new
[n, ny] - adjective
Having been made or come into being only a short time ago; recent: a new law.
Still fresh: a new coat of paint.
Never used or worn before now: a new car; a new hat.
Just found, discovered, or learned: new information.
Not previously experienced or encountered; novel or unfamiliar: ideas new to her.
Different from the former or the old: the new morality.
"Got a new neighbour today," Fran commented, lighting a cigarette.
"Oh?" Bernard sighed, in the sort of voice that told you he didn't really care.
"Yeah. She moved into your old girlfriend's flat." That evil grin.
"Ha." That bitter laugh.
"Who is she? Have you met her?" Manny asked, jumping from the books he was re-un-organising.
"Nah. Might say hello tonight, though, feel a bit sorry for anyone in that broom cupboard – oh, what? Don't look at me like that. You're the one who doesn't like new people, Bernard. Manny and I are normal, aren't we, Manny?"
He spun 359° to face the desk, nodding vigorously.
"Yes, Fran, yes!"
Normally, something funny and unexpected would happen at this point – like a mouldy paella appearing – and the three of them paused in expectation. A pigeon cooed somewhere, a customer let himself in quietly, then... silence.
"Oh, Christ! Nothing ever happens around here!" Bernard exploded. "Bring your friend if you judge that she's sane, ok. Maybe then we'll have an event, as opposed to this one-man pantomime we have for entertainment." He gestured vaguely in Manny's direction.
"Hmh. Hello, welcome to Bla – oh, where'd he go?" the 'one-man pantomime' muttered, glancing from side to side.
"He's behind you," Fran supplied.
"Oh, thanks. Hello!"
Manny safely occupied, Fran turned back to her disgruntled friend.
"What's the time?" he demanded. "Food?"
"It's half ten."
"God. Bring this woman for lunch, will you? What's she like, anyway?"
"I don't know. I haven't actually met her yet. And I could hardly bring her to lunch. Let's go out!" She was whining now. "Wash your hair, and I'll get us a reservation at a place where you need reservations."
"What is this place? You know I hate dressing up to go out!"
"I don't know... that French one, round the corner?"
"Pah! You know I hate French people!"
"Oh, cheer up. You'll be making a new friend."
He muttered something indecipherable to himself and poured more wine into a glass. Fran eased herself out of her chair and found her coat.
"I'm off, then. See you, Manny!" she called, and was gone.
Bernard watched her go with an air of contempt, then grabbed a book from the middle of Manny's most recent stack, causing to topple amusingly.
"What did I miss?" Manny said, jumping back.
"We've been press-ganged into dinner with some floozy of Fran's," Bernard replied. "But it's an up-dressy place. And look at you! You look like you've got a shag rug on under your clothes. No decency."
"How should I dress, then?"
"Nicely! It's that French place, you know the one. The one with that waiter I loathe."
Manny remembered. The one time they'd visited this place, Bernard had taken an unusual hatred – well, unusually passionate – to this one waiter named Paul. It wasn't too bad, Manny supposed, but there had been things said, and thrown, and lawsuits threatened... quite a calm evening, really.
"When are we leaving?"
"I don't know. You always expect me to know everything, you know! And while I am brilliant, I can't be your electronic datebook –"
"PDA."
"–whatever. Point is, you... you... that is, you... oh, shut up!"
He threw the closest thing at hand (a biro) at Manny's head, and began planning the rest of his day. Yes, he'd a have a nice nap, followed by a solid drinking session from 6.30 to boogle-de-boo am, and then – oh, wait. Dinner.
Darn it.
Fran rapped her knuckles against the door of 2B, which she still held a slight resentment against.
"Hold on a second, I'm comi – oh, bloody hell!" the neighbour called, followed by a loud crash.
"Of course," Fran replied in the sweet voice she reserved for strangers, people she wanted to make a good impression on, or possible boyfriends/men in general.
The door swung open to reveal a short-ish woman as she brushed hair from her face, trying to appear as though she hadn't caused a minor catastrophe in her house.
"Um, hi," she said, smiling warily.
"Hello. I'm Fran, from 2," the taller woman gushed, then quickly added, "A. 2A. Next door."
"Oh, right." She dusted off a hand and offered it. "I'm Molly. Nice to meet you."
"You too."
She had an accent, Fran noted. It sounded Australian, or possibly New Zealand-ish (a sort of smaller, colder Australia without the fame or deserts).
"Can I help you with anything, er..." Molly began, but stopped.
"Fran."
"Fran. Can I help you with anything?"
"No, no. I'm just going out with some friends tonight, and I thought you might like to join us."
"Oh!"
She stopped, obviously touched by the gesture. If she knew what kind of friends Fran had at the time, she would have made her excuses. As it was, she didn't, so she graciously accepted.
"I'll come here about seven," Fran instructed.
"How should I dress?"
"Oh, you know."
Through a secret understanding known only to women, Molly did, in fact, know exactly how to dress. Now with something to look forward to, she went back into her tiny apartment to search for that something to wear, keeping an eye on the stacks of boxes that pressed against the roof.