It's Not You It's Him: An absolutely hilarious and feel-good romantic comedy

by Sophie Ranald

  ‘Sorry.’ I sprang away from him like he was carrying a horrible, infectious disease.

  ‘Sorry?’ he echoed. ‘Is that all you’ve got to say for yourself?’

  I looked up at him. He was taller than me – not by much, admittedly, but it was something. He was wearing grey tracksuit bottoms, a faded green T-shirt and a baseball cap backwards over his buzz-cut hair. His eyes were crinkled up against the sun and I could see a gap between his front teeth when he smiled.

  The smile took my breath away and I found that ‘sorry’ literally was all I had to say for myself.

  He stared at me for what felt like hours, and I felt my face growing scarlet and my palms getting damp and clammy. I should have said, ‘Excuse me,’ and brushed past him into the shop, bought the milk and gone home. But I couldn’t. I couldn’t even move – it was like my shabby silver ballet pumps had been replaced with concrete boots.

  At last, he said, ‘So. Coming?’

  I nodded mutely and followed him up the road, relieved to be able to move, even though my legs still felt strange. I followed him all the way to the park, where Kylie, Anoushka and all the rest of them were slumped against the railings. Josh was there, too, and I felt a small thrill of gladness that he’d seen me singled out by Connor.

  ‘Here.’ Connor handed over one of the blue carrier bags. ‘You lot can have this. This one’s for me and her. We’re going for a walk.’

  I couldn’t look at them – I could only stare down at my feet again. Then Connor took my hand in a grip so firm it was almost rough, and led me away.

  Behind me, I heard Anoushka say, ‘Well!’ and the rest of them burst into amazed laughter.

  We didn’t walk far – just to the other side of the park, where it dipped down to a stream with fields on the other side. Connor leaned against a stone wall, half-sitting, half-standing, and I hesitated a moment before joining him. Only then did he let go of my hand, which was hot now from his grip.

  He took a bottle out of the carrier bag, opened it with his teeth, took a deep swig and then passed it to me. I didn’t know what I was expected to do – should I wipe the neck of the bottle or not? Did he mean me to drink, or was I just holding it for him while he rolled and lit a fag? I took a tentative sip of the sugary, fizzy blue liquid, trying not to grimace at the taste, and then handed it back to him.

  I suppose we must have talked while we worked our way through that bottle and three more, but I can’t remember anything he said. I don’t think I said much at all – I was too bewildered by what was happening, and, later, by the way the drink made the edges of everything go soft and unfocused.

  And then, when he kissed me, talking didn’t matter any more.

  We kissed for a long time, until my bum cheeks went numb from leaning against the cool stone and my face was stinging from his stubble. But I didn’t care about that – I was oblivious to any physical sensation except the sweet stickiness of his lips on mine, the insistent questing of his tongue, the feel of his hand snaking under my school shirt and the panic as I wondered how far to let it go, and how to tell him to stop.

  I didn’t have to, in the end. He let me go, glanced at his watch and lit another cigarette. Then he said, ‘I gotta go. Meet me here tomorrow?’

  I nodded mutely and he turned and walked away, leaving me there.

  I’d kissed boys before – of course I had, I wasn’t that tragic – but Connor wasn’t a boy. He was a man. He was eighteen. He had a driving licence and a job. I wasn’t sure I even liked him, but I was so in awe of him I’d have done anything he wanted – anything at all.

  So there was no question of my not going back to meet him the next day, and the day after that, and most days for the next three weeks. The WKD alcopop wasn’t a regular thing, fortunately – I wasn’t the greatest student ever but even I wasn’t about to acquire an afternoon alcohol habit before I’d even sat my GCSEs. Sometimes he brought packets of crisps, or Mars bars, and once a bag of chips, hot and greasy and saturated with vinegar.

  We never went out anywhere. Our relationship, such as it was, involved meeting by that stone wall, talking for a bit and then kissing each other. And of course, as time went on, the kissing led to other things.

  Five

  Finally, January had come to an end. It didn’t mean that the long, depressing winter was anywhere close to over, but it did at least mean payday – and not a moment too soon. My rent was due, my credit card was hovering dangerously close to its maximum and I’d been living on beans on toast.

  Daria’s assistant came round the office as she always did, depositing the precious little sealed blue and white payslips on our desks and, as I always did, I opened mine straight away. Felicity, I noticed, chucked hers in her drawer without even looking at it.

  ‘Hey,’ she said. ‘Fancy coming out tonight? Pru’s mates are all in Gloucestershire for the weekend but she’s had to stay in town because she’s meeting some boy off Toffee she likes for brunch tomorrow. And it’s Friday, so…’

  ‘Go hard or go home?’ I suggested. ‘What’s Toffee, anyway?’

  ‘It’s a dating app,’ Felicity said. ‘You know, like Tinder, only it’s…’

  Then she stopped, and looked uncomfortable for a second.

  ‘It’s what? Never mind,’ I said hastily, when she continued to look awkward. ‘I was just being nosy.’

  ‘No, it’s fine.’ Felicity squeezed hand cream into her palm and massaged her cuticles, and the smell of freesias filled the air as if spring had made an early appearance, but she still didn’t quite meet my eyes. ‘Toffee is for… well, people who are privately educated, that’s all.’

  ‘A dating app for posh people?’ I hooted. ‘That’s hilarious. So much for social mobility. I can’t believe that’s a thing.’

  Then I cringed even more, realising how rude and insulting I was being not only to Pru and her potential date, but also to Felicity herself. And also, a small, shameful part of me was wondering whether Renzo, who’d been to boarding school in Milan, might make the cut and whether, by lying about my own education, I could, too.

  ‘Yes, well,’ Felicity said. ‘It is. And Pru’s on it.’

  There was an awkward silence while I wondered whether I needed to apologise, or say I was busy that evening. Rationally, I knew that going home would be the wiser choice for me, by far.

  But then my phone buzzed. Adam. Target has confirmed reservation at the Cuckoo Club, 10pm. This is not a drill. Repeat: this is not a drill. For good measure, he’d added a hashtag: #notadrill

  I couldn’t help laughing at how seriously he was taking Operation Get Renzo Back.

  ‘Have you been to the Cuckoo Club?’ I asked, faux casually.

  ‘The what now?’ Felicity said, tapping it into her phone. ‘God, I am so out of touch. No, but it looks cool. Let me check with my sis.’

  Evidently Renzo’s choice of venue cracked the nod from Pru, because it was all arranged within minutes. Effortlessly, Pru secured us a place on the guest list and a table booking, without us having to guarantee the thousand-pound minimum spend. Which was obviously a massive relief to me, although I’d have sold my own hair if it guaranteed I’d see Renzo again.

  And tonight I was going to.

  The afternoon crawled on. I checked my phone compulsively for updates from Adam, but he sent nothing more. I inventoried my wardrobe in my head, running through outfit after outfit and failing to decide what I was going to wear. I wished I hadn’t been too skint to have my eyebrows threaded during the week, and now there would be no time.

  At last, five thirty came and Felicity headed off to the flat in Chelsea she shared with her sister to get ready, and I got on the Tube to go home to Hackney and do the same.

  I had three hours, I told myself. Heaps and heaps of time. I’d shower first and wash my hair, then let it air-dry while I did my nails. Then I’d decide what to wear, do my make-up, get dressed and head off. I’d treat myself to an Uber, I decided, so I wouldn’t need to take a bag big enou
gh for emergency Tube shoes.

  It was all going to be fine. I was going to see Renzo. Somehow, I’d make it okay. He’d look at me the way he used to, and kiss me, and everything would be back to how it was, except without any secrets. I needed to believe it, to keep the faith.

  Standing in the damp fug of the Tube carriage on my way home, I allowed my mind to wander back to the first time I’d been out with Renzo. I remembered walking into the restaurant where I was meeting him, my knees literally trembling with nerves so I felt like I could hardly balance in my four-inch stiletto heels. I remembered saying, ‘You have a reservation for Renzo Volta?’ amazed that I was able to get the words out, my mouth was so dry. I remembered goosebumps springing up all down my spine when I took my coat off, because I was wearing a backless jumpsuit. When I followed the maître d’ to our table – the maître d’! I’d never been anywhere that had one of those before – I felt heads turn to look at me, and felt horribly self-conscious, wishing I’d worn something less out there.

  It felt like the longest walk ever to the back corner of the restaurant, where he was waiting at a table for two. He was wearing an open-necked purple shirt that made his eyes gleam like topaz. He was too gorgeous to be real. But when he saw me his whole face lit up in a delighted grin that made him seem suddenly much less intimidating.

  And then he stood up to greet me, but his hip bumped the table, and the cocktail glass he’d been drinking from tottered and fell, spilling clear liquid everywhere. A green olive rolled along the polished wood and bounced to the floor.

  He looked at me and I looked at him, and we both burst out laughing.

  ‘Che cavolo!’ he said. ‘What is wrong with me? I’m never nervous like this on dates. You look so gorgeous, and here I am making a fool of myself.’

  And, as waitresses descended with napkins to clean up the mess he’d made and he ordered fresh drinks for us both, I felt my own nerves evaporating. He’d been scared, too! He was sweet, and self-effacing, and he could even be awkward. It was right at that moment, not even five minutes into our first date, that I realised I might fall in love with him.

  And now I was going to see him again.

  Charlotte wasn’t in when I got home, which was gutting because I’d come to rely on her advice when it came to Renzo, before it had all gone wrong.

  But Adam was. He wasn’t in his bedroom as usual; he was downstairs in the kitchen – with the doors to the garden wide open, making the whole house Baltic cold – staring out into the darkness.

  ‘Adam!’ I said. ‘What the hell are you doing? It’s bloody freezing in here.’

  He turned round. Instead of his usual, ‘Hi, Tans,’ he said, ‘You’re home. Good. I need your help.’

  ‘Adam, what the… I need to get ready. You know, I’m going to see Renzo.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adam replied. ‘But first you need to rescue Freezer.’

  ‘What? Where is he? What do you expect me to do?’

  Adam didn’t say anything. He just pointed out of the door and upwards, and I could see a furry white body in the ash tree that was half in the neighbours’ garden and half in ours, clinging to a branch about ten feet up.

  ‘So a cat’s climbed a tree,’ I said. ‘What’s the drama?’

  ‘He went up after a squirrel, and now he can’t get down. He’s been there two hours. He’s stuck.’

  I said, ‘He’s not stuck! He got up, he can get down again. Logic, right?’

  ‘Cats climb up trees using their claws. They hook into the bark to get them up. But they won’t climb down backwards because they can’t see where they’re going, and their claws don’t give them purchase facing down. I googled it.’

  ‘Okay, but can’t Luke sort it? Or Hannah? I mean, he’s their cat.’

  ‘They’re away for the weekend,’ Adam replied. ‘I said I’d look after him. And now look what’s happened.’

  ‘So go and get him.’ I could quite clearly see the route Adam could take: hand on the top of the fence, climb up, grab the branch below where Freezer was, scoop the cat, repeat the process in reverse order. Job done.

  Adam said, ‘I can’t. I’m afraid of heights.’

  I looked at my normally inscrutable housemate, clutching his arms around himself as if he was cold, although I knew it couldn’t be that, because this was the man who didn’t even own a proper coat. I thought about the manicure I’d planned, and the face mask that would take fifteen minutes to give me a luminous glow, and the multiple outfits I needed to try on before making a decision.

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake,’ I said. ‘Okay. I’ve got this.’

  ‘Shall I hold your bag?’ Adam offered.

  ‘Thanks. And my coat.’ I handed them both to him and stood, shivering, while I tried to work out whether I’d be better off with my boots on or off. At least I was wearing jeans. But the route from ground to fence to branch to cat suddenly looked a bit less easy than it had when I was imagining Adam doing it.

  ‘Right, Freezer,’ I said. ‘I’m coming to get you.’

  I put both hands on top of the fence and Adam gave me a leg-up, and seconds later I was crouching precariously on its narrow top, clutching a branch of the tree for balance. Reaching up to a higher branch, I carefully stood up and assessed my options.

  I could lean across the gap and try and grab Freezer with one hand, but that would mean risking falling, dropping him, or both. Or I could climb into the tree myself, but then I’d have to find a way to get down one-handed, while carrying a squirming, frightened bundle of fur. And claws. Let’s not forget the claws.

  I chose the first option and reached over as far as I could. I could just about touch the cat’s front paws, but not quite.

  ‘Come on, Freezer,’ I pleaded. ‘Come just a bit closer and we’ll get you down.’

  Freezer ignored me. Instead, he stood up from his crouched position and backed away slightly.

  ‘No, Freezer, be sensible,’ I heard Adam say, far below me.

  I edged carefully along the fence, closer to the cat. He edged carefully away.

  Then we both watched in horror as he somehow turned himself around and took off at speed along a branch in the opposite direction.

  ‘For fuck’s sake, Freezer, come back!’ I said.

  But he didn’t. Instead, he took a flying leap off the branch, landing safely on the roof of Luke and Hannah’s shed, and immediately sat down and started to wash himself.

  ‘You little bastard!’ I said.

  ‘He’s okay, Tansy, you did it!’ Adam said.

  I can’t remember how I got down from there, but a minute later I was back on solid ground, my legs trembling with delayed fright. Adam and I went back inside, and a few seconds later Freezer followed and started to twine himself around Adam’s legs, mewing hungrily.

  ‘I think I can give him some tuna, just this once, don’t you?’ Adam said.

  ‘I think you probably can,’ I replied, and took myself off upstairs to get ready.

  I definitely didn’t have time to paint my nails, I decided – I’d just take off the chipped polish that had been on all week. My face pack could work its magic while I did that. But first I needed a shower.

  An hour before I was due to meet Felicity, I was standing in my bedroom in my pants, hair and make-up done, surrounded by half my wardrobe. I’d rejected the silver-grey jumpsuit I’d worn on my first date with Renzo, for obvious reasons. The red dress I’d worn on our last night together was out, too – I didn’t even bother taking it off its hanger. But nothing else I owned seemed right.

  The weight I’d lost meant that my hipbones jutted unattractively, spoiling the line of my favourite black mini-dress. I was too pale, even with all the bronzer I’d slapped on, for my backless white shift. More than anything, I realised, I wanted to put on my pyjamas, make a cup of tea and spend the evening on the sofa. More than anything, that is, except seeing Renzo.

  In the end, I settled for a tuxedo dress I’d bought in my sales haul thinking it would be suitab
le for work, but which had turned out to be ridiculously short and cut almost down to my waist in the front. Then I spent a few minutes dithering over black bra, leopard-print bra or no bra before throwing caution to the wind and going without. I added pointy, high-heeled ankle boots and dangly earrings, and I was ready to go, although I didn’t feel it.

  In the taxi on the way, I stalked Renzo online more avidly than I had for days. His Twitter feed was boringly impersonal, taken up with musings about the state of the markets. (‘Critical blow to Goldilocks thesis in Q2 as sequential average unit value growth stalls’. No, me neither.)

  He hadn’t posted on Facebook since a generic Happy New Year message on the first of January – or possibly he had, but had put me on a limited profile. There was no way to tell, but at least I hadn’t been blocked or defriended, which was some comfort.

  His Instagram was more fruitful, in a masochistic way at least. I scrolled through views of snowy mountains from his skiing holiday, the wine list at a restaurant he’d been to, a car a friend of his had bought. There were no pictures of women, apart from a family group of him with his sisters from Christmas Day, which I supposed was something.

  I scrolled back up to his most recent posts, and as I did so, a new one appeared: a cocktail glass full of clear liquid which I guessed must be dry martini, because there was an olive in it, too. But I wasn’t looking at the drink – I was looking at the background, which I instantly recognised from the Cuckoo Club website. He’d turned up. He hadn’t changed his mind.

  In just a few minutes – if the bloody cab driver would hurry up – I’d be in the same room as him. I’d have my chance to talk to him and make everything all right.

  Felicity and Pru were already at our table when I arrived. Felicity was wearing a skin-tight zebra-print dress with sheer mesh insets, her amazing boobs spilling out over the top. Her hair was straightened into a perfect sheet of shiny black. Her face was impeccably highlighted and contoured; her lipstick was an on-trend matte coral and her eyelash extensions were so long they cast actual shadows over her cheekbones.