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

by Sophie Ranald

  Maybe if I initiated a chat about work, I’d find a way to ask her what she’d been doing in the office that Sunday night, sneaking around as furtively as I’d been.

  ‘Same old, same old,’ Felicity said. ‘His highness threw a strop at Sally because her mood boards were too vanilla. We’ve got to quit using so many coffee capsules or we’ll be going back to instant. And Daria sent out a stroppy email because only, like, three people have signed up for that mentoring thing.’

  So it was going to happen, after all. Daria’s email would be sitting in my own inbox, still unread.

  I opened my mouth to say, ‘Hey, listen, I came into work a few Sundays ago to pick up some stuff, and you were there. What’s going on?’ But I bottled it. I couldn’t ask her without telling her why I’d been there myself, and that would open a can of worms that was definitely best left firmly closed.

  Our food arrived and I forked up some seed-strewn green leaves, while Felicity picked up her burger with both hands and took a massive, squelchy bite. Incredibly, she managed to look both elegant and sexy while she chewed, wiping a smear of guacamole from her chin with her napkin.

  ‘May I have some salt for my fries, please?’ She seemed to have summoned the waitress with the tiniest glance.

  ‘How was Pru’s birthday?’ I asked, folding a kale leaf carefully with my knife and fork before eating it.

  ‘Aww, so fab! Bless her, it was a total surprise. We drank eight bottles of fizz between six of us and then we went on to Loulou’s and someone sent over a bottle of Beluga voddie, so of course we had to have that too. I was hanging so badly next day, I chucked a sickie and didn’t get out of bed for thirty-six hours except to spew some more.’

  I laughed. ‘Sounds like it was fun.’

  ‘It was epic,’ Felicity sprinkled salt liberally over her fries, then picked up five of them in a bunch and put them in her mouth. ‘Anyway, so, I was reeeally pissed. Did I mention I was pissed?’

  ‘You did.’ I wondered where this was going.

  ‘So I don’t remember too much about the actual night. Not after about eleven, anyway. But yesterday, the weirdest thing happened. My phone rang, and it was a new contact that I’d saved without remembering.’

  ‘That must have freaked you out.’ I looked down at my salad and poked it a bit with my fork, spearing a cherry tomato and a cube of tofu.

  ‘It so did! It was, like, surreal. Incoming call from Renzo, and I was, like, I don’t know anyone called Renzo, and then I realised I did.’

  ‘You met him when we were out a couple of weeks ago,’ I said. I tried to smile, but the shape my mouth was making felt more like a snarl.

  ‘Exactly!’ Felicity ate some more of her burger as if nothing untoward was happening at all. ‘So I realised he must have been at Loulou’s that night, too, and asked for my number. And I must have given it to him while I was shitfaced, because obviously normally he’d be off limits, Tans, of course he would.’

  When Adam called me Tans, I didn’t mind – I even quite liked it. But Felicity doing it now – while she was telling me this – was so not okay that it made me think about how it would feel to tip the carafe of cucumber-infused water over her carefully un-done up-do.

  ‘Right,’ I said. ‘But you did. Give him your number, I mean. And he called you.’

  ‘He did. That voice! I can so totally see why you… But anyway. I let it go to voicemail, and I haven’t rung him back, because of course I would never do that without checking if you were okay with it.’

  I put my knife and fork together on my plate at five o’clock, the way Debbie had told me was the right way, with the prongs of the fork facing upwards.

  ‘Obviously it’s fine! Renzo and I are so over, we’re ancient history. I just want him to be happy. And you too, of course.’

  My voice sounded normal, even though inside I was screaming, No! Forget your stupid pride! Tell her you’re still in love with him and you want him back! Tell her why he dumped you! She’ll understand – she’s your friend!

  ‘Oh, Tans.’ Felicity swooshed the last of her fries through the last of her spicy mayo. ‘I’m so glad I told you this. I’ve been stressing about it so much, but I should have known you’d be cool with it.’

  ‘Of course I am!’ I took a big, determined gulp of cucumber water. ‘On you go! Call him back!’

  ‘Maybe you could be bridesmaid at our wedding!’ Felicity trilled, gesturing for the bill.

  ‘I’d be honoured,’ I said through gritted teeth. ‘Godmother to your first child as well, maybe?’

  She raked a perfectly manicured hand through her fringe and laughed again, like I’d just said the wittiest thing ever.

  ‘Tans, you’re the best. Thanks for being you.’

  ‘Thank you so much for lunch,’ I said, and we walked back to the office with our arms linked, even though it felt like going for an afternoon stroll with a Dementor.

  Nine

  All that afternoon, I tried to focus on work. But I couldn’t: I kept imagining Renzo and Felicity together, his lips brushing her lush, creamy shoulders, his hands around her waist, her dark hair tumbling over his pillow. I hit ‘reply to all’ on an email that should have gone to just the sender, and sent forty people outside Luxeforless a confidential spreadsheet. I spilled water all over the meeting room table, soaking my poor supplier’s grey wool trousers. I kept having to go to the loo and cry.

  Although I had loads to do and had been planning on staying late to catch up, when five thirty came I shut down my computer, picked up my bag and left as fast as my legs would carry me. There was no point in staying – no point in anything, really. I just wanted to go home, get into bed and hide there until I had to get up and face the world again.

  Tempting as it was, I didn’t call in sick the next day. I had too much to do, and too much to lose. But I did find myself running horribly late, because not only did I oversleep and take twice as long as normal to hide the dark rings under my eyes, but the Tube stitched me up by being out of order, so I had to get a bus to Bethnal Green and then a different line from there.

  The bus took me past Roman Road, and I remembered that I needed to get in touch with Chelsea soon. I’ll take a look at some numbers over the weekend, I promised myself, so I can have an idea in my head about the prospects for her business before speaking to her. Then I had a better idea – a much better idea.

  I bought a coffee on my way into the office, mindful of Barri’s orders to cut down on Nespresso consumption, and it was almost ten before I got to my desk. Felicity hadn’t arrived yet, but Kris and Sally were there already, looking intently at their screens and tapping on their keyboards.

  I opened my emails, resolving to spend an hour working through the messages I hadn’t had time to read and respond to the previous day. Quickly, before my courage could desert me, I sent a message to Lisa saying that I’d discovered a really exciting young designer, and I’d love to have a chat about potentially listing her collection on Luxeforless.

  And then I opened the Gmail account that I used for my personal stuff, just, you know, in case.

  I had twenty new messages in my promotions folder, all of which I deleted unread, tempting as it was to check out the new offers from Boohoo, Missguided, The Outnet and all the rest of them.

  There was only one new message in my main inbox, from debbievalentine73@hotmail.com. Just seeing her name made me smile – it felt like a hug from the other side of the world, right when I most needed one. Debbie rarely emailed, but when she did her messages were long and chatty, full of gossip about people I’d never meet. I always tried to reply in a similar vein, which meant I wouldn’t have time to write back until I was at home that evening. Still, I’d allow myself to read her email at least, and then I’d settle down to some proper work.

  My dear Tansy

  I’m writing this sitting on my balcony, drinking a glass of chardonnay and watching the sun set. There are two crested pigeons on the balustrade, having a good old flirt. The m
ale keeps puffing up his chest and cooing longingly at the female, and she coos back, then flutters a little way away so he has to flutter after her and carry on the seduction process.

  But enough of the pigeon erotica!

  It’s been such a glorious summer here. I’ve been going to outdoor yoga classes in the park, and in spite of wearing factor 50 sunblock every day I’ve got really brown. Josh has been surfing every day, when he’s not practising or playing gigs, and his hair is almost white-blond from the sun. Do you remember that Sun-in stuff, or are you too young? When I was a teenager we all used to spray it on our hair and then sit outside, and after a week or so your hair might have lightened a few shades, but it would be like straw and full of split ends. Happy days!

  I’ve been on a few dates with Ben, a bloke from my wine-tasting group. He’s good-looking and funny, and I do like him a lot, but I’m not sure whether I’m ready to ramp things up in terms of seriousness. I’ve been single for so long, you know, I’m quite used to not having a man in my life, and the idea of having to cook and clean for anyone other than Josh seems like a bit too much of a commitment!

  Which brings me to the reason for this email. You know how when I moved out here, I always said I knew Josh might decide Australia wasn’t for him, or just feel the need to spread his wings a bit? Secretly, of course, I hoped he’d stay forever, but I suspected wanderlust would get the better of him sooner or later. He’s been travelling quite a bit over the past few years, seeing lots of New Zealand and South East Asia, and even spent a couple of months in South America with friends, but he always came home to me.

  Now, though, he says he’s ready for a bit of a longer-term adventure. It’s partly because the band is splitting up. Nicola wants to pursue a solo career, apparently. Will’s decided he needs to grow up and put that law degree of his to some use, and Amber’s been offered a job in Singapore. It feels like the end of an era! Almost seven years, they’ve all been together, since they started The Pollinators while they were at uni, and I guess they’ve all realised that if they were going to get a big break it would have happened by now, and of course in the meantime Josh has managed to make a living producing other bands, and he sees that as his real career now.

  Anyway, to cut a long story short, Josh has decided the time has come for him to return to the UK and spend some time working in London. He’s hoping he’ll be able to find freelance production work, or get some gigs as a session musician, but of course he won’t have an actual job lined up when he arrives, which will make finding a place to stay a bit tricky, especially judging by what you’ve told me about the property rental market there!

  So I wanted to ask you, as a huge favour to an old friend, if it would be possible for him to stay with you for a bit, just until he finds his feet? He has money saved up, so he’ll be able to pay his way, I promise!

  Do let me know what you think.

  Debbie had been so kind to me, and so much of the modest success I’d achieved in my career was thanks to her, that saying no to her request was out of the question. But oh my God. I couldn’t have Josh Valentine as a housemate. Not after everything. I couldn’t. The idea made me go cold with horror.

  Almost as cold as Barri’s voice, right behind my left shoulder, saying, ‘Got a minute, Tansy?’ Lisa was hovering expectantly next to him. Shit. Already I was regretting the email I’d sent with such enthusiasm half an hour before. Already I wished I’d been less effusive, less keen to big myself up as the person who’d discovered the new genius young designer who would be the talk of London Fashion Week in a couple of seasons and maybe even grace the cover of Vogue.

  But I believed in Chelsea, and I was desperate for Barri and Lisa to see what I saw in her designs: not just her talent, but her grit and determination, too. I wanted them to meet the girl I’d seen on Roman Road, truculent to the point of rudeness, but so passionate about her work she wouldn’t even let a customer try on a dress she wasn’t certain would suit her.

  So I snatched my phone up off my desk and, following Lisa and Barri to the meeting room, I quickly scrolled through my Instagram to Chelsea’s feed. It wasn’t much – the quality of the photos wasn’t professional or anything – but I hoped it would be enough to persuade them that she was at least worth a second look.

  Barri sat down at the head of the table. Lisa perched in the seat to his right and opened her laptop. I sat on his other side, fighting back a sneeze as his cologne invaded my sinuses. It was something weirdly sweet and feminine – fruity, almost – and I felt a brief pang of longing for the mossy, musky aftershave Renzo wore.

  ‘So,’ Barri said, raising a perfectly threaded eyebrow in a manner that clearly indicated that this had better be good. ‘You’ve discovered the next Sarah Burton, have you?’

  I gave what I hoped was a composed, professional smile, remembering the advice Debbie had given me all those years ago about dealing with difficult customers: Aim to please, but always manage expectations. Barri wasn’t a customer, but God only knew he was difficult.

  ‘I might not put it quite that strongly,’ I said. ‘But I think she has talent, yes. I think there’s something here we could work with.’

  I explained how Chelsea repurposed reclaimed garments into creations of her own, and how she seemed to have a real gift for making women feel and look amazing. I waffled on a bit about how I knew Luxeforless saw itself as an incubator for talent, and mentioned Guillermo Hernandez and the big break we’d given him, even though privately I thought he was about as talented as my left sock, which had a hole in it that had been annoying me all day as my toe poked through it into the coldness of my boot. I talked about how sustainability was increasingly an issue in fashion, and how a high percentage of plastic waste in our marine ecology was the result of disposable, polyester-based clothing. I cited some research I’d found that said twenty-five per cent of women believed turning up at an event and seeing someone else wearing the same dress was the most socially awkward thing that had ever happened to them, and that Chelsea’s unique creations would address that sector of the market.

  If I say so myself, I really gave it some.

  So much so that Barri’s first, snide comment was, ‘Are you telling me how to do my job?’

  Inwardly, I flinched. Outwardly, I hoped my positive-but-not-hyper face didn’t waver.

  ‘Of course not,’ I said. ‘I’m the ladies’ formalwear buyer. This is my job.’

  It was quite a zinger, and it hit home – but not in the way I’d intended.

  Barri raised both eyebrows this time. ‘Oooh,’ he said. ‘Isn’t that me told?’

  Fuck. I’d antagonised him. Instead of being assertive, I’d been confrontational. I could feel my chances of selling the concept to him sliding out of my grasp as swiftly and surely as spaghetti slipping off a fork when there’s loads of olive oil on it and you don’t know how to do that windey thing with a spoon – and I knew exactly how that felt, because it had happened to me once, mortifyingly, over dinner with Renzo.

  ‘Let’s take a look at her work, anyway.’ Lisa tried to defuse the situation.

  With a grateful smile at her, I tapped my phone to life and put it on the table between them.

  ‘I saw this dress being sold,’ I said. ‘The customer was in love with it. She’d have paid fifty per cent more for it, no problem. And look at this – customised denim. It’s retro, kind of nineties but also so now. Every piece she makes is unique, a one-off in terms of design and fabrication. Take this bridal gown, made of vintage wedding dresses. When you think of the environmental impact of yards and yards of silk only being worn once—’

  ‘Tat,’ Barri said. ‘Tchotchkes. Are we running a high-end online boutique here, Tansy, or an Oxfam shop? You tell me, since you know the business so well.’

  I opened my mouth to protest, but Lisa intervened.

  ‘Do you feel this chimes with any of the current trends we’ve identified?’

  It didn’t. Not really. It wasn’t boho, or eighties struct
ured tailoring, or athleisure or utility. It was something different – something I really believed was special.

  ‘Not exactly,’ I said. ‘But must we always be trend-led? Isn’t there a case for making trends, rather than following them?’

  But I already knew I’d lost them. I’d pissed Barri off, and Lisa – no matter how much she talked the talk about supporting her team – knew it and wasn’t going to put her arse on the line alongside mine.

  ‘And what about the supply chain?’ she went on. ‘Where does the fabric come from to produce a proper range? And the manufacture? She makes all these garments herself, right? And the embellishment? Or does she have a lock-up somewhere with people working for her?’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I admitted. ‘But the fabric’s reclaimed. The cost of sourcing it would be close to zero.’

  ‘But you’d have to source it in the first place,’ Lisa said. ‘And the cost of that, and the challenges of scaling the range…’

  She shrugged, and Barri pushed my phone away from him as dismissively as if I’d interrupted our meeting to show him a picture of Freezer the cat.

  I knew it was game over, but I gave it one last shot.

  ‘There are challenges, of course. But surely the benefit of being the first to list an exciting new line would outweigh the drawbacks of having to start from scratch with her supply chain? I mean, we could…’

  I’d run out of steam.

  But it was okay. Barri was on hand to pick up where I’d left off.

  ‘We could tell our majority shareholder we’re donating the entire profit from this financial year to the Cats’ Protection League,’ he said. ‘Or spunking it all on the staff party. Or taking it out of the bank in used fivers and using it for compost. How d’you reckon that would go down, Tansy?’

  I shook my head mutely.

  ‘Like a bucket of cold sick, that’s how,’ Barri said. ‘I’m done here. This girl’s business is entirely unsustainable. The sooner she gets herself a job flipping burgers at McDonald’s, the better.’