No, We Can't Be Friends: A totally perfect romantic comedy

by Sophie Ranald

  ‘Sloane. Oh my God. I love you.’

  His breathing was fast and ragged, and mine was, too.

  ‘I love you too.’ In spite of everything – all my doubts and suspicions – it was true. Surely, surely, he couldn’t have said the same words to Bianca? Not last night on the couch in that softly lit room – not ever. If I wanted enough for it to be true, it must be.

  I rolled over and lay next to him, waiting for my heartbeat to slow.

  ‘Sweetheart, was that okay for you… Did you…?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter.’ And in that moment, it didn’t. It might have been just for him in one way, but in another, it had been all for me.

  Normally, I’d have waited, lying there still for as long as I could, waiting and hoping that, somewhere inside me, two gametes would meet and fuse: a moment of biology so fundamental, yet so tiny and subtle there was no way of knowing when it happened, or if it happened at all.

  But today there was no time. I needed to get to work, and anyway, my period was due in a couple of days – there was very little point even hoping for a miracle today.

  Myles had picked up his phone. ‘Shit. I’m due to meet a client on site in forty-five minutes. You’ve made me late, you temptress.’

  He sat up and swung his legs off the bed, bending to retrieve my pants from the floor and chucking them over to me.

  ‘Let me run to the bathroom first,’ I said. ‘I just need to get cleaned up and fix my face, then it’s all yours.’

  I stepped back into my high-heeled shoes, forgetting my practical flats, and picked up my handbag in one hand and my knickers in the other, hurrying out onto the landing, my skirt still rucked up around my waist.

  And then I stopped dead. Because there, halfway up the stairs, face to face with me – or rather, mortifyingly, face to vag – were Wayne and Shane in their high-vis jackets. They must have come into the house when we were too caught up in passion to even notice.

  We all froze. Wayne turned around to hurry back downstairs, no doubt hoping that if he got out of there fast enough we could all style it out. But Shane was blocking his descent, standing there gawping at me like he’d never seen a landing strip before.

  ‘Uh, good morning, Sloane,’ he said. ‘Any chance of a coffee?’

  Nine

  All the way to work, I kept remembering what had happened and cringing so hard I practically turned inside out, in between full-body blushes. I remembered standing there for a second, unable to move, before whipping my knickers in front of me like an inadequate blue fig leaf. Which, of course, if anything made matters worse. I was torn. Did I sprint back to the bedroom, or forwards to the bathroom?

  The bathroom won. I locked myself in and texted Myles, telling him that he’d better bloody well make the builders their coffee and take them downstairs, and keep them there, right at the far end of the house, for as long as it took for me to escape, because I never wanted to see either of them again in my life, ever.

  But I’m desperate for a piss , he texted back, and I need to shower and leave for work.

  I DON’T CARE! I just gave them an eyeful of my muff.

  You what?

  And he added a whole load of emojis, clearly indicating that at least someone found the situation funny.

  I hastily cleaned myself up, stepping into my stupid underwear at last and easing my dress back down. I waited, literally shifting from foot to foot with impatience, while I heard Myles switch off the coffee machine and exchange pleasantries with Wayne and Shane as if they hadn’t just seen his wife practically in the buff. I heard their awkward, monosyllabic replies; clearly they weren’t as good at fronting this out as he was.

  ‘Now, I’ve just got a question about the angle downstairs where the steel’s fitting into the party wall,’ he said. ‘Can you spare a second?’

  I heard their three sets of footsteps on the stairs and peered out of the window until I could see them through the skylight below.

  Then I made a run for it.

  And now, I was in the lift going up to the sixth floor and the Ripple Effect office, having stopped on the way to pick up a coffee.

  As always, stepping through the door made me happy. Whatever curveballs life threw at me, however riven with doubt I was about my marriage, my home and my uncooperative reproductive system, here at least I felt calm and in charge.

  Rosie was already in, sitting behind the desk in the reception area, which was lined with glossy headshots of our most famous clients. Isla and Sam, our latest two interns, were there too, leaning against the high counter of the reception desk, chatting to her.

  When they saw me, they both sprang to attention as if they’d been caught doing something wrong. Bless their cotton socks, I thought. If only they knew that the agency would more or less grind to a halt without the benefit of their low-paid labour. I felt bad about the fact that they worked for no more than their Tube fare, an allowance for lunch and a payment that was little better than pocket money. I felt worse about the fact that being able to do so was considered a massive opportunity, a lucky break into a competitive industry, and that the nature of the work meant it was open only to those with comfortably off parents who could afford to keep their twenty-something kids at home while they forged a career.

  ‘Hey, guys,’ I said. ‘How’s everyone this morning?’

  ‘Oh my God, Sloane, I am so hung-over,’ lamented Rosie, pushing a strand of silky dark blonde hair back off her face. Even if she was feeling like death, her skin looked fresh and dewy and her eyes were bright and clear. It was yet another reminder that I was ten years older. ‘That function I went to last night at Alcotraz was amazing. Phoebe Waller-Bridge was there, but I managed not to go full fangirl. We ended up staying until they chucked us out, and then we went on to a dive bar and then for a kebab. I legit thought I was going to die this morning.’

  ‘Well, kudos for getting in early,’ I said. ‘Can you face eating? Sam, why don’t you pop out and get a round of bacon sandwiches – or whatever you fancy, Rosie – and some full-fat Coke or orange juice or whatever? Grab some money from petty cash. And then I’d like you to join me in the meeting with Ruby-Grace Miller. She’s coming in at eleven. Isla, you’re off to Reading later, right?’

  ‘Right,’ she said. ‘To do that book signing with Gemma Grey. Oh my God, I’m so excited to meet her! Do you think she’d sign a book for my little sister?’

  ‘Of course she will,’ I said. ‘And make sure you keep back a goodie bag for her, too. Just make sure the venue’s got proper checks on the door – it’s confirmed guests only, and keep an eye on social media in case some smart-ass decides to leak details of the location. Order yourself a cab, and make sure you tell them it needs to have plenty of room for all the merch and stuff.’

  ‘Great!’ Isla said.

  ‘And please give Gemma my love.’

  Isla hustled off to her desk, and Sam headed for the lift.

  Once they were out of earshot, Rosie said, ‘Vivienne Sterling rang for you. Really early – the phone was ringing when I got in just after eight.’

  ‘What did she want? I know she’s looking for work but it’s only a couple weeks since we met. I’m good, but I can’t work miracles.’

  ‘She didn’t exactly say. Sloane, if I’m honest, she didn’t sound great.’

  Shit. ‘Not great how?’

  ‘Well, to be totally honest, she sounded a bit… what my dad calls tired and emotional,’ Rosie said. I admired her diplomacy: we all knew that Ripple Effect’s clients could sometimes be total nightmares – Glen Renton’s reaction when his hairstylist gave him an all-over number one buzz cut instead of the low fade he’d requested was still talked about in hushed tones – but there was an unspoken company policy to try to keep slagging them off to a minimum.

  ‘Right. Did you manage to catch anything at all?’

  ‘Not really. She asked for you, and I said you weren’t in yet, and she said something about maxed. I thought maybe a credit card or some
thing. She was like, “Maxed it, maxed it, maxededed,” but I couldn’t really make it out, because then she started to cry. I tried to talk to her but she just said to let you know she called. At least I think that’s what she said.’

  I heard the lift ping behind me, and Sam emerged laden with paper bags from the hipster deli down the road, which masqueraded as an old-school greasy spoon but charged three times the price.

  ‘Okay, thanks, Rosie,’ I said. ‘Leave it with me.’

  ‘Bacon buttie, Sloane?’

  ‘Thanks, Sam, but I already…’ I caught a waft of savoury goodness coming out of the bag. Breakfast had basically only been porridge, after all, and a long time ago. ‘Oh, go on then. Good man.’

  Ten minutes later, second breakfast demolished, I’d tried Vivienne’s landline twice and listened to it ring out, imagining the persistent trill sounding through that squalid house. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t cancel my eleven o’clock, and I couldn’t leave Sam to do it on his own – he was keen, but he was inexperienced and there was no way he’d be able to deal with a potentially pushy client. Even Rosie, who I trusted implicitly, might be out of her depth, given what Megs had told me about Ruby-Grace.

  And that wasn’t the only item demanding my attention. There was an approach from The Coolector magazine for an interview with Charlie Berry. I had an inbox full of emails I needed to respond to, including one from the fashion retailer luxeforless.com wanting to book one of our up-and-coming influencers for a shoot. And Liz, the blindingly competent retiree who did our books, was coming in the next day and I had a mountain of paperwork to get ready for her.

  I tried Vivienne’s number one more time, listened to it ring and ring, and eventually hung up. I realised I was gripping my phone so hard my hand hurt, the familiar sense of guilt and helplessness washing over me. She’s not your mom, Sloane – she’s a client. But still, I’d have to go and see her. I checked my calendar: I had two hours free tomorrow, round about the middle of the day. Last time I’d met her at that time, she’d been sober. Or sober-ish. I’d have to come into the office in the morning, sack off my lunchtime hair appointment, then get the train to Hither Green and work from home in the afternoon.

  Which would mean seeing Wayne and Shane again. Oh God. Dying. Once more, the blood rushed to my face as I remembered what had happened that morning.

  ‘Um, excuse me, Sloane.’ Sam appeared by my side. ‘I’ve written up some bullet points on Ruby-Grace Miller. Can we run through them together before our eleven o’clock?’

  I pushed back my chair. ‘Sure. It’s ten thirty now, so why don’t we head through to the meeting room? Will you sort some tea and coffee, and water, and I guess some biscuits or whatever?’

  The Ripple Effect meeting room was my favourite thing about the office. I remembered when I’d come to meet Megs the first time, to be interviewed for the job I desperately wanted, looking around at its three stark white walls and one scarlet one; taking in the elliptical white table, surrounded by sculptural white chairs; admiring the framed portraits on the walls, and thinking, This woman is a pro.

  It was typical of Megs: she understood that, in our business, image was everything. And now, even though the portraits of our clients were more numerous than they had been back then, and there were the additions of a floating shelf on which a host of award trophies jostled for position and a squashy white velvet chaise longue (on which we had to warn clients not to sit if they were wearing new jeans), I still felt the same sense of excitement when I walked in.

  I saw Sam pause and smile when he came in with the coffee tray, and I knew he felt the same.

  ‘So,’ he said. ‘Ruby-Grace. She’s twenty years old, from Exeter originally but lives in London now. Her mum’s Kelly Burke – apparently she was a Page Three girl, back when that was a thing. And she did various nude shoots for lads’ mags, back when those were a thing.’

  I nodded, remembering that Sam was only twenty-two – for him, the pre-#MeToo era must feel like ancient history.

  ‘Her dad’s a footballer. Kyle Roberts – played for a few Championship teams but never really hit the big time. He’s retired now, obviously, and so’s Kelly, but they’re not together any more.’

  ‘Okay. Nice background intel there.’ He hadn’t told me anything I didn’t already know, but it was good to see he’d done his homework.

  ‘Anyway, so I guess Ruby-Grace always wanted to be famous. She was on Britain’s Got Talent a few years back, with a teen girl band, but they didn’t get very far. She already had an Instagram account though, and a YouTube channel, and she got a bunch of followers from there. And after Ripple Effect signed her last year, that scaled quite fast and she got a few influencer-type deals through us. And then she auditioned for Love Island.’

  ‘But she didn’t get on.’

  ‘Nope. I’m not sure why – she totally looks the part. I guess maybe there was another girl who was similar who they liked better.’

  Another girl they liked better. So far, since arriving at the office, I’d managed to engross myself in work and push my thoughts about Myles and Bianca out of my mind, but Sam’s words brought the horrible reality rushing back. Once again, I remembered Myles and Bianca next to each other on the couch. Like a high-definition camera, my memory zoomed in on her hand on his thigh; that intimate, caressing touch.

  ‘Don’t you think, Sloane?’

  My mind jerked back to the present, and I realised I’d missed a load of what Sam had been saying.

  ‘Well, let’s see what she has to say for herself,’ I replied lamely.

  ‘Ruby-Grace is here.’ Isla opened the door and ushered our client in.

  Obviously, I’d seen Ruby-Grace’s Instagram feed and YouTube channel. Her portrait was right there on the wall of the meeting room. But still, nothing could have prepared me for the reality of her in the flesh.

  Ruby-Grace wasn’t tall, but her six-inch Perspex heels made her the same height as Sam, and she towered over me. She was wearing a neon-pink vest top that ended just below her nipples but had a layer of fringing below hanging down to the bottom of her tiny white hot pants. Her body was – well, let’s just say it must have taken an enormous amount of work in the gym and a fairly extensive amount of work in a private cosmetic-surgery clinic to achieve curves like that. She had platinum-blonde hair that fell in glossy waves halfway down her back. Her eyelash extensions were so long they almost reached her perfectly microbladed brows, and her lips were plumped with filler and painted the same colour as her top. She had a see-through plastic handbag in one hand and a miniature dachshund in the other. In spite – or perhaps because – of all the various enhancements, she was mind-blowingly pretty.

  Sam was gazing at her, transfixed, like a man who’d seen a vision.

  ‘Hello, Ruby-Grace,’ I said. ‘Thanks for coming in. It’s lovely to meet you. And who’s this?’

  ‘This is Minou.’ She carefully deposited the dog on the floor, and it settled down with a weary sigh. ‘She’s my baby – she comes everywhere with me. Could she have a drink of water, please?’

  ‘Of course.’ I bent down to stroke the smooth nut-brown head. ‘Are you thirsty, Minou? Sam, would you mind…’

  ‘Sure.’ But Sam didn’t get up. Instead, he picked up the phone on the table and I heard him ask Isla to bring a bowl of water. It wasn’t like him to pull rank on a colleague like that – especially not a female one – and it took me a second to work out that he was both trying to impress Ruby-Grace with his seniority and also reluctant to waste a second he could spend gazing at her.

  ‘Now,’ I said, once Minou was lapping happily away, Sam and I had coffees and Ruby-Grace had a glass of filtered water and was looking at the plate of biscuits the way I imagined her little dog would look at a cheeseburger. ‘As you know, Megan’s off on maternity leave, so I’ll be looking after you in her absence, with some help from Sam. Megs mentioned that you had a bit of a knock-back from Love Island. You must have been disappointed abou
t that.’

  ‘I was gutted, if I’m honest. I mean, like, they approached me and asked me to audition. And I went through the whole process. I worked so hard for it, and I really wanted to experience that journey, Sloane. I really feel that I have something to offer to viewers. And it would have been so great for my career.’

  ‘Yes, of course, I quite—’

  ‘And I, like, really wanted to find love in the villa,’ Ruby-Grace interrupted me, presumably realising she’d gone off message. ‘I’ve been single for a year and a half now and I just know there’s someone special out there for me.’

  ‘Love Island is a very pressured experience, though,’ I said, choosing my words with care. ‘Of course, we do our very best to help our clients achieve their goals, but if it’s a long-term relationship you’re after I’m not convinced that’s the place to find one. Look at all the couples who break up straight after the show – the island’s not like real life, and then you come out of there into this media frenzy, and there’s no time for your relationship to grow. But, of course, we’re a talent agency, not a dating agency. Much as we’d like to, we can’t always help with life goals as well as career goals.’

  ‘But you didn’t help with my career goal,’ Ruby-Grace pointed out. ‘It’s been my dream for three years to get into the villa and I feel like I’ve been mugged off before I even started. You know what I mean?’

  She took a tissue out of her transparent bag and carefully dabbed it under her eye.

  ‘You could apply again next year,’ Sam said. ‘A few people have done that and been accepted second time round.’

  Then he blushed furiously, as if amazed at having found the courage to speak.

  ‘But I don’t want to go on next year! I want to be on now! They’ll be flying out there literally this weekend, and I’m here in pissy London.’