Thank You, Next: A perfect, uplifting and funny romantic comedy

by Sophie Ranald

  ‘I know, I know. It’s my guilty secret,’ she replied.

  ‘So when you see Fabian again, and you’re in bed with him after a totally mind-blowing shag, and he suggests you get a takeaway, you’d order ham and pineapple?’

  ‘No! God, no. Not in front of him. I’d have something proper posh, like with anchovies and olives and those caper things, and then I’d be thirsty for about the next week from all the salt. But I bet he doesn’t eat pizza. Remember what he was saying at the gym that time? I think he’s one of those guys who lives on a diet of one hundred per cent grass-fed beef.’

  It wouldn’t surprise me if that was the case, I thought.

  ‘Can we get some of those potato popper things as well?’ I suggested.

  ‘And a tub of Ben and Jerry’s. They do dairy-free ones now.’

  ‘And shall we watch The Haunting of Hill House?’

  ‘Hell, yeah.’

  So Dani and I spent the rest of the evening huddled on the sofa under her duvet even though it was a hot night, scaring the living daylights out of ourselves, stuffing our faces with junk food and drinking far too much cheap white wine, and it was totally brilliant and reminded me how fabulous it was to have a friend after telling myself for so long that I was this independent free spirit who didn’t need other people. She didn’t mention Fabian again and quite honestly, for those few hours, I wouldn’t have cared if I never went on a date again.

  Around midnight, her flatmates came home and went to bed, and I heaved myself up off the sofa, yawning so hugely I thought I might dislocate my jaw, and said I’d better do the same.

  ‘I’ve got the day off tomorrow,’ I said. ‘My first Saturday off in ages. I can’t wait. I’m going to lie in bed with Frazz until lunchtime and then maybe get the Tube to Kensington or somewhere and browse posh charity shops for clothes.’

  Dani stood up, too. ‘I’m going to… dunno really. Bake cupcakes with my flatmate, maybe. Watch more telly. Do some ironing. Weekends suck when you’re single.’

  I said I’d been single for so long I could barely remember what they were like when you weren’t, or even, after years working in a job with the world’s most antisocial hours, what a proper weekend was like. But Dani wasn’t listening; the mention of being single had made her reach for her phone, which she’d managed to ignore ever since ordering the pizza.

  ‘Zoë!’ Her whole face was lit up as brightly as her phone’s screen. ‘He texted! He actually did! Two hours ago, and I missed it!’

  ‘Don’t text him back now!’ I practically dived across the sofa to stop her. ‘It’s too late. Plus, he took his time replying, didn’t he? Wait until the morning. He’ll think you’ve been off doing something fabulous. What does he say?’

  ‘He’s asked me out! To the launch of a bar his mate’s opening in Soho!’

  Which was all very well, I thought, but not exactly a date. And I couldn’t help wondering whether the guest list for the launch was looking a bit thin, and Dani, who was total eye candy by anyone’s standards, was just the kind of person Fabian’s mate needed to make up the numbers.

  ‘He says I should bring a friend,’ she went on, confirming my suspicions. ‘You’ll come, won’t you, Zoë? It’s at half five tomorrow, there’s going to be a private drinks thing and canapés and stuff and then the doors open to the general public at seven. Here’s the website – it looks amazing.’

  She passed me her phone and I scrolled through a minimalist page that suggested the web designer had been briefed to make it look hyper exclusive, as opposed to including any actual information beyond some artfully photographed cocktail glasses and a neon sign on a bare brick wall that said, ‘Alcorithm’.

  But there was no way I was going to let Dani see that I wasn’t convinced this was the best thing ever.

  ‘Of course I’ll come. It’ll be brilliant. But what the hell am I going to wear?’

  I ran through my wardrobe in my head, thinking of my jeans, T-shirts and Converse, and regretting my resolution to buy no new clothes for a year in a one-woman bid to save the planet.

  ‘Whatever you find at your posh charity shops,’ Dani said. ‘Or, failing that, go to TK Maxx. You’ll look amazing whatever you wear, anyway. This is it, isn’t it? He must really like me!’

  In my flat the next afternoon, I found myself wondering if Dani had developed a sudden case of adult-onset blindness. I looked as far from fabulous as it was possible to get. My hair had staged a protest and was standing out from my head in a shock of frizz. My legs were milk-bottle white and I had no fake tan to put on them, not that that would have helped, because I knew from experience that they responded to that by turning a violent shade of yellow, like your wee does after you’ve drunk a Berocca.

  The dress I’d bought, a lilac satin slip with black lace edging, made me look like the heroine of a Victorian novel who was about to die of consumption and was – I could now see in the full-length mirror – totally the wrong length, hitting my legs at the widest part and making them look the shape of milk bottles, as well as the colour.

  ‘Shit, Frazz, why did I agree to this?’

  My cat opened one eye and turned over, saying quite clearly that if I changed my mind about going out, that was absolutely fine with him.

  But there was no way I could let Dani down. I slapped on some foundation that was meant to make my skin glowy and pearly, but was slightly the wrong shade and made me look like I needed a good wash. I tried to tame my hair with serum, but it refused to co-operate so I attacked it mercilessly with straighteners, knowing I’d pay the price in split ends.

  I might as well give up, I decided. It didn’t particularly matter what I looked like – this was going to be Dani’s night. And I had no intention of pulling one of Fabian Flatley’s friends, no matter what the Stargazer app said about the location of Venus in my rising sign. I’d settle for being her corpse-like, frizzy-haired wingwoman, and make my excuses and leave as soon as I could see things were going okay with her and Fabian.

  I looked longingly at my trusty Converse, lying next to the bed ready for me to slip my feet into them as I did practically every morning. ‘Come on,’ they seemed to be saying, ‘wear us! We could do with an exciting outing! We’ve barely left the postcode in months! And we’re so comfortable!’

  But there was letting myself be outshone by Dani, and there was letting the side down entirely. Besides, I’d painted my toenails for the first time in ever so long, and I wasn’t going to let that annoying, tedious effort go to waste. I rummaged underneath my bed, which was where my shoes lived because the flat had no wardrobe, and pulled out my one and only pair of high heels. I’d last worn them when I was a bridesmaid at my friend Nadia’s wedding four years ago, before she’d moved to New Zealand with her husband. Four years is a long time, but the blisters were as fresh in my memory as if it was yesterday.

  Too bad, I told my feet, deal with it. Strappy silver stilettos it is today. I forced on the shoes, put my phone, keys and lip balm in my little silver backpack (which I promised myself was actually quite retro cool and didn’t make me look like I was hopelessly unprepared to climb Ben Nevis), kissed Frazzle goodbye and headed out, resisting the temptation to stick my head round the door of the pub kitchen and face Robbie’s excoriating criticism of my outfit.

  Dani was waiting for me outside the station, as we’d agreed. Any smidgeon of doubt I might have had that she wouldn’t outshine me as comprehensively as Mars outshines Pluto vanished as soon as I saw her. She was wearing a nude lace bodysuit that looked almost like she was wearing nothing at all, high-waisted satin combat trousers that showed off her tiny waist and incredible bum, and black heeled gladiator sandals that made my shoes look like something your nana would slip on to take the dog out. Her hair was as smooth and glossy as dark chocolate, flowing down her back like it had melted there. Her make-up was flawless and, apart from her extravagant lash extensions and coral lipstick, almost invisible.

  ‘Wow,’ I said, hugging her. ‘Knock-
out.’

  ‘You too,’ she said kindly. ‘Love the dress! So cool! Unlike me, I’m sweating like a horse I’m so nervous.’

  ‘Don’t be. You look amazing, and we’ll walk really slowly so we don’t get too hot.’

  As if, in those shoes, I had a choice.

  We got on the train and sat in silence next to each other. Dani kept checking her phone, tapping from WhatsApp to her map, anxiously making sure she knew the way and even more anxiously looking for a message from Fabian. But I could tell from the expression on her face that there was none.

  At last, we emerged from the roasting heat of the Tube at Charing Cross in the heart of London. Outside, it wasn’t much cooler – on this midsummer day, the sun was beating down on us like a blowtorch caramelising crème brûlée, and I could feel the heat of the pavement coming up through the thin soles of my sandals. Dani flapped her hands frantically in front of her face, and I assured her that her foundation hadn’t melted, her mascara hadn’t smudged and she didn’t have lipstick on her teeth.

  ‘Okay then,’ she said, and in spite of it being so hot, I was convinced I could hear her teeth chattering, ‘let’s go. It’s just off Trafalgar Square – we don’t have too far to walk.’

  And she strode off, confident and agile in her high heels, while I teetered behind her on mine.

  ‘It’s just here, isn’t it?’ I asked hopefully.

  ‘Round the corner, I think, and down a side street.’

  But we couldn’t find the side street, so we walked around some more, Dani’s eyes fixed to her phone as she got more and more stressed. Finally she muttered, ‘Shit! It’s supposed to be right here!’ before stopping outside an anonymous black-painted door with ‘AR’ on it in tiny orange letters, which we’d walked past about four times.

  ‘Do you think this is it?’

  ‘Must be. There’s literally nowhere else it could be, unless we’ve entered some kind of wrinkle in the fabric of the Matrix.’

  I pushed open the door. Beyond it, we could hear the buzz of conversation, the hum of some kind of trance music and the clink of glasses. The air smelled of paint, the way new buildings do. At a little mirrored table by the door was sitting a beautiful blonde woman in a black dress, who looked us up and down with something close to contempt.

  ‘Can I help you?’ she asked, her tone so dismissive she might as well have said, ‘Can I be arsed to help such sorry specimens as you?’

  ‘We’re on the guest list for the launch,’ Dani said. ‘Danielle Fletcher and Zoë Meredith.’

  ‘Right.’ The woman picked up an iPad from the table and flicked its screen a few times. Her nails were long coffin shapes, painted lime green.

  Then she looked at us and shook her head.

  ‘We’re definitely invited,’ Dani said, attempting an ingratiating smile. ‘Fabian said so. Fabian Flatley?’

  Again, the woman shook her head. ‘No Fletcher, no Meredith.’

  ‘How about just our first names?’ I suggested. ‘Zoë and Danielle?’

  ‘Not on the list. Excuse me.’

  The door behind us had opened again and two girls in floaty white broderie frocks gave their names and were waved through.

  ‘Why don’t you call Fabian?’ I said.

  Dani nodded, looking almost green under her make-up. With the blonde woman watching us expressionlessly, Dani pressed buttons on her phone, held it to her ear and waited. And waited.

  ‘He’s not answering.’

  The blonde woman looked pointedly at the door.

  ‘Come on,’ I said, bundling Dani outside. ‘We can’t just stand there with her watching us. Too mortifying.’

  ‘But he said.’ Dani sounded like she might be about to cry. ‘He promised me our names would be on the list.’

  ‘But they’re not,’ I said gently.

  ‘We could come back later, when it’s open to the public.’

  Privately, I thought this was a terrible idea, but agreeing to it at least gave me an hour or so to persuade Dani of that.

  ‘Okay. Let’s go somewhere else and get a drink, and you can try calling Fabian again. I’m sure there’s just been some kind of fuck-up, but he might be busy and not answering his phone.’

  She nodded, dabbing her eyes with a tissue. ‘Where shall we go?’

  ‘I used to work round here – there are loads of places. There’s a decent pub just the other side of Trafalgar Square. Let’s head over there.’

  The Griffin only just warranted the description ‘decent’, but it was close and it would be quiet, so I could sit down and assess the damage my shoes had done to my feet. There was a bit of my ankle that felt ominously cold when a breeze brushed it, and I suspected I’d already lost a chunk of skin.

  ‘I just don’t understand,’ Dani said. ‘He said to come. He even asked for both our surnames so he could add us to the list. You don’t think he did it on purpose, do you?’

  ‘I’m sure he didn’t. I’m sure you’ll be able to get hold of him on the phone and he’ll explain and we can go back and it’ll all be… What the hell’s that noise?’

  We’d headed back off the side street onto one of the busier roads, but even so, even though it was right in the centre of town, it shouldn’t have been as noisy as it was. Behind us, I could hear shouting, chanting, drums and even something I was pretty sure was a vuvuzela.

  ‘Is it the Hare Krishnas?’ Dani said. ‘They come down Oxford Street most days, don’t they?’

  ‘They don’t make as much noise as that.’

  We stopped and turned around, and, as we watched, a huge crowd poured into the street. There were so many people they filled it right from one side to the other; it must have been closed to traffic somewhere because there were no cars or buses and no space for any. There was just a wall of people, moving slowly but inexorably towards us, a wave in which we’d have no choice but to be swept up.

  As they drew closer, I could make out banners and placards saying ‘Rebel for life’, ‘Act now’ and ‘Tell the truth’.

  ‘Shit,’ I said to Dani. ‘It’s the Extinction Rebellion demo.’

  ‘What, that march against climate change thing?’

  I nodded. ‘I’d forgotten it was today.’

  Forgotten almost deliberately, because I’d seriously considered going but sacked it off in favour of being Dani’s wingwoman and felt guilty about my lack of commitment to a cause I cared about. But now, like it or not, we were going to have to join the march, because there was literally no way around it.

  ‘Come on.’ I grabbed Dani’s arm and we headed up the street, the chanting crowd growing closer and closer behind us.

  ‘You can’t eat money! You can’t drink oil!’

  ‘There is no Planet B! Declare climate emergency!’

  Soon, the lead marchers caught up with us, and Dani and I, in our going-out clothes and high heels, were enveloped into the jeans-and-T-shirt-clad throng, carried along like overdressed twigs in a fast-flowing river. Someone thrust a placard saying ‘We can’t eat money’ into my hand, and someone else gave Dani the corner of a ‘March now or swim later’ banner to hold. She gripped it awkwardly in the hand that wasn’t holding her little sparkly clutch bag, her eyes wide and alarmed.

  I was struggling to keep up in my high heels, but I had no choice; the press of bodies all around me made it impossible to slow down. We passed another side street, but there was no way of escaping the throng.

  I heard my voice joining the chant: ‘I don’t know but I been told, fossil fuels are getting old.’ Dani caught my eye, horrified, then started singing too. In our going-out clothes, surrounded by a sea of people, we couldn’t have looked more out of place if we’d tried. It was like one of those dreams where you’re on your way to a job interview and you realise you’ve forgotten to put any clothes on, and for some reason you decide to style it out and go ahead anyway.

  And now, just like in those dreams, I was unable to escape. I was falling behind Dani, though; as she strode unwil
lingly along, I found myself dropping back, slipping through the crowd towards the side of the road, my aching feet literally unable to go any faster.

  The marchers turned a corner and I lost sight of Dani for a moment, and then my heel got caught in a crack and I stumbled, tried to right myself, made it worse and ended up in a heap on the cobblestones, surrounded by my silver bag and my placard. Oblivious, the marchers carried on past me, now chanting, ‘What do we want? Climate action! When do we want it? Yesterday!’ and one of them actually stepped on my dress and gave me a brief, impatient scowl like it was my fault.

  My knees were bleeding, the hem of my dress was ripped and, pathetically, I’d started to cry. I rummaged in my bag for a tissue but found only my phone, my bank card and a lipstick, which of course made me cry even more. The day, which had started out not exactly promisingly, had gone completely and utterly wrong. I had no hope of finding Dani now, and there was no way I could go into a bar anyway, with my knees all bloody and my dress torn. If Dani had any sense she’d escape from the protest as soon as she could and make her way to the station and home, and I was going to do the same, and text her as soon as I was out of this madness and enough time had passed for there to be no chance she’d suggest giving the party another shot.

  I struggled to my feet, cursing my stupid shoes and my stupid lack of balance and stupid Fabian Flatley and his stupid guest list, and waited for the tail-end of the march to pass me. A couple of people looked at me curiously but didn’t stop, for which I was quite grateful. And then someone did: a guy wearing a Campaign for Nuclear Disarmament T-shirt and camo trousers, with long brown hair and an array of piercings in his ears.

  ‘Are you okay?’ he asked, propping his placard against the wall next to mine. He smiled, and I realised he was seriously hot, with the kind of chiselled features that would be more at home on a movie star than a climate-change protester. ‘These events get emotional, don’t they? I was nearly crying, too, during the speeches in Parliament Square. I didn’t see you there. I’d have noticed, even in that crowd.’