My Best Friend Used My Apartment for a Party Without Telling Me the Truth

By the time the fourth taxi stopped outside Laisa’s apartment in Suva, I was standing behind the curtain trying to count strangers.

There were already twelve pairs of shoes at the door.

Someone had brought a speaker.

Someone else was carrying three plastic bags full of food.

Then a woman I had never seen before walked into the building holding a birthday cake and asked me where the toilet was.

I looked at my phone.

7:43 p.m.

There was one message from Mere.

Please don’t be angry. It’s not as bad as it looks.

That was the exact moment I knew it was much worse than it looked.

Two hours earlier, Laisa had been sitting on the floor of her apartment in Suva, folding clean laundry while Mere sent her a voice note.

I just need your place for dinner. Ten people maximum. Maybe twelve if two people bring partners. Nothing crazy.

Laisa had laughed when she heard it.

You said that last time.

Mere replied almost immediately.

Last time was different.

There was always a last time with Mere.

She was the kind of friend who could turn buying bread into a three-hour outing. If she said she would arrive at five, you knew she might arrive at six. If she said she had one quick story, you made tea.

They had been friends since secondary school. They had survived bad hairstyles, university applications, terrible first dates, unpaid internships, family arguments, and the strange years when everyone seemed to be getting engaged except them.

When Laisa moved into her apartment near Samabula, Mere had helped carry the mattress upstairs.

When Mere lost her job at a small events company, Laisa had let her sleep on the sofa for two weeks.

There were friendships like that. They were not perfect. They simply had history.

That history was exactly why Laisa said yes.

Her landlord had one rule that mattered more than all the others.

No parties.

It was written in the tenancy agreement. No parties, no loud gatherings, no events that disturbed other tenants.

Laisa had never tested the rule.

She liked the apartment too much.

The rent was not cheap, but the place was close enough to work that she could save money on transport. She had been trying to build an emergency fund and had recently started reading articles about budgeting for beginners and how to save money without feeling miserable.

She had even stopped buying takeaway coffee during the week.

That was how serious she was.

Still, when Mere called again and said the dinner was for a friend who was leaving Suva, Laisa softened.

Fine. Ten people.

You are the best.

No loud music.

Promise.

No strangers sleeping here.

Promise.

And everyone leaves by ten.

There was a pause.

Yes, Mum.

Laisa laughed.

She should have known.

At 6:30, the first three guests arrived.

At 6:45, there were eight.

At 7:05, Mere appeared carrying two bags of food and wearing the expression of someone who knew she was already in trouble.

Laisa opened the door.

How many people?

Mere looked over her shoulder.

Depends how you count.

Laisa stared at her.

That is not a number.

Twenty?

You said ten.

I know.

There are already more than ten outside.

I know.

A man walked past them carrying a folding chair.

Laisa closed her eyes.

Why does someone have a chair?

Mere smiled weakly.

Because people need to sit.

The problem was not the dinner itself.

The food smelled incredible. There was kokoda, cassava, grilled chicken, roti, salads, and a large pot of something Laisa had been told not to touch because it was being saved for later.

The problem was that nobody seemed to know this was supposed to be a small dinner.

People kept arriving.

One woman brought her cousin.

The cousin brought her boyfriend.

The boyfriend brought his brother.

Someone arrived with a child.

Another person came because they had seen a photo in a group chat and assumed everyone was invited.

By 7:30, Laisa had stopped trying to count.

Her living room was full.

The balcony door was open.

The hallway smelled like perfume, grilled meat, and somebody’s coconut hair oil.

Her downstairs neighbor sent a message.

Everything okay upstairs?

Laisa stared at the screen.

She typed.

Yes, sorry. Just a small dinner.

She deleted it.

She typed again.

Sorry about the noise. It will finish soon.

Before she could send it, the music got louder.

A man near the television started dancing.

Someone cheered.

The speaker made a strange crackling sound.

Then the power went out.

The room exploded with laughter.

Phones came out immediately.

Someone turned on a flashlight.

A child shouted from the kitchen.

Mere started laughing.

Laisa did not.

This is not funny.

Mere looked at her.

I know.

My landlord is going to kill me.

She won’t kill you.

She will evict me.

She might not.

You don’t know that.

The lights came back.

Everyone cheered as if they had just won something.

Then somebody shouted that the cake had been dropped.

It had.

The box was open on the kitchen floor.

The icing was leaning heavily to one side.

For some reason, that was the thing that nearly broke Laisa.

She walked into the bathroom and locked the door.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub and looked at her phone.

There were three new messages from her landlord.

The first said nothing.

The second asked whether there was a gathering upstairs.

The third simply said:

Please keep the noise down.

Laisa put the phone face down.

She thought about the emergency fund.

She thought about the deposit.

She thought about how long it had taken to find the apartment.

She thought about Mere.

That was the part that made everything difficult.

If this had been anyone else, she would have opened the door and told them to leave.

If a stranger had done this, there would have been no discussion.

But Mere was not a stranger.

She was the person who had once sat beside Laisa on a hospital corridor floor when Laisa’s mother was having surgery.

She was the person who had travelled across Suva in heavy rain just to bring soup.

She was the person who knew exactly which childhood stories Laisa never told anyone else.

Friendship made people generous.

It also made them tolerate things they would never accept from anyone else.

At 9:18, Laisa came out of the bathroom.

The party had changed.

People were tired now.

Plates were stacked everywhere.

Someone was sleeping on the sofa.

The child had fallen asleep against her mother’s shoulder.

The music was lower.

Mere was collecting empty bottles.

She looked at Laisa.

I’m sorry.

Laisa nodded.

You should be.

Mere stopped.

It was the first time that evening neither of them laughed.

I thought you would be okay with it.

You knew I wouldn’t.

I knew you wouldn’t be okay with thirty people. I didn’t think there would be thirty people.

Laisa looked around.

How many did you invite?

Mere hesitated.

About fourteen.

About?

Fourteen.

Then where did the others come from?

Mere rubbed her forehead.

People heard about it.

That answer was so ridiculous that Laisa almost laughed.

Instead, she said:

You used my home because you knew I wouldn’t say no.

Mere looked down.

For a few seconds, there was nothing but the sound of dishes being washed in the kitchen.

Then Mere said something that made the whole night feel different.

Yes.

Laisa looked at her.

What?

Yes. That’s exactly what I did.

There was no excuse after that.

No joke.

No explanation.

Just the truth.

Mere had counted on the friendship.

She had known Laisa would complain, but she had also known Laisa would eventually open the door.

That was why she had asked.

The guests began leaving around 9:45.

One hugged Laisa and thanked her for hosting.

Laisa smiled.

You’re welcome.

The moment the door closed, she whispered to Mere:

I have never seen that woman in my life.

Mere laughed.

Laisa tried not to.

She failed.

They spent the next forty minutes cleaning.

There were crumbs under the sofa.

A drink had spilled beneath the television stand.

Someone had left a child’s shoe behind.

The cake was still sitting on the kitchen floor.

At 10:31, Mere found a pair of earrings under the coffee table.

At 10:47, they found a phone charger that belonged to nobody.

At 11:02, Mere finally sat down.

Are you still my friend?

Laisa was holding a mop.

She looked at her.

Ask me tomorrow.

Mere smiled.

Fair.

The next morning, Laisa woke to twenty-seven messages in the group chat.

People were thanking Mere for the wonderful dinner.

Someone had posted a video.

In it, Laisa could be seen in the background carrying plates, looking exhausted.

The caption said:

Best night.

She stared at it for several seconds.

Then she laughed.

Not because it was funny.

Not exactly.

She laughed because there was no other reaction that seemed big enough for what had happened.

A few minutes later, Mere sent her a private message.

I owe you.

Laisa typed back.

Yes.

She waited.

Then another message appeared.

Would you let me do it again next month?

Laisa stared at the screen.

She almost threw the phone across the room.

Instead, she sent one word.

Absolutely not.

Three dots appeared.

Then:

Worth asking.

Laisa smiled despite herself.

She never told her landlord exactly how many people had been there that night.

She also never let Mere host another dinner at her apartment.

At least, that was the plan.

Some friendships survive because people know when to forgive each other, and some survive because nobody is quite brave enough to walk away.