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

by Sophie Ranald

  But there was no point feeling resentful about that now.

  ‘Right, let me jump in the shower quickly,’ I said.

  ‘No need to be quick – there’s masses of time. Want me to come in and wash your back?’

  ‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse.’

  We smiled at each other for a second, and I felt a lovely surge of desire inside me – a switch being turned on that had been off for far too long. And, to my relief, it was untainted by any thought of Zoë.

  So we squeezed into the too-small shower cubicle together and took it in turns standing under the too-weak trickle of water, and I got shampoo in my eyes and hoped Joe hadn’t noticed that it had been several days since I’d last shaved my legs, and I wasn’t going to be able to now, obviously, with him there. But if he did, he didn’t say anything; he just ran his strong, soapy hands all over me, his slippery caresses making me gasp with pleasure.

  Half-wrapped in towels, we pulled each other to the bedroom and fell onto the bed, our hard, urgent kisses turning into hard, urgent sex that lasted only a few minutes – not that I was timing it, or could have cared less about anything except the bliss of him close to me, inside me, there with me.

  ‘Oh my God,’ I gasped, when we were lying together afterwards, the last of the water from the shower drying on my skin with our sweat. ‘You’re the best.’

  ‘I’m out of practice. I’ve had ready meals that took longer than I did back there.’

  ‘That was better than any ready meal I’ve ever had.’

  ‘You’re only saying that because it’s been so long you’re forgotten our normal high standards.’

  ‘Possibly.’ I squeezed his hand. ‘Right. Let me get ready. How long have we got?’

  ‘About twenty minutes.’

  ‘Shit!’

  There was no time to dry my hair, so I bundled it up with a clip. I did my make-up as quickly as I could, then stood in front of the wardrobe feeling something like panic. I had, I realised, almost forgotten what to wear on a date, what would make Joe look at me and go, ‘Phwoar.’

  I pulled on a pair of coated black skinny jeans that I hadn’t worn for ages because they were too tight, only to find that they were now slightly baggy around the waist and hips. Being on my feet all day wasn’t just going to mean I’d end up with the varicose veins and arthritic knees Shirley complained about – it had apparently made my curves vanish. I added a draped silk cowl-neck top, which was a bit OTT for a casual dinner, but seemed like my only option, and earrings with black tassels, and then turned to Joe.

  ‘Phwoar,’ he said. ‘Aren’t you going to check out your new shoes?’

  ‘Of course! You distracted me from the most important thing.’

  I retrieved the box from the hallway and opened it. The trainers were metallic gold, with a chunky sole, a limited edition I’d been coveting for ages. They were pure, fabulous bling, and I knew Joe didn’t get them at all. He’d bought them purely because they were comfortable and they’d make me happy.

  ‘I thought they’d do for work,’ Joe said.

  ‘They’re perfect. Just totally gorgeous. I love them, and I love you.’

  ‘Come on then, get your coat or they’ll give our table away. Fire and Knives is seriously happening right now, I’m told – almost as much as the Nag’s Head.’

  I laughed and we hurried out into the street, holding hands, full of giddy expectation of a rare and precious evening on our own together.

  The restaurant was lit by bare filament bulbs in sconces on its face-brick wall, and the banquette our waitress showed us to was squashy teal leather. Bright paintings hung on the walls, each with a little plaque saying which local artist’s work it was and listing a price. We were brought menus printed on stiff card with the date at the top, water and fresh brown bread with what the waitress said was chicken-skin butter.

  ‘Wow,’ I said. ‘This place is seriously posh.’

  ‘Seriously,’ Joe agreed, grinning with pleasure. ‘Maria and I took a client out for lunch yesterday, to Brigadiers, which is pretty snazzy. But I’d much rather be here with you.’

  I studied the menu. ‘What do you suppose ticklemore is?’

  ‘I reckon it’s a cheese. Although I could tickle you more, if you want.’

  ‘And delicata?’

  ‘Some sort of pumpkin, I think.’

  ‘Posh squash,’ I said. ‘You should bring Zoë here – she’d know what all the things are.’

  I looked at Joe across the table, but there was no flicker of emotion in his face when I said her name; nothing to fan the spark of insecurity that Zoë’s arrival had ignited in me, which the passing weeks had almost, but not quite, managed to extinguish.

  We ordered two glasses of champagne and – unable to decide from a menu on which everything sounded delicious – a whole bunch of starters and side dishes to share, so we could try as many things as possible.

  ‘Small plates,’ I said. ‘Zoë says they’re a massive thing in restaurants right now.’

  There it was again – Zoë. It was as if she was sitting next to me on the leather banquette, her copper-coloured ringlets tickling my bare arm, reaching over to drink from my glass. Possibly even playing footsie under the table with my boyfriend.

  Don’t be paranoid, Alice! I chastised myself. Come on! You’re having a lovely romantic evening – enjoy it for heaven’s sake!

  ‘Don’t know so much about small,’ Joe said, as a bowl of steaming, golden risotto, heady with the fragrance of truffles, appeared on the table in front of us. ‘This looks amazing, and there’s loads.’

  We both dived in with our spoons and gave identical sighs of appreciation – it was buttery and light, exotic and comforting, all at once.

  ‘So, what made you decide to take me out tonight?’ I asked. ‘I mean, it’s amazing and everything, but it’s not like it’s a special occasion. Is it?’

  Joe shrugged, smiling. ‘Not exactly. The case I was working on finished early today – our side won – and I was in the office until midnight last night, so I figured I could get away with skiving off and spending some time with my favourite person.’

  ‘I’m glad you did,’ I said. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  ‘Me too. It’s been hard, hasn’t it? I mean, it would be hard anyway, if we were both still at Billings, but at least we’d see each other in the lift sometimes. Have a sneaky shag in an empty meeting room.’

  ‘Joe! Oh my God, just thinking about that makes me cringe. How would you not get caught?’

  Joe grimaced. ‘Rupert’s having a thing with one of the associates in the property department. They’ve never actually been caught, but everyone knows about it anyway.’

  Intrigued, I begged him for more details, and Joe, being Joe, provided them, exaggerating to make me laugh.

  ‘Imagine shagging Rupert, though. He’s so fucking superior. He’d literally be looking down his nose at you the whole time.’

  More food arrived, and Joe ordered a bottle of Malbec. We clinked our glasses and I sipped the rich, velvety red wine, beginning to feel pleasantly floaty from food, alcohol and the comfortable familiarity of being with him.

  ‘Anyway, so I was wondering,’ he said, ‘when you’re going to make a decision about what to do next.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘The pub thing. It was only meant to be for a bit, right? Just so we could keep things together financially.’

  ‘Yes, and we are, aren’t we? With Shirley off, I’m working so many hours and she’s paying me a manager’s rate instead of just minimum wage. I’ll be bringing in loads this month.’

  I told him just how much.

  ‘Alice, that’s great. You know I said I’d support you, whatever you decided you wanted to do. But I’m just wondering how sustainable this really is, long term.’

  ‘You mean you want me to stop? Get a “proper job”?’

  ‘No, I don’t mean that!’

  ‘What do you mean, then?’

>   Joe paused. It felt like our evening was at a tipping point – it could either go back to being right, or segue into horribly, horribly wrong. I knew neither of us wanted it to go in that direction – but still, wrong was there, hovering right above the table, over the dish of mussels in an aromatic Thai-style broth, waiting to descend and turn everything sour.

  ‘It’s just…’ he said. ‘Just that, remember, when we talked back in August, it was like our future was all sorted. We knew where we were going. And now everything feels so uncertain, so temporary and kind of – flimsy.’

  I did remember. I remembered all too well that night in the Nag’s Head, with my gin and tonic and our pork scratchings, how safe and secure and certain I’d felt. And then all that had been torn away from us.

  My guilt made me defensive.

  ‘So exactly what am I supposed to have done differently?’

  ‘Alice, it’s not for me to tell you what you ought to have done. We’re a team, remember? I said I was on your side, I’d support you in whatever choices you made. But this choice – well, it just doesn’t seem to be going anywhere. You’re working in a pub. I mean, it’s great, I’m proud you’re doing it and everything. But isn’t it kind of… studenty?’

  ‘So you are saying I need to grow up and get proper job? Like you. Like being a lawyer.’

  ‘You could, you know. You could walk into a job next week, if you wanted to.’

  ‘And what if I don’t want to? What if I’ve actually – for the first time in ages – found something I actually enjoy doing?’

  Joe’s face softened. ‘I love that you’re passionate about it. Really, I do. I love that you’re having fun. But it’s crazy, working all those hours, for… You know.’

  ‘For about a quarter of what you’re earning working “all those hours”.’

  ‘It’s not about the money, Alice.’

  ‘Really? Then what is it about?’

  The mussels were growing cold in their bowl, ignored by both of us, and I took another big gulp of red wine.

  ‘It’s about our future,’ Joe said, with an intensity that was almost despairing. ‘I thought we’d be buying a place of our own in a couple of years. I thought maybe we could – you know – settle down. I know I sound like the most boring person in the world, but I thought we’d maybe get married. Have kids.’

  Those words, three months ago, would have made me feel like I was looking at a winning lottery ticket. Now, all I felt was a horrible surge of guilt, and it made me leap straight into defensive mode.

  ‘Well, I’ve let you down, haven’t I? Sorry about that. I guess you’d rather I spent the whole rest of my life in a job I hated, so we could have a future.’

  And that was that. Wrong had entered the building. To be fair to Joe, he did try to make it right again.

  ‘I didn’t realise you hated it.’

  Neither did I. Not at first. ‘Well, I did. I hated it so much even having your ex-bloody-girlfriend move in with us was worth it, so I could get out. Okay?’

  ‘Don’t make this about Zoë, Alice.’

  ‘Why not? I have to see her every damn day. You two were in love. For all I know you still are.’ The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them.

  Joe’s face went all kind of still, like steel shutters had been pulled down in front of his eyes – or behind them.

  ‘What the hell do you mean?’

  ‘I think she wants to get back together with you. I don’t think she cares about me – about us. I think she moved in with us so she could be close to you. Playing video games with you, prancing around the flat in her underwear – or your underwear. I found a pair of boxer shorts in her washing that I think used to be yours, and I—’

  ‘You what? You’ve been going through her stuff?’

  ‘No! Of course I haven’t!’ Except when I did. ‘They were in the washing machine.’

  ‘Jesus, Alice. Do you know what you sound like?’

  ‘If you mean I sound like someone whose boyfriend’s ex has been hanging around him like a lovesick teenager, then yes, I guess I do.’

  ‘You sound crazy, Alice. Crazy and jealous and… and obsessed. This isn’t the person I thought you were.’

  It’s not the person I thought I was, either, I realised miserably. I’d been secure in my relationship with Joe, happy and contented and sure that everything was all right, until Zoë turned up. And now he was looking at me as if I was a stranger – someone he barely knew and didn’t particularly like.

  Desperately, I said, ‘I just don’t trust her, Joe. And this whole situation – sometimes it makes me wonder if I can trust you.’

  ‘If you’re wondering that, then there’s no point having this conversation, is there? Or any conversation, about anything, ever again. If you don’t trust me, then we don’t have a relationship at all. Do we?’

  There was a pause, and we both looked at each other, aghast. I knew Joe was thinking the same thing I was: What the fuck just happened? Within the space of little more than an hour, we’d gone from having gorgeous, joyful sex to being locked in one of the worst rows we’d ever had. The worst, because before, all we’d really done was bicker about things like whose turn it was to take the bins out. And the horrible thing was, neither of us knew how to get out of it.

  I stood up and made my way to the loo, where I stood in front of the mirror, washing my hands with patchouli-scented gel, staring at my wide, panicky eyes in the mirror and wondering what the hell to do. I was furious but also frightened. I wanted to make peace, but at the same time I wanted to say my piece. And, most of all, I wanted to understand what was actually going on.

  If Joe resented my working at the Nag’s Head, why hadn’t he said so before? Why had he turned up with a gift of trainers that had cost north of a hundred pounds and taken me out for this extravagant meal?

  And suddenly, in my wired brain, it seemed to click into place.

  He wanted to finish with me, so that he could be with Zoë. But he wanted me to be the one who ended it, not him, so he could have a clear conscience, tell himself it had been my decision, nothing at all to do with him or with her.

  But I wasn’t going to play that way.

  Returning to the table, I picked up my bag from the banquette and shrugged on my coat. I fished three twenty-pound notes from my purse and put them on the table.

  ‘Joe, I can’t discuss this right now. We’re both upset. I’m going to leave now,’ I said.

  I walked out into the night, alone, regretting it even as I was doing it. But once I’d started, there was no way of turning back, sitting down again, trying to make things right.

  And, as the cold air hit my face, I realised that I’d been remembering another night – one when leaving would have been the right thing to do.

  ‘All right, darling?’ Gordon asked when I returned to our table. ‘I’ve ordered a bottle of Châteauneuf-du-Pape, and our scallops should be on their way any second.’

  My napkin had been neatly folded again, I noticed, and the breadcrumbs I’d scattered on the tablecloth swept away. The greasy smear my butter knife had left was still there, though – I moved my wine glass to hide it, then took another gulp of champagne.

  While we ate our starter – delicious, melting seafood on dollops of cauliflower puree so rich it was almost like a pudding and drizzled with an unfamiliar, pungent oil that I realised later on must have been truffle – Gordon asked me about my family.

  ‘Dad’s an estate agent – he has his own business – and Mum’s a maths teacher, although she hasn’t worked full-time since I was little. They live in Reading, and I’ve got a big brother, Drew, who’s travelling at the moment. Well, he’s been travelling for the past few years, on and off. He’s Mum and Dad’s favourite.’

  ‘Really? With a beautiful, gifted daughter like you?’

  I sipped my champagne, and as soon as I put the glass down it was filled again, with the last of the bottle.

  ‘That’s sweet of you to say. But
Drew’s the gifted one. He writes poetry and paints and stuff, and he’s properly gorgeous. Girls love him.’

  ‘And boys love you, surely? You must be fighting off admirers all the time.’

  I shook my head. ‘I’m single. I haven’t had a proper boyfriend since uni. I mean, I’m on Tinder and I’ve been on a few dates and stuff. But I figure I should get my career sorted first and then worry about having a relationship. Heather – my flatmate – goes on dates all the time and she tells me all her horror stories.’

  ‘Oh, do go on! I’ve been married for thirty years; when it comes to that sort of thing I couldn’t be more behind the curve if I tried.’

  So, reassured by Gordon’s mention of his wife and emboldened by my first glass of red wine, which was in a totally different league from anything I’d ever tasted before, after several glasses of other alcoholic stuff, I regaled him with as many of Heather’s favourite dating anecdotes as I could remember. I told him about Crisp Boy, whose idea of a romantic evening was sitting on a park bench with a bottle of Frosty Jack’s and a bag of Cheetos, ‘Like he was practising to be homeless,’ as Heather had said. I described Triple-Denim Tim, who my friend had said she took one look at and wrote off as someone who must have got dressed in the dark, but then went through the ordeal of a two-hour date with just to be polite. I even told him about her horrific almost-shag with Knob-Cheese Nick, whose personal hygiene was not his strongest point. Gordon roared with laughter and, flattered, I carried on, even exaggerating Heather’s stories for effect, basking in his attention, the wine and the tender, pink-centred lamb cutlets. He offered me some of his grouse to taste, passing the fork across the table for me to eat from.

  ‘It’s an acquired taste,’ he warned.

  ‘You know what, I actually think I might have just acquired it.’

  ‘A sophisticated palate, to add to your talents,’ he said.

  ‘But come on, I’ve given you all the dating stories I’ve got. Tell me all the gossip about the people at work.’