We’ll see.”
That morning, his mother bustled in the kitchen. Oliver tried to help, but nerves made him useless. He kept darting off—should he wear the tie? Maybe no tie?
“Set the table,” his mother said. “And relax! If you like her, I’m sure I will.”
“You’re the best.” He kissed her cheek. *She’ll love Clara.*
Harry arrived, easing Oliver’s nerves—until the girls were late.
“What if she changed her mind?” Oliver fretted.
“Girls are always late. Get used to it,” his father said dryly.
The doorbell rang. Oliver sprinted to answer.
“Hopeless,” his mother muttered.
Returning with the girls, Oliver introduced Clara—but Harry’s eyes flicked to Sarah, a statuesque blonde. By comparison, Clara seemed ordinary. Sweet, pretty—but ordinary.
Once seated, his father gave a toast, then the parents tactfully retreated.
Harry, ever the entertainer, had everyone in stitches—even Clara, who’d forgotten Oliver existed. Finally, Oliver dragged Harry onto the balcony.
“What are you *doing*? She’s *mine*.”
“Not my fault she fancies me.”
“So you’re showing off?”
“Relax. I’m not interested. Prefer Sarah, honestly. Bloody stunning. Your lot’s spoiled for choice.”
“I’m serious.”
“Alright, alright. Wouldn’t steal your girl.”
Back inside, Clara pulled Harry up to dance. He shot Oliver an apologetic look—*what could I do?*
Oliver asked Sarah. Mid-dance, she stopped, fluttering her hands.
“Something’s in my eye. My mascara’s running—where’s the loo?”
He guided her there.
“Can you check?” She tilted her face up.
No speck in sight. When they returned, the others were gone.
“Where’d they go?”
“Harry walked her home, I expect.”
“*Why?*”
“Seriously? She fancied him. I’ll head off too.”
His parents reappeared as Sarah reached for her jacket.
“Leaving already? Didn’t try the cake!”
“It was lovely, thanks,” Sarah said, smiling.
“Oliver—*escort her*,” his mother hissed.
Sighing, he did.
At home, he called Harry.
“Sorry, mate—shouldn’t have vanished with Sarah. But when Clara asked, was I meant to say no?”
Their first real fight. Oliver blamed Clara, too.
After exams, he spotted Harry and Clara together.
“We were just looking for you,” Harry said, ever the peacemaker. “Fancy the beach? Water’s freezing, but it’s tradition.”
Oliver stayed sullen the whole way.
At the shore, Clara lost patience.
“Are you *children*? I never promised you anything. I like you both.”
Harry shrugged. Oliver squinted across the Thames.
“Fine. First to the other side wins me. Fair?”
Oliver was the stronger swimmer. Harry barely stood a chance.
“It’s freezing. Could get cramps,” Harry hedged.
“*Refusing?*”
“He knows I’ll win,” Oliver taunted.
Harry plunged in. Oliver gave him a head start, then followed.
He overtook Harry quickly, but then—a splash, a gasp. Clara screamed.
Oliver turned. Harry vanished beneath the water.
He swam back, hauled Harry up with a stranger’s help, dragged him ashore. Chest compressions. A cough. Water spewed.
Clara knelt beside Harry.
“I didn’t know you couldn’t swim!”
A bystander draped a towel over him. Shakily, Harry gathered his things and walked off without a word.
Oliver chased after him. Clara forgotten.
Outside Harry’s flat, pale and shivering, Harry muttered, “You won.”
“Don’t be daft. You’d have saved me. Clara played us.”
Harry gave him a strange look and left.
Calls went unanswered. Clara rang, upset Harry was ignoring *her*.
During exams, Oliver realised—he could live without Clara, but not Harry. He stopped calling, assuming Harry needed space. The crack in their friendship widened. They drifted apart.
Years passed. Oliver never married. No love ever consumed him like Clara had. Harry did marry—Oliver glimpsed the wedding car. He assumed it was Clara. He didn’t envy them—just wished he’d been invited.
***
Oliver called Harry the next day. Time to bury the hatchet.
“*Sarah* had your kid?” Oliver blurted when Harry mentioned his newborn son.
“YeahOliver laughed, realizing that after all these years, the one who truly mattered was still his oldest friend—the one who’d never really left his side.
