**The Bonds of Bromance**
Oliver pulled his Jaguar up outside the shopping centre, reluctant to leave the warmth of the leather seats. Yesterday’s sleet had turned to rain, and overnight, a bitter wind had frozen the slush into a treacherous, uneven crust that sent pedestrians skidding.
Tomorrow was Mum’s birthday, and Oliver, true to form, had left gift-shopping to the last minute. Surely, a big department store would have something suitable.
He stepped out of the car, and a gust of wind immediately whipped his coat open, flinging one end of his scarf over his shoulder. Clutching his jacket, he locked the car and took a step towards the entrance—only to slip on the ice, nearly landing flat on his back. No grit or salt had been scattered yet, and his dress shoes had all the traction of banana skins.
After much flailing, he finally made it inside, exhaling in relief. He was about to head straight to the scarves and gloves section when he remembered—he’d given Mum a pashmina last year.
“Ollie! Blimey, is that you?” came a delighted shout from near a jeweller’s display.
Standing there was Henry, his oldest—and, as it turned out, only—best mate.
“Crikey, look at you! How long’s it been? Proper posh these days, eh?”
“Hey. Yeah, just got back,” Oliver said, sounding more sheepish than he meant to.
“Funny, I was just thinking about you the other day. Fancy a cuppa somewhere?”
“Actually, I’m here for a last-minute birthday present,” Oliver admitted.
“Wait—Margaret’s birthday’s tomorrow, isn’t it?”
“You remember?” Oliver brightened instantly. “Yeah, left it late, as usual…”
“Right, get on with it then. I’ve already done my shopping,” Henry said, lifting his carrier bags. “But we’re catching up properly, yeah? Here—take this. Don’t make me hunt you down.” He handed Oliver a business card.
While picking out earrings for his mum, Oliver kept replaying the unexpected meeting, kicking himself for acting like he wasn’t thrilled to see Henry. Of course he was—just caught off guard, that’s all.
At the till, he reached for his wallet and paused. There, tucked beside his card, was Henry’s: *Henry Clarke, Deputy Director, New Horizon Constructions.* Blimey.
“Sorry,” Oliver muttered, noticing the cashier’s polite impatience. “Ran into an old mate—been ages. You know how it is.”
He paid and drove home, mind buzzing with thoughts of his friend…
***
They’d stood side by side on their first day of primary school, clutching nearly identical bouquets of gladioli, their faces equally excited and terrified. When they filed into the building, they’d instinctively grabbed each other’s hands like lifelines. By some unspoken agreement, they shared a desk.
Thus began their friendship. Sure, they’d bickered—kids do—but their squabbles were trivial, quickly forgotten. Henry was always first to offer an olive branch.
Even when they chose different universities after school, neither made a fuss. They knew life would pull them in separate directions, but that didn’t mean they had to stop being mates.
Henry went to Imperial for engineering—bloke-heavy—while Oliver studied modern languages at King’s, where the ratio was decidedly the opposite. They saw less of each other, but weekends were sacred, spent laughing over pints like no time had passed.
Oliver fancied only one girl in his course: petite, bubbly Sophie. She had a laugh like champagne bubbles and curls that defied gravity. He’d mooned over her for weeks before mustering the courage to ask for “help with an assignment.”
“Could’ve just said you fancied me,” she’d teased, eyes sparkling.
So he’d blurted, “Can I walk you home?”
She’d agreed, easy as you please. That spring evening, Oliver felt like the luckiest sod in London. He replayed every smile, every glance—though, annoyingly, none of their actual conversation—until dawn.
He walked her home most days. April’s chill gave way to May’s warmth, but Oliver still hadn’t kissed her. Term would end soon; she’d vanish to her parents’ villa in Spain, then her gran’s in Brighton, not returning till autumn. The thought tied his stomach in knots.
His last chance to confess properly was his birthday party, the final Sunday of May. He’d invite her home, introduce her to his parents, finally tell her he was mad about her.
Sophie said yes without a second thought. Emboldened, Oliver asked her to bring her usual companion—Emma, the statuesque blonde he often saw her with.
“Emma? Okay. But what if she doesn’t like Henry?”
“He’ll cope. Your lot are spoiled for choice at King’s—Imperial’s a desert by comparison.”
Mum fussed in the kitchen all morning. Oliver “helped” by getting underfoot, agonising over shirts and whether to wear a tie.
“Just set the table,” Mum finally said. “And relax—if you like her, I’m sure I will too.”
Henry arrived first, calming Oliver’s nerves—until the girls were late.
“What if she changed her mind?” Oliver fretted.
“Lasses are always late. Get used to it,” Dad said sagely.
The doorbell rang. Oliver sprinted to answer it. Mum rolled her eyes.
“Smitten like this? Recipe for disaster.”
Oliver returned with the girls. Mum and Henry immediately noticed Emma—tall, blond, sharp-featured. Henry had only seen that sort in films.
But Oliver introduced Sophie—the shorter, less flashy one. Nice enough, Henry thought, but next to Emma? Bit plain.
At dinner, Dad gave a toast before the parents tactfully disappeared.
Both lads were easy on the eyes—Oliver quieter, Henry cracking jokes like a stand-up. Sophie laughed at every one, forgetting Oliver entirely. Finally, he dragged Henry onto the balcony.
“What the hell are you playing at? Sophie’s mine, you berk!”
“Not my fault she fancies me more!”
“So you’re laying it on thick?”
“Right, got it. Though honestly? Emma’s more my speed. Bloody hell, mate, your uni’s spoiled for choice.”
“I’m serious,” Oliver glowered.
“Relax, your Sophie’s safe. Not my type anyway. Let’s get back before they think we’ve scarpered.”
Back inside, Sophie pulled Henry up to dance. He shot Oliver an apologetic shrug—what was he supposed to do, say no?
Oliver asked Emma. Mid-dance, she suddenly stopped, flapping her hands.
“Ugh, something’s in my eye. Where’s your loo?”
He led her there. She grabbed his wrist.
“Can you see it?”
There was nothing there. When they returned, the others had vanished.
“Where’d they go?”
“Your friend’s walking my mate home, I’d wager.”
“But—why?”
“Use your head,” Emma said, grabbing her coat.
Mum reappeared. “Leaving already? What about cake?”
“Thanks, it was lovely,” Emma said.
“Aren’t you walking her home?” Mum scolded.
Oliver sighed and obeyed. Later, he rang Henry.
“Sorry, mate. Shouldn’t have vanished with Emma. Sophie asked me to walk her. What was I meant to do?”
Their first proper row. Sophie got the cold shoulder too.
After exams, Oliver bumped into Henry and Sophie on campus.
“We were looking for you! Fancy the lido? First dip of summer?” Henry said, ever the peacemaker.
Oliver sulked the whole way. At the water’s edge, the atmosphere remained frosty.
“Honestly, you two!” Sophie snapped. “Oliver, did I ever promise you anything? I like you both.”
Henry shrugged. Oliver squinted across the lake.
“Race you to the other side. Winner takes all—fair?”
Oliver swam well—had lessons as a lad. Henry? More of a sinker.
“It’s freezing. Could get cramp,” Henry hedged.
“Chickening out?” Sophie taunted.
“He knows I’ll thrash him,” Oliver goaded, itching for payback.
“Think so?” Henry plunged in.
Oliver gave him a head start before diving after him, smooth and fast. He overtook Henry quickly—then heard splashes and shouting.
Sophie was screaming. Several lads sprinted into the water.
Oliver turned. No sign of Henry—just chaos onshore. He swam back. Henry surfaced briefly, then vanished again. Oliver dove, grabbing him just as another bloke arrived. Together, they hauled Henry’s limp form ashore.
Oliver pumped his chest frantically. A crowd gathered, someone called 999. Finally, Henry coughed up water, gasping. Sophie dropped to her knees beside him.
“I’m sorry—I didn’t know you couldn’t swim!”
Henry sat up, shiveringHenry stood unsteadily, wrapped himself in a borrowed towel, and without a word, walked away—but Oliver, grinning through the chaos, grabbed his soggy friend’s arm and said, “Next time, stick to dry land, you daft git,” and that was the moment they both knew, despite everything, their friendship was unbreakable.
