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

by Sophie Ranald

  ‘Sloane, I was thinking… Have you got a second?’

  ‘Sure.’ I headed back into the meeting room, closely followed by my intern.

  ‘I was thinking,’ he said again. ‘Remember we mentioned the charity angle when we met Ruby-Grace originally. Why don’t I do some research, see if there are any organisations that might benefit from being represented by someone like her?’

  ‘Like what, though? I mean, you have to admit, Own the Night is pretty much perfect for her.’

  ‘Yeah but… There’s more to her than just that, Sloane. I mean, she’s really passionate about things.’

  ‘What things?’

  ‘Animals, for instance. She loves dogs.’

  ‘What, like little Minou? Poor thing, she’s just another accessory.’

  ‘No, she genuinely does. She volunteers at Battersea on weekends and everything.’

  ‘What? How do you know?’

  ‘I went there with her last weekend. They were short-staffed and she rang me on my mobile and asked me to help out. So I did. She was cleaning the dogs’ crates and feeding them and everything. Minou was a rescue dog, you know.’

  I tried to imagine Ruby-Grace, in her six-inch heels and barely-there shorts, weighing dog biscuits and scooping poop, and failed totally. But if Sam said so, it must be true.

  ‘And she loves kids, too,’ he went on. ‘I really think there’s an opportunity to reveal more of her true personality through her social media, show her giving something back.’

  ‘Okay,’ I said. ‘Go ahead and put out some feelers to charities. But talk to her about the Own the Night opportunity too, right?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  He stood up and headed towards the door. But before he got there, I said, ‘Sam? One more thing.’

  ‘Yes, Sloane?’

  ‘Remember when you started here, Megs and I spoke to you about our company policy regarding relationships with our clients.’ He ducked his head, but I could see a tide of colour rising up his neck. Cringing for him, I carried on. ‘When we work so closely with people, getting involved in every aspect of their lives, it’s very easy to overstep the boundaries. But… Just don’t, okay?’

  ‘No, Sloane.’

  ‘Right. Now, why don’t you go and get some lunch? I’m going to – I’m starving.’

  I hadn’t had dinner the previous night and, still unaccustomed to my new commute from the rented apartment, I’d got to the office too late that morning even to grab my usual coffee on my way in.

  Fortunately, I was in Soho. The food options within just a few streets of the office were almost limitless, from sandwich shops to greasy spoons to salad bars to burger joints. But I knew where I was going. I grabbed my bag and headed out, my steps quickening as I hurried towards the street where there had always been a market. When I first came to the city, it had been a traditional London market, with a fishmonger and fruit and veg stalls where Cockney voices shouted, ‘Get your ripe peaches here! Sweet juicy peaches, three for a pound!’

  Gentrification had taken its toll, the fishmonger was gone and only one veg stall remained now, though, and the rest had been taken over by street-food vendors. My mouth watered as I considered my options. I could have a giant hot dog, a burger laden with fried onions, a burrito encased in a giant Yorkshire pudding instead of a tortilla… Choice paralysis threatened to grip me, so I decided to opt for my favourite falafel wrap, which had the significant advantage of delivering about a thousand calories for a fiver.

  I joined the long line and watched, impressed as always by the efficiency with which the three guys manning the stall took orders, assembled the wraps and salad boxes, and finally handed them over to their customers, managing somehow to keep turning out freshly made chickpea patties and freshly cooked flatbreads in between.

  ‘A large wrap, please,’ I said when at last my turn came to order. ‘With no tomato, but extra aubergine and lots of chilli sauce.’

  Behind me, I heard a man’s voice say, ‘Large wrap, hold the tomato, extra aubergine, heavy on the chilli, please, mate.’

  I glanced around, smiling. ‘I guess there’s an echo in here.’

  The young guy behind me laughed. ‘Guess there is.’

  ‘The food’s great here, isn’t it? It’s one of my favourites.’

  ‘And a guaranteed hangover cure,’ he agreed.

  Then I looked at him more closely. He was hot – hot and kind of familiar. ‘Hey, do I know you from somewhere?’

  ‘I believe you do.’ He smiled, but there was a hint of embarrassment in his face. ‘From Fifty-One Wardour, a few weeks back.’

  ‘Oh my God! You bought me and my friend a bottle of champagne!’

  ‘I did. It seemed like a great idea at the time, but I guess you were too busy catching up to want to talk to a random stranger.’

  I remembered his glossy see-through business card, doubtless languishing now in the bottom of my handbag, or possibly thrown away with a load of used tissues and old receipts. Suddenly I felt bad for him.

  ‘I’m sorry. Yes, we were, but it was such a cute gesture. Let me buy you lunch. It’s the least I can do.’

  ‘I’ve already paid for it,’ he pointed out.

  ‘Oh! Of course you have.’ I considered handing him five pounds by way of repayment, but thought how pointless that would be, given he’d spunked north of a hundred pounds on a bottle of fizz for Megs and me. Instead, I pulled one of my own business cards out of my purse and handed it to him, saying, ‘I’ll buy you a drink in return, then. Give me a call sometime.’

  He looked at my card like I’d just handed him a winning Lotto ticket and said, ‘Cool. Yes, I will.’

  We looked at each other, smiling, for a second, and then he turned and went one way to wherever his office was, and I went the other.

  Twenty

  Despite my warning to Sam, my relationship with the client I was meeting that evening had definitely progressed beyond the professional. Over the years, Gemma Grey had become a friend, and I looked forward to our regular meetings at the Daily Grind, the café near Gemma’s home, which she had a fondness for not only because it was convenient and did great cocktails and bottomless brunches, but because it was where she’d met her boyfriend, Raffy.

  We were perched at Gemma’s usual table, in a corner with a view of the room, and we were both drinking breakfast Martinis, even though it was evening. The drink made me think with a pang of guilt of Vivienne – even though I’d been calling her every week to check she was okay, I was no closer to finding that breakthrough acting role for her.

  ‘So the photo shoot went great,’ Gemma said, smoothing a lock of hair back from her exquisitely pretty heart-shaped face. It was dyed a colour she’d told me was called mushroom blonde, and I’d have laid money on it being a massive trend in a few months. Hair salons were constantly getting in touch with me wanting to do Gemma’s hair for free in return for a mention on her vlog, but she steadfastly refused, insisting that she’d always go to her mum’s salon in Nottingham.

  ‘Brilliant! How was Isla – did she look after you okay?’

  ‘Of course she did. She’s really nice.’

  ‘Good on her. She’s a keeper, Isla, and so’s the other intern, Sam, who you haven’t met. I’m hoping we can offer them both jobs – I’ve had my hands full with Megs off, and Rosie’s rushed off her feet.’

  Gemma grimaced sympathetically. ‘How’s Megan getting on? I sent her some flowers ages ago, to congratulate her on the baby.’

  ‘She loved them. And she sends her love. She’s got the whole mommy thing nailed now – she’s already talking about coming into the office one day a week and bringing Ethan with her.’

  ‘Adorable! You won’t be able to keep your clients away if she does that.’

  ‘So we’ve had the first packaging samples in for your new make-up collection,’ I said, forcing my mind back to business. ‘They look amazing – you’ll love them. Here.’

  I pulled a silver and cor
al box out of my bag and spread out the contents for Gemma to see, and she oohed and aahed appreciatively.

  ‘Fab! I’m so excited about it all. Colours by Gemma Grey – OMG, I can’t believe it’s actually happening.’

  Then Gemma said, quite casually, but with a note of tension that made me think she wasn’t feeling casual at all, ‘Oh, Sloane, there’s something I meant to ask you. I got a DM through Insta from a PR who works with a clinic that does Botox and fillers and stuff. She wanted to talk about a brand-ambassador-type relationship. So I told her to get in touch with you, obviously.’

  ‘Quite right,’ I began, but it was like Gemma hadn’t heard me.

  ‘Sloane, do you think I need to start with that stuff? Like, already? I mean, prevention’s better than cure, right? I’ll be twenty-seven in a few months. And I look at the girls on Love Island and I’m like, they look so amazing. And I reckon they’ve all had bits of work done here and there. Should I?’

  I thought, If you ever let a needle near that beautiful face of yours I’ll kill you.

  ‘Gemma, honey, you know I’ll support you in whatever you do, always. It’s your life and your face. I’m not going to be the buzz-killer here and tell you that you need to grow older gracefully. Because the reality is that in our business, the playing field isn’t level. And some people give nature a helping hand here and there, because they can, and because it matters to them.’

  Gemma nodded, listening carefully to me. ‘So should I…’

  ‘Seriously? No fucking way. Not now. You’re a way off thirty yet, Gemma. Don’t even go there. You’re beautiful, stunning, perfect, just as you are. Wear sunscreen every day and just enjoy every second of being you. But if you decide, in fifteen years’ time, you want to tweak things here and there, do it for you. Not because you feel pressure to look a certain way.’

  I was reminded again of Vivienne, whose beauty had been preserved, as far as I could tell, by sheer freakish good luck but whose life was in all kinds of turmoil in every other way. And I thought, if I was the fairy godmother at the feast, bestowing my blessings on Gemma, who I loved – or on the daughter I might have, who I’d love orders of magnitude more – what would I wish for her? Beauty, or happiness? And what if being happy were dependent on being beautiful?

  But Gemma was oblivious to my complicated internal analysis.

  ‘I’m so glad you think that. Seriously, I was panicking that you might say I should go for it. And the idea gives me the right heebie-jeebies, if I’m honest.’ She glanced at her phone and pushed back her chair. ‘Shit, I’m so sorry, Sloane, but I have to dash. Raffy’s cooking and I said I’d be back by eight. We’ve got some friends coming over and he’s doing this smoky jackfruit thing. Kind of like carnitas, only vegan. He says. Who knows?’

  I stood up and reached over to hug her, intending to pick up my own things and make my way to the Tube station and on to home. But then I heard my phone humming on the table, and I said, ‘I’ll just take this call and then head off. Take care, love you, bye.’

  Of course, my phone stopped ringing the second I picked it up. Impatiently, I glanced at the screen, thinking it might be Dad, who, since I’d broken the news about Myles and me separating, had taken to ringing every few days to make sure I was okay. But it was Myles. Now that I’d moved into my temporary rental apartment, he’d been calling me more often than he had for weeks, always with some trivial request that he presented as desperately urgent. Had I sent his mother a birthday card? Had I packed and taken with me his favourite green and white striped shirt by mistake? Did I know what the flashing red light on the washing machine meant?

  To which my answers had been No, No and Read the fucking manual.

  Well, he could leave a message and I’d call him back in the morning. However annoying and trivial his calls were, I couldn’t help, every time I saw his name on my phone’s screen, feeling a leap of hope that maybe, this time, he was going to say sorry. Maybe finally he was going to explain that it had all been a mistake. Maybe, after all, there was some way to make things right. But he never had, and I was beginning to realise that in order to protect my own sanity, I’d have to keep our calls short and to the point, or avoid them if I possibly could.

  So I’d ring him back tomorrow. If I felt like it. In the meantime, I was going to have another cocktail, putting off the moment when I’d have to leave the bright, cosy room and the company of other people, even if I wasn’t actually talking to any of them, and return to the soulless one-bedroom flat.

  The waitress brought my negroni and I sipped absently, glancing around me. The bar was filling up. There was a table of bearded men next to me drinking craft beer; a group of women excitedly ordering cocktails, who looked like they were having a rare night off from their families; a few couples on dates. Soon I’d have to ask for the bill and leave – it seemed selfish to be hogging a table for two when I was just drinking. But the thought of the lonely Airbnb apartment, of filling another evening with only my confused thoughts for company, was too bleak to face.

  My eye was drawn to the far side of the room, where a group of two women and three men were settling down, chatting excitedly. I watched them, distracting myself by trying to figure out how they fitted together, who was with who, or whether they were just friends. One of the women looked familiar, and I tried to place where I recognised her from, but I couldn’t.

  She was pretty – the kind of pretty that creates the impression at first glance of generic blue-eyed, blonde English-rose good looks, but then when you look a bit harder you see a lot more. She was average height with an average build – unlike her friend, who was model-tall and slender – but she exuded something special. Confidence, charisma, comfort in her own skin, happiness – whatever it was, it glowed from her like she’d swallowed a garland of fairy lights.

  Also, she looked a tiny bit like Ivanka Trump, the POTUS’s daughter. That must be why she seemed familiar – Ivanka’s face had been all over the web recently.

  I’d been staring, I realised, and hastily looked away – but not hastily enough. As if she knew she was being watched, she glanced in my direction and our eyes met for an awkward moment. I saw her see me, freeze, look away and then look back again with a flash of recognition before turning to whisper to her friend.

  The room was crowded and buzzing by now, so there was no way I could hear what she was saying and I’m no lip-reader, but I didn’t need to be – it was all right there in her face and her body language.

  I know that woman.

  I saw her friend glance my way, too, and the two of them whispered intently for a few seconds. Then the Ivanka-a-like looked towards me again and stood up.

  I’m going over to talk to her.

  Damn it. The last thing I needed right now was an awkward encounter with someone who knew me, but who I had no recollection of ever having met. Could she be a client contact from way back? Someone who’d come to Ripple Effect wanting us to represent her and been knocked back? A random acquaintance from the gym? I had no idea.

  But I was about to find out.

  ‘Hello. I’m so sorry to bother you. You’re Sloane Cassidy, aren’t you?’

  ‘That’s me.’

  ‘Do you mind if I join you for a second?’

  Yes. ‘Not at all.’

  She put her glass of white wine down on the table and sat opposite me, where Gemma had been. She didn’t look happy about it, though, I realised. She didn’t look like someone who was popping over to have a nice cosy gossip.

  She looked like a woman sitting down in the dentist’s chair.

  ‘My name’s Charlotte Bell.’

  So she didn’t expect me to know her, at least. But she paused, in a kind of anticipatory way, as if she thought I would recognise her name.

  ‘Nice to meet you, Charlotte.’ Could she be a YouTuber? Unlikely – I didn’t spend hours and hours of my life on the site for nothing. I knew just about every style, beauty and wellness vlogger there was.

  I took a
sip of my cocktail and saw her eyes flicker towards my left hand and stay there for a moment, widening in surprise.

  ‘I used to work at Colton Capital.’ Again, there was that questioning inflection in her voice, like she expected me to make some connection.

  Colton Capital. That name was familiar. And then I remembered – the massive workplace renovation project Myles’s firm had been engaged to do the previous year. Something had gone wrong with it, and the contract was terminated. Myles had been mortified, then furious, threatening to sue, but as far as I knew nothing had ever come of that – aside from his decision to focus more heavily on residential projects.

  ‘If this is related to Taylor + Associates, I’m sorry but I can’t really help you.’

  The woman – Charlotte – blushed, a dark tide of crimson that rushed up from her neck and over her face. She took a big gulp of her wine.

  ‘This is really awkward,’ she said. ‘Please bear with me. I just wanted to explain, and to apologise to you in person.’

  ‘Apologise for what?’

  ‘I… it was me who Myles… I’m so sorry, there’s just no easy way to say this.’

  Had she somehow been instrumental in getting the firm removed from the project?

  ‘Look, these things happen in business,’ I said. ‘If you feel bad about the contract, by all means discuss it with Myles. It’s really nothing to do with me.’

  ‘No! It’s not that. I thought you knew. He said he’d told you.’

  She flushed again and downed more wine. She was literally squirming in her seat, and her obvious distress made me feel sorry for her.

  ‘I think you should explain,’ I said gently, ‘because I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about.’

  She brushed a thumb under her eye, leaving a smear of mascara, and leaned close across the table. I could smell her perfume, subtle and fresh like spring flowers.

  ‘Myles and I had an affair.’ Her words came out in a rush. ‘I’m sorry, there’s just no other way to say it. It didn’t last very long. I didn’t know he was married – he told me he was separated and I believed him. I’d honestly never, ever, ever have let it happen if I’d known. Not that that makes it any better. I’m really sorry. I just… I’m sorry.’