Just Saying: An absolutely perfect and feel-good romantic comedy

by Sophie Ranald

  ‘I see this has come as a shock,’ Samantha said gently. ‘We like to take care of our people here at Billings Pitt Furzedown. Particularly our younger colleagues, who we try to support unstintingly in the early stages of their careers.’

  I said, ‘Thank you,’ even though I wasn’t sure I meant it. I was pretty certain that the next word to come out of Samantha’s mouth was going to be ‘but’.

  ‘But,’ she went on, and I thought absurdly that if I was going to be sacked, at least I could make a living as a psychic medium predicting the future, ‘Gordon’s departure – at least, suspension – has implications for the IP department. As you know, it’s one of the smaller areas of our business. While people are at the centre of everything we do, we do also have to be mindful of the need to keep the business running profitably.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘And therefore, a decision has been taken to freeze recruitment into the IP team for the present, at least until such time as this matter is resolved.’

  ‘Does that mean I don’t…?’

  ‘It means that the role that was offered to you is also unfortunately on hold. I know this will be disappointing for you, Alice, and please let me reassure you that we’re doing all we can to resolve this as soon as possible. In the meantime, you’re most welcome to complete your training within M&A. If you feel you’d like to apply for a position in another area of the business, we will support you in any way we can.’

  But there are no roles in other areas of the business. They’re as rare as hen’s teeth. The other trainees have got them all. Joe only found out yesterday he had a job. It’s insanely competitive. I thought I was okay, because of Gordon. But now I’m not. The words raced through my head, but I didn’t say any of them.

  ‘There’s no pressure to make a decision,’ Samantha went on. ‘I’d suggest you take as much time as you need to think about things. Take the rest of today off, if you like. I can see you’re upset.’

  I nodded. ‘Thank you. I’ll do that.’

  Because at that moment, I could think of nothing worse than returning to my desk, facing Niamh’s anxious scrutiny and Rupert’s snide smile. All I wanted was to go home, close the door behind me, and feel – if only temporarily – safe.

  I stood up, wondering whether I was going to be sick and hoping that if I was, it wouldn’t be all over the plush carpets of the Human Resources floor.

  ‘There’s just one more thing,’ Samantha said. Up until then, she’d been poised and coolly professional, but now she seemed deeply uncomfortable. ‘I’m sorry to ask this. But was Gordon – did Gordon – I mean, was there any inappropriate behaviour you experienced or witnessed? To yourself, or to other female colleagues?’

  Inappropriate behaviour. That could mean only one thing – and it wasn’t fiddling the books. I understood now what everyone knew about Gordon, and a flood of hot colour washed over my face.

  ‘No. There was nothing. Nothing whatsoever. Not at all.’

  Six

  It was almost lunchtime before I made it out of Billings Pitt Furzedown HQ. Pathetic as it seems, I just couldn’t face walking back into the office to collect my bag and keys – not with Rupert’s malicious gaze on me. Especially not now I knew what he’d be thinking.

  Of course she shagged Gordon. That’s how she got that job offer. Little tart. I suppose some girls believe in getting to the top on their backs.

  The shame was awful. That, and the knowledge that I didn’t have a job any more – that the whole future Joe and I had planned together had vanished in front of my eyes, just like that.

  So I’d gone into the ladies’ and hid. Literally. I’d stayed locked in a cubicle for two hours, with only my phone for company. But I didn’t call anyone. I didn’t text Joe to tell him what had happened. I told myself that he’d be on the train, he’d be getting to the office, he’d be catching up with the work he’d missed that morning – he wouldn’t be in the right frame of mind to hear news like this. Not that there even was a right frame of mind.

  So I’d just scrolled blindly through the internet with my feet up on the toilet lid so that no one could see my shoes in the gap under the door and know it was me. I couldn’t even cry in case anyone heard me.

  It had been like a mixture of the worst game of hide and seek ever and the longest poo stand-off.

  At last, twelve o’clock had come and I’d known I was safe. Rupert was a man of habit and at noon every day he left the office to go and play squash with Gerard, one of the senior partners, who – entirely by coincidence of course – had been at Eton with Rupert’s father. Afterwards he’d eat the sandwiches his girlfriend made for him every morning at his desk. It was Wednesday so they’d be egg mayonnaise. But I wouldn’t be there to see him – or to smell the sandwiches.

  I’d darted out of the loo and into the office. Niamh had been on the phone, and she’d waved an anxious hand at me – What’s going on? But I’d just shaken my head, picked up my things and left. Half an hour later I’d emerged onto our local high street.

  By some triumph of self-discipline, I’d managed not to cry on the train either. But the knowledge that I was returning home, and that every step I took was one step closer to having to explain the morning’s events to Joe, had been too much for me. I’d thought of our bedroom, the clean sheets I’d put on the bed over the weekend. I’d imagined lying down, finally giving way to tears, safe at last in our little home.

  But it might not be able to be home for much longer. Without my salary, could we even afford the rent? What had appeared to be a refuge, a safe haven, now seemed horribly precarious, a little island with waves crashing around it and storm clouds hovering.

  And that thought set me off, right there outside Brockley train station. The sunny street was suddenly blurred by a haze of tears. When I saw the Nag’s Head pub up ahead and remembered Joe and me planning our future there, just the night before, I heard a huge gulping sob come from my throat. I rummaged in my bag for tissues but found none, so I stumbled on, tears streaming down my face, mascara stinging my eyes.

  And then I heard something else: a voice right next to me, saying, ‘Excuse me, Miss.’

  I stopped and looked around. If this was someone asking for directions, they were asking the wrong person. If it was a charity collector trying to get me to sign up to a monthly direct debit to save the rhino, he’d get a piece of my mind. If it was a local drug dealer, I’d tell him where to shove his bag of weed (even if it would take the edge off).

  But it was none of those things. It was an elderly black man, dressed in a cream linen suit and a straw Panama hat.

  ‘Miss?’ he said again. ‘I’m sorry to bother you, but I just wanted to check you’re all right.’

  Of course I’m not all right, I could have snapped. Except, of course, faced with his solicitous politeness, I couldn’t possibly.

  ‘I’ve had better days.’ It was a feeble attempt at lightness, and it made me give another choking sob.

  ‘Here,’ the man said, producing an immaculately ironed handkerchief from his coat pocket. ‘Use this.’

  I looked at it, imagined smearing my tears and make-up all over it, and hesitated. But my eyes and nose were streaming like a leaking tap, and trying to have a conversation with this kindly gentleman in this state was surely worse than getting snot on his clean hanky. So I wiped my face, realising that my surprise had almost stopped my tears.

  ‘Now,’ he said. ‘Are you all right? Are you hurt?’

  I shook my head.

  ‘Are you safe? Do you need me to call the police?’

  I shook my head again. ‘I’m okay. I’ve just had a shock.’

  ‘Well, they say sweet tea is best for that,’ he said. ‘But personally, I’d recommend a small sherry. I was just on my way in there – would you care to join me?’

  He gestured towards the Nag’s Head. Of course – I recognised him, I realised. He was one of the group of elderly men I’d seen in there on both occasions I’d crossed t
he threshold, playing their game of dominoes at the same table.

  ‘I…’ I hesitated again. Going into a pub with a complete stranger and being bought a drink was maybe not the smartest idea ever. But he’d been so kind. He’d lent me his hanky. He seemed genuinely concerned. And it was a public place in the middle of the day, after all. ‘Thank you, that would be lovely.’

  I followed him into the gloom of the pub, and he gestured towards the corner table.

  ‘Take a seat. I’ll be with you in just a moment. My name’s Maurice, by the way. Maurice Higgins.’

  ‘Alice Carlisle.’ I held out my hand and he shook it. His nails were immaculately manicured, I noticed – far tidier than my own.

  ‘It’s a pleasure meeting you.’ He turned towards the bar, and I sat down, wondering what the hell I was doing here, whether I might soon be embroiled in a game of dominoes and, if so, how the hell you even played dominoes. Ordering pizza from them on my phone when pissed I could do. The actual game? Not so much.

  But there was no sign of Maurice’s three friends in the pub; there weren’t more than a dozen people there. Not bad, I supposed, for a Wednesday lunchtime – but then I remembered the Star and Garter, where Joe and I had been one weekday afternoon after arriving back from a break in Paris starving and wanting to keep the holiday vibe going. The place had been as crowded as ever: a table of pregnant women eating salads in one corner; a few shift workers, still in their high-vis jackets, tucking into burgers and pints before heading home to get some rest; a group of men in suits who looked like they might be estate agents wolfing down sandwiches and animatedly discussing the property pages of the Evening Standard.

  I didn’t have time to muse on the success or failure of the Nag’s Head, though. Soon Maurice was back with a half-pint of Guinness and a small crystal glass filled with sticky-looking brown liquid, which he placed carefully in front on me.

  ‘There we are. Now you drink up, and if you like you can tell me what’s wrong.’

  ‘Thank you ever so much.’ I wondered whether I ought to pay him for the drink, but his old-fashioned courtesy stopped me from asking.

  I picked up my glass of sherry and took a sip. It was sickly sweet, lethally alcoholic and oddly comforting – like chugging a medicine spoon of cough syrup when you’re feeling poorly.

  ‘Trouble with your young man, is it?’ Maurice asked.

  To my surprise, I laughed. ‘No. I’m all good on the young man front. Only the thing is, I think I’ve just lost my job.’

  His face fell. ‘Alice, I’m sorry to hear that. Men – they’re two a penny, especially for a pretty lady like you. But a good job, one that keeps food on the table and pays the rent, in this day and age – well, we all like to feel secure, don’t we?’

  I nodded miserably. ‘And the trouble is, now I don’t. I suppose I could find something else. I’m not unemployable. But…’

  I felt my eyes welling up with tears again.

  Maurice said, ‘Back in my day, a job was for life. I’m a gentleman of leisure now, since I retired three years ago. But I worked for Lewisham council for forty years. Started off as a bus driver, finished as Transport Supervisor for the whole borough. It’s not like that any longer.’

  I dabbed my eyes again. ‘What’s so gutting is I feel like I’ve let everyone down. My boyfriend, my parents – they were so proud that their daughter was going to be a solicitor. You see, my brother…’

  But I didn’t have a chance to finish my sentence. The blonde landlady had emerged from behind the bar and was wiping the table next to us, very, very slowly, clearly waiting for a break in our conversation that would allow her to join in.

  ‘All right, Shirl?’ Maurice asked.

  ‘Ah, you know what it’s like, darling.’

  She put down her cloth and spray bottle and leaned her hip against the table. She was wearing purple velvet jeans (which were straining over her ample hips, but showed off her long, slim legs), a black T-shirt scattered with metallic purple stars, and battered black Converse. She smelled of strong, musky perfume and cigarette smoke.

  ‘Rushed off your feet?’ Maurice asked.

  ‘All the time. Since that place over the way shut, we’ve just been packed out, night after bloody night. I’ve had to order in more wine and the fancy bottled beer all them hipsters drink, and someone was even wanting vegan food the other night. Vegan, I ask you! I told her she could have a packet of salt and vinegar crisps but that wouldn’t do, apparently, owing to them being made in a factory that uses whey protein.’

  ‘It’s good to be busy, though, right? Bringing in the sheaves, as my mother used to say.’

  ‘We’ll need to be ordering in more bloody cheese at this rate,’ Shirl carried on. ‘Juan’s running round like a blue-arsed fly in the kitchen, too, with everyone wanting chips with cheese. Chips with cheese! As if we was a flaming kebab shop. “Poutine”, some young fellow said it’s called. And then when Juan made it – off-menu, of course; he’ll do anything to keep the punters happy – it was the wrong kind of cheese, I was told. The cheek of it!’

  Maurice and I both made sympathetic noises.

  ‘He’ll tell you himself,’ Shirley said, then turned towards a door next to the bar and bellowed, ‘Juan!’

  A moment later, a man emerged from what I presumed was the kitchen. He was shorter than Shirley and slightly stooped, like he’d spent so much time bent over a cooker he’d forgotten how to stand up straight. He had a droopy moustache and sad brown eyes like a spaniel. He was wearing checked trousers, black rubber clogs and a long stripy apron over a white shirt, which was stained at the cuffs with what looked like tomato soup.

  But Shirley looked at him like he was Prince Charming, and he leaned over and kissed her on both cheeks as if they hadn’t seen each other for weeks.

  ‘What can I do for you, Princesa?’ His accent was a mix of Spanish and south-east London. ‘Good to see you, Maurice, how are the tricks?’

  ‘I was just saying to Maurice, how since that place over the way got closed down, we haven’t had a moment’s peace, with people demanding organic this and vegetarian that and off-menu the other. When you started here, they were grateful for egg and chips, weren’t they, sweetheart?’

  ‘Egg and chips.’ Juan shook his head morosely. ‘Burger and chips, fish and chips, lasagne and chips. All these times, I live and breathe bleedin’ chips. And now, when I thought I’d mastered English cuisine, they want cheese and chips. Lady the other day complained about my soup. It wasn’t authentic, she said.’

  ‘I’ll give her authentic!’ Shirley interjected. ‘Same bloody soup we’ve been serving here for years, and never a word of complaint.’

  ‘Not since I started in this place,’ said Juan. ‘Remember, Princesa? Too much of garlic, they said. We’re not in flaming Tenerife now, they said. So I changed the whole menu, and for fifteen years the punters love it. And now…’

  ‘Now it’s not bloody good enough.’

  ‘And you can’t lead an old horse to new tricks.’

  ‘The sooner we can find someone to take this place over and make our move to the Costa del Sol, the better,’ Shirley went on. ‘My Spanish is coming on a treat, and Juan’s been working on his golf swing, and with a bit of luck by Christmas we’ll be over there, starting our new life. And not a minute too soon. I’m cream-crackered.’

  Juan nodded in agreement, turned as if the whole weight of the world was on his shoulders, and trudged back into the kitchen.

  ‘You should get some help,’ Maurice said. ‘This place is too much for one person, as you’ve always said.’

  ‘That’s easier said than done. Back in the day, we’d get locals doing shifts behind the bar, no problem. Then we had a couple of Polish lads, and earlier in the summer there was a Romanian girl, Alina. Lovely young lady and such a hard worker, but she’s opened her own beauty salon now. “Come in any time, Shirl,” she said to me, “and I’ll do your eyelashes on the house.” So I took her up on that, and loo
k!’

  She fluttered an impressive set of lash extensions.

  ‘Very nice,’ Maurice said.

  ‘But never mind that – my manners! I’ve not introduced myself to your lady friend.’

  ‘I’m Alice,’ I said, not wanting to explain that far from being Maurice’s lady friend, I’d never even spoken to him until fifteen minutes before.

  ‘Lovely to meet—’ Shirley began, but then she broke off, some pub landlady instinct making her wheel around and turn towards the door.

  When Maurice and I had arrived, the Nag’s Head had been empty apart from one extremely fat man perched on a stool at the bar. While I’d been pouring out my troubles to my new friend, I’d noticed Shirley pouring a pint for him, and then another, and then she’d come over to chat to us. The man’s glass was empty now, but that wasn’t what Shirley was looking at.

  Maurice’s friends had arrived, strolling in through the doorway as comfortably as if they were entering their own front room. But behind them was a group of seven or eight women, some with buggies, some with babies strapped to their chests in slings, and about five toddlers in tow.

  ‘This will just have to do, won’t it?’ one of them was saying to her friends. ‘Such a shame about the Star and Garter.’

  ‘Yes, well, if Talitha doesn’t get her carrot sticks and ajvar soon she’ll have a total m-e-l-t-d-o-w-n,’ said another, ‘so really, it’s any port in a storm.’

  I wondered what on earth ajvar was, and why it was so vital for Talitha’s ongoing mental health. In my limited experience most toddlers would throw tantrums if they were given carrot sticks, not if they were denied them.

  ‘I can’t believe the Egg and Soldiers is full. It’s always been our fallback option.’

  ‘Frankly, it wouldn’t have been mine today. After soft play with these two, cake isn’t going to cut it. I need gin, stat.’

  While I had been eavesdropping, Shirley had whipped behind the bar with the fierce grace of a tiger preparing to hunt down a gazelle, if that was what tigers ate.