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

by Sophie Ranald

  One morning, Maurice arrived earlier than usual. His friends weren’t with him, but he wasn’t alone – he was accompanied by another, slightly younger man. In sharp contrast to Maurice’s dapper style, the newcomer was dressed casually, in jeans and a white linen shirt, a leather jacket slung over his shoulders. A gold cross hung from a chain round his neck.

  ‘Good morning, gents.’ The cheery greeting had become second nature to me now. ‘What can I get you?’

  ‘I’ll have my usual, thank you, Alice,’ Maurice said. ‘But just a glass of water for my brother. It’s all I could do to persuade him to set foot in this den of iniquity, isn’t that right, Wesley?’

  Wesley laughed. ‘Don’t take no notice of him. The church teaches that we should be filled with the holy spirit instead of being drunk on wine, but I don’t judge those who enjoy an occasional drink. I’m not here for carousing, though.’

  ‘I hope you don’t think I’m taking a liberty, Alice,’ Maurice went on. ‘But I mentioned to my brother that you’ve been making a few changes and improvements here, and I asked him if he’d be kind enough to come along and have a look at that.’

  He gestured towards the piano.

  ‘The horn’s my instrument,’ Wesley said. ‘I play in a jazz band, in clubs in Soho – dens of iniquity, as he likes to point out – but I know my way around strings and percussion too. Maurice said this old lady could do with some attention, and I had a free morning, so I came along to see if I could help at all.’

  ‘That would be amazing! I mean, I don’t know if it’s even salvageable, the poor thing, but if we could get it vaguely in tune, that would be so cool. You could even play a gig here sometime.’

  Wesley opened the piano and ran a clean handkerchief – folded and ironed just as crisply as Maurice’s – over its keys.

  ‘Oh my days, the poor old thing,’ he said. ‘The wood needs polishing, the springs on that stool are all gone. It’s a job for a professional, really.’

  ‘Don’t worry if you think it’s beyond repair,’ I said. ‘It’s really kind of you to come and take a look.’

  ‘Nothing’s beyond repair. “I will restore you to health and heal your wounds, declares the Lord.” Jeremiah chapter thirty, verse seventeen.’

  ‘I doubt the prophet Jeremiah ever saw a Joanna in such bad nick as this one,’ countered Maurice.

  Wesley shook his head. ‘I very much doubt he ever did. Well, I’ll see what I can do.’

  He shifted the stool out of the way and knelt down in front of the piano, carefully levering off its lower front board. A spider scuttled out across the carpet and Wesley jumped.

  ‘Don’t go having a heart attack before you even get started,’ teased Maurice, grabbing a glass from the bar and carefully capturing the spider before tipping it out of the front door.

  ‘I’ll leave you to get on, shall I?’ I said. ‘Are you sure you wouldn’t like anything else? A hot drink? Something to eat?’

  But Wesley was engrossed in the innards of the piano, occasionally sucking his teeth and tutting just like the IT guy at Billings Pitt Furzedown used to do when he was called out for a software crash. Any minute, I expected him to suggest switching the piano off and on again.

  Soon Maurice’s friends arrived and they began their game of dominoes, and the group of mums soon showed up too, with a few of their older kids with them because it was half-term. I served drinks, called the deli to increase the day’s sandwich order and took delivery of a load of soft drinks, all to the accompaniment of regular bongs and plinks from the piano, becoming increasingly less discordant.

  Soon, Wesley was surrounded by a group of kids, all watching in fascination and asking questions about what he was doing, and how, and why, which he answered patiently.

  After more than an hour, he replaced the top board of the piano and wiped his dusty hands on his hanky.

  ‘I’ve done all I can,’ he said, this time sounding like a surgeon on Casualty who’d just stitched up a patient, leaving something lethal inside. ‘Shall we see how she sounds?’

  ‘Yes!’ chorused the children, crowding eagerly around. Their mums stopped chatting. The click of dominoes fell silent.

  Wesley sat down, wiped his hands again and caressed the yellowing keys. A stream of notes poured from the piano, slowly at first and then more confidently, as he began to play.

  ‘Amazing grace,’ he sang softly, and his rich baritone was joined almost immediately by the kids’ higher-pitched, clear voices and Fat Don’s booming bass, ‘how sweet the sound…’

  As the pub filled with music, hearing the words, ‘I once was lost, but now am found,’ I felt tears sting my eyes. Then I looked up at the portrait of Princess Diana, and I could have sworn her previously solemn lips were now smiling slightly in approval.

  Thirteen

  While I’d been spending more and more time at the Nag’s Head, Joe had also been working punishingly long hours. Often, he’d send me a text at seven – or eight, or even nine – to say that he still had a couple of hours’ work to do, and there was no point my waiting up for him. And, because I didn’t particularly want to spend time alone in the flat with Zoë – or rather, with Zoë and Frazzle, who followed her around like a furry shadow, when she wasn’t cradling him in her arms or draping him over her shoulders like a scarf – I found myself staying at the pub late into the evening, then heading home and going straight to bed.

  It was beginning to feel like the only time Joe and I got to spend alone together was when we were in bed – and that wasn’t exactly quality time, because all we did there was sleep. I bet there were pensioners with more active sex lives than ours. Hell, I bet there were plants with more active sex lives.

  One Tuesday morning, I woke up early. Joe was still asleep next to me; I hadn’t even been aware of him coming in, so it must have been after midnight. Carefully, so as not to disturb him, I turned over and looked at him. He was lying on his back, one arm thrown up over his head, his face slack in sleep. Even peaceful and relaxed as he was, I could see the exhaustion in his face. He’d lost weight, there were dark circles under his eyes and a scab on his jaw where he’d cut himself shaving, still half-asleep, before he left for work the day before.

  But it was almost seven. Exhausted or not, soon he’d have to wake up and get ready for work.

  I wriggled closer to him under the duvet, rested my head on his shoulder and put my arm round his waist. I could feel his ribcage jutting through his skin, more sharply than it used to. But he sensed my body next to him and turned towards me, the arm that had been above his head pulling me closer to him.

  I could feel the hardness of his cock pressing against my stomach – whether because of my closeness, or because of something in a dream (not Zoë. Please not Zoë), I wasn’t sure. But my body reacted to his nearness; I pulled him even closer, my face pressed to his chest, breathing in the smell of him, running my hand down his smooth back, over the tight curve of his buttocks, down to the hard muscle of his thigh.

  He thrust against me, giving a sleepy sound of desire, his hand caressing my own body.

  ‘Hey, you,’ I whispered.

  ‘Hey, Alice.’

  He bent his head and kissed me, his eyes still closed, but his hand moving more surely now, reaching for my breasts.

  ‘What time is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Not too late. Not if we’re quick.’

  He lifted himself up on one elbow, smiling down at me, his hand moving between my legs and stroking me delicately, instantly finding the right spot so I heard myself gasp with pleasure. I reached for his dick and held it, feeling the hot, pulsing hardness. He edged himself further over me, and I wrapped my legs around his hips, pulling him closer as our lips met. I guided his penis to where his hand had been, waiting for that first gentle push that would take him deep inside me.

  Then we heard footsteps on the landing outside, and Zoë’s voice.

  ‘Come on, munchkin. Who’s a hungry cat? Is it time for your breakfast?
Did your lazy mother oversleep?’

  Alongside her footsteps and her voice, I could hear the lighter thud of Frazzle’s paws on the floorboards, and his eager meows. In my hand, I felt Joe’s erection become… well, not an erection.

  ‘Shit,’ he whispered. ‘Sorry.’

  ‘Do you want me to…?’

  ‘Nah. I should get up.’

  He turned away from me, swinging his feet onto the floor and standing, stretching and yawning before pulling on boxer shorts and a T-shirt. Before, he always used to walk to the bathroom naked – we both did. But that obviously wasn’t possible any more. I heard him swear under his breath as he tripped over Frazzle’s litter tray on the way to the basin. I pushed myself up against the pillows and swiped my phone to life, checking my email and WhatsApp while I waited for Joe to shower. From the kitchen, I could hear Zoë chattering away to her cat.

  ‘Now, I’ve got a busy day, Frazz. I’ve got to go into town in an hour, and I won’t be back until five. So you’re going to be left in charge, aren’t you? And you’re going to be a good, responsible cat. No scratching the sofa. I know you want to go outside but you’re not allowed yet. You need to learn to be patient. Don’t you?’

  Frazzle didn’t reply. Not that he could have got a word in edgeways, even if he’d wanted to.

  The flat was small – it had always been. But now it felt claustrophobic. And our bedroom, which had been a haven and a refuge, felt almost smothering these days, like a prison – even though I knew I could leave any time I wanted. This was my home, after all.

  So why did it feel like it had been taken over?

  Joe reappeared from the bathroom, wrapped in a towel, and dressed hastily.

  ‘I’ve just about got time for a coffee and a piece of toast. Want anything?’

  ‘Coffee would be amazing.’

  I pulled on jeans and an old T-shirt. My own shower could wait – once Zoë had left for work, I’d have the place to myself for a few short minutes before I too needed to leave for the day. Having to wait for the bathroom, having to leave space for Zoë’s stuff in the fridge, not being able to watch what I wanted on telly in the evenings because she was glued to endless repeats of The Big Bang Theory – all this was new. It hadn’t been so long ago that I’d had flatmates, of course – but it had been long enough for me to get used to the luxury, the privacy, the intimacy of having a home that was just mine and Joe’s.

  Now, I was being forced to share it. And not just the flat, but Joe, too.

  I followed the sound of their voices to the kitchen. Zoë was frothing milk and Joe was standing at the counter, spooning some weird bruise-coloured sludge from a bowl. She was wearing pyjamas – but they were nothing like the shabby cotton sets I owned. They consisted of a skimpy black satin camisole top with lace straps and a pair of even skimpier satin shorts that showed off the smooth muscles of her thighs. Even though she hadn’t combed her hair, she looked totally beautiful. She and Joe were both laughing, but they stopped when I came in.

  Great. Not only was there a Jessica Rabbit lookalike in my kitchen chatting up my boyfriend, but there was no sign of my coffee.

  ‘I’m making chai latte,’ Zoë said. ‘With oat milk. It’s not as good as the almond milk I used to get, but it’s locally produced and it’s really hard to find organic nut milk so I’ve switched. Want one?’

  ‘I’m good, thanks. What’s that?’

  Normally, Joe had toast for breakfast. Usually with peanut butter, sometimes with cream cheese. But never weird purplish mush.

  ‘It’s porridge with chia seeds and blueberries. Zoë made it. It’s good – try some.’

  He held out his spoon, but I shook my head, waiting for Zoë to finish with the coffee machine. There was a bowl in the sink that looked like it had had cat food in it, and a banana peel on the counter. No big deal, no drama – just minor mess. But it had been created by someone who wasn’t Joe or me.

  I put a coffee pod into the machine and found a mug in the cupboard – not my favourite one, the one with gold spots that had been my Secret Santa gift in my first year at Billings Pitt Furzedown. Zoë was using that. Of course she was. Not that I minded that anything like as much as I minded the glance I’d seen Joe give her legs.

  ‘You can get reusable coffee pods now, you know,’ she remarked. ‘Those plastic ones just go straight into landfill, which isn’t great.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind.’

  She was right, of course – it wasn’t great. I mean, I’m not trying to give the impression that Joe and I didn’t care about the destruction of virgin Amazon rainforest or that we were in favour of fracking or anything like that. We weren’t. Joe cycled to work most days. We separated out our recyclable waste, even if we sometimes got confused about whether things like those plastic collars that go round cans of beer were recyclable or not.

  But the point is, we probably shouldn’t have been buying cans of beer with plastic collars around them in the first place. Or forgetting our reusable bags for life half the time and having to pay for plastic ones when we went to Sainsbury’s. Or drinking bottled water, or buying coffee in takeout cups.

  We just shouldn’t. But we were so busy, sometimes we didn’t have the headspace for thinking about how lightly we trod on the planet, as I remembered Zoë putting it.

  So I knew that Zoë was right and I was wrong. But I couldn’t help myself resenting her not just for pointing out that I was wrong, but for being right herself.

  And when Joe finished his weird purple porridge, announced that he’d better get a move on or he’d be late for work, and kissed not just me but Zoë too – even if it was just a peck on the cheek – I resented her even more.

  And when Frazzle hopped up onto the kitchen counter and Joe leaned down to fuss him and got a bonk on the nose from the cat that was, for all intents and purposes, a kiss too, I practically exploded with the chemical reaction that my annoyance at her and my love for him created inside me.

  But Zoë was utterly oblivious to my turmoil.

  ‘So this pub where you’re working, Alice. The Ging— I mean, the Nag’s Head. You mentioned that it’s got a kitchen, right?’

  ‘It does, yes. Well, if you can call the place where Juan deep-fries stuff and microwaves other stuff a kitchen. He’s a great guy but he’s not much of a chef, to be honest. He only got the gig because Shirl fancied him, and now they’re a couple. But he’s off work right now with a knee injury, so there’s no one in the kitchen.’

  ‘So there’s, like, a vacancy? For someone temporary?’

  No. Well, yes, but that isn’t going to be you. Not over my dead body.

  ‘I suppose so…’

  Zoë was looking at me steadily, her hazel eyes almost exactly the same colour as Frazzle’s. He was gazing at me too. Suddenly, I felt like I’d walked into a trap.

  ‘Well, a cook,’ I said hastily. ‘I mean, I don’t know much about that side of things – I’m totally learning as I go along – but I think it’ll be all ready-made stuff, same as it is now. It’s not like we’re aiming for a Michelin star or anything.’

  ‘But don’t you see how much potential there could be?’

  Zoë’s eyes were wide and eager. So were Frazzle’s, but when he saw me looking at him he did a slow, languid blink. I found myself blinking back, and the cat jumped down off the kitchen table and came over and rubbed himself against my legs, purring.

  Stop with the charm offensive, I thought. But I bent down and fussed him anyway.

  ‘Potential for what?’

  ‘To really become representative of the community. Like, championing local producers. Showcasing the cuisine of the people in the area – West Indian nights, Eastern European nights, stuff like that. Being carbon-neutral and sustainable. It could be really zeitgeisty. And tasty too.’

  I thought of the meals Joe and I had eaten in the Star and Garter before it had closed to be turned into trendy studio flats. The fish pies, the burgers, the lasagnes. All perfectly nice, of cours
e, but thinking about it now, we could have been in any pub anywhere in the world. Reluctantly, I admitted to myself that Zoë had a point.

  That didn’t mean I was going to admit it to her, though.

  ‘Okay, yeah, I hear what you’re saying. But it all sounds complicated – and expensive.’

  ‘But it wouldn’t have to be!’ She did that thing with her eyes again that made her look like a cross between Bambi and a rabble-rousing pastor. ‘The idea that ethical sourcing costs more has been proved wrong again and again. If you cut waste right down, use economical cuts of meat – or, better still, little or no meat – plan your energy use sensibly and – well, all that stuff, it doesn’t have to be at all. I worked at a primary school up in Glasgow for a while where we had a budget of less than a fiver per child per day, and we managed it. Including breakfast and snacks. And there wasn’t a chicken nugget in sight. Isn’t that right, Frazzle?’

  The cat glanced round at her, then carried on giving himself a back massage against my calves. I knew where Zoë was going with this, and now I was going to have to let her know that I did.

  ‘So you’re saying that someone like you could run the kitchen at the Nag’s Head?’

  ‘Not someone like me. Me! My job finishes in November when the chef gets back from maternity leave. My horoscope today said there’s a new challenge in my future, and this could be it! Don’t you see how brilliantly it could work?’

  I thought, You’ve muscled into my home and I think you’re still in love with my boyfriend and I can’t even have sex without you ruining the moment nattering away to your cat, and now you want to come and work in the pub because Mystic bloody Meg thinks it’s a good idea?

  And then you’d be around all. The. Time.

  But then I thought, If you were with me, then you wouldn’t be with Joe. I could keep an eye on you.

  And I felt my face flame with embarrassment, remembering what I’d done just two days before.

  I hadn’t meant to snoop on Zoë. Honestly, I hadn’t. It was a horrible, shameful thing to do and I’ve only been less proud of one thing in all my life. But anyway, against my better judgement – almost by accident, honestly – it happened.