We Just Clicked: Fall in love with the most hilarious and heart-warming rom-com of the year!

by Anna Bell

  ‘Here’s the ice,’ said Ben, rushing over and putting it down in front of me.

  He grabbed my hand and plunged it into the water.

  ‘Bloody hell, that’s cold,’ I said, wincing in pain as my hand started to go numb. ‘How long have I got to keep it in there?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said, still panicked. ‘Until it comes off?’

  He turned and noticed Cameron, who was sitting there mute.

  ‘Cameron, this is my brother Ben, Ben this is my boyfriend Cameron, or at least I think he’s still my boyfriend, but he’s definitely nowhere near being my fiancé,’ I said.

  They muttered a hello and shook hands, both distracted: Ben by the ring stuck on my finger, Cameron by the conversation we’d just had.

  I pulled my hand out of the glass and, much to my and Ben’s relief, the ring came off my finger.

  Ben cradled it like a newborn baby, wrapping it up in his T-shirt and drying it carefully before depositing it back in the box and in the safety of his backpack.

  ‘So it’s your ring?’ Tiffany said to Ben, with obvious relief.

  ‘Yes, and I think I’d better take it home before anything else happens to it,’ he said, downing the rest of his cider. ‘Do you mind, Izzy?’

  ‘Of course not,’ I said lying.

  I got up and gave him a quick hug and he said a quick goodbye to the others before leaving, clutching his bag.

  It was the last time I ever saw him.

  Two weeks after the pub incident I was on my way to work when my phone rang. My mum’s number flashed up and at first I thought she’d phoned me by mistake because it was so early. When I picked up there was a rustling sound on the line, and I was about to hang up when I realised it was Mum sobbing. Eventually my dad took the phone from her, and when he spoke I barely recognised his voice. It was so quiet and soft, nothing like his usual boom.

  ‘Izzy, are you sitting down? Something awful’s happened to Ben.’

  I’d immediately started to witter on about an accident and asking if he was in hospital when Dad went quiet. He didn’t need to tell me the next bit; I knew from his tone that Ben had died.

  The world started to spin and my body and mind seemed to drift away from each other. I could hear Dad telling me details and words jumped out at me – cardiac arrest… arrhythmia… in his sleep – but I couldn’t absorb any of it. I was too numb to take it all in, too numb to be able to say anything other than I was coming home.

  I was near Paddington, and so I jumped on a train to Reading in the hope of changing from there to Basingstoke. It’s not a route I’d usually take going home but I couldn’t face travelling across London in rush hour. I went into some sort of a survival mode, putting one foot in front of the other and was amazed to find myself on the right train.

  I managed to hold it together until I got to Reading and then it hit me – like slapped me in the face as if a freight train had hit me – and I found myself stranded at the station not knowing how I was going to find my connecting train. All I could think was that Ben was gone and that I’d never see him again.

  My legs started to wobble and my phone slid out of my hands, and I couldn’t stop myself from falling.

  ‘Whoa, there,’ said a man, catching me under my arms and keeping me upright. ‘Are you all right?’

  My head was throbbing and my legs had gone to jelly.

  ‘Are you all right?’ he said again, but it felt like it was coming from somewhere distant.

  He continued to hold onto me and I took a moment to look at him. He was dressed in a smart blue shirt that matched his eyes.

  ‘Do you speak English?’ he said, elongating every word and speaking very loudly.

  ‘I, um, yes,’ I said, confused.

  ‘Sorry, you weren’t answering me and I thought… Look, are you OK? Is there someone I could call?’

  I shook my head. There really wasn’t. Cameron was on a business trip to New York, I’d planned to call him when I got to my parents’ house. There was no rush; it was the middle of the night there and it wasn’t like he’d be able to do anything from there. I thought back to the one and only time that Cameron had met my brother and my heart started to ache about it – my last afternoon with Ben. ‘I’m on my way to my mum and dad’s and I… I don’t know where the platform is for Basingstoke.’

  A breeze whistled through the station and my curls blew into my face. I’d left the house with them wet, I’d planned on putting my hair up at some point on my journey, but I’d forgotten and they’d dried out of control.

  ‘Your mum and dad,’ said the man kindly, ‘in Basingstoke. OK, OK, we can do that.’

  He looked up and scanned the departures board. I couldn’t believe that I’d been standing so close and I hadn’t noticed it. My mind felt full of fog.

  ‘OK, so Platform 4 at 9.52, you’ve got ten minutes. I’ll take you there,’ he said.

  I closed my eyes and I was flooded with relief.

  ‘Thank you, I…’ I took another deep breath. ‘Just thank you.’

  ‘It’s no problem, really. Um, OK, can you stand on your own, do you think? You look a bit unsteady.’

  ‘I think so,’ I said, focusing on breathing in and out.

  He pulled his arms away from me slowly and I successfully proved that I could stand on two feet, much to both our amazement. My hair blew in my face again, and I scraped it out of the way the best I could, but curls kept getting stuck on my tear-stained cheeks.

  ‘Now,’ he said, pulling the hair band off my wrist. ‘This looks like it’s bothering you.’

  He scooped my curls up into the messiest topknot ever, but in that split second I was just so grateful that he’d got them away from my face. I stared down at the red ring the band had left on my wrist, wondering why I didn’t remember I had it there in the first place.

  He bent down and retrieved my phone and wrinkled his face.

  ‘It’s a little cracked,’ he said, handing it to me. I slipped it into my handbag without looking.

  ‘Least of my worries,’ I said, and he nodded.

  ‘Let’s get you on that train.’

  He steered me by the elbow towards a platform, taking care not to rush me, as I tried desperately to hold the floodgates of emotions shut.

  The man walked me halfway along a platform and he continued to hold my elbow until the train arrived, like he was propping me up. It was only when he escorted me onto it that I noticed he wasn’t leaving.

  ‘Your train,’ I said in protest. ‘You don’t have to take me to Basingstoke.’

  He guided me to a seat, and sat down on the one next to me.

  ‘It’s fine, I can catch a later one. I just want to make sure you get there safely. That’s all.’

  ‘But really, I’ll be fine,’ I said, trying to hold back the tears.

  ‘You’re not fine, and you don’t have to be either,’ he said. ‘I’ll make sure you get to your mum and dad’s. Do they live near the station, or do you need a taxi?’

  ‘Taxi,’ I just about managed. His kindness was starting to make me choke up.

  ‘OK, then I’ll make sure you get in one.’

  I stopped protesting and nodded and then the tears started to fall. I cried all over his blue shirt and he sat there patiently passing me napkins that he’d nabbed from the buffet trolley.

  I didn’t even realise we’d reached our final destination until he gently guided me out of the seat and led me out of the doors. I walked down the stairs into the tunnel to the main entrance, not caring what an absolute state I must have looked like.

  I found my ticket and put it into the machine on autopilot and he followed me through the barrier using the ticket he’d purchased on the train. Then he led me to the black cabs waiting outside the station.

  ‘Are you OK from here?’ he asked, helping me inside the cab.

  I nodded back, ‘I am.’

  He leant into the front of the cab and handed the driver a £20 note, asking him to take me to w
here I needed to go.

  ‘She hasn’t been drinking, has she? I don’t want to clear up any sick,’ said the driver.

  ‘No,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘She’s just had a really awful start to the day.’

  He turned to me and smiled with his head tilted.

  ‘I’m so sorry for whatever’s happened to you,’ he practically whispered.

  ‘Thank you. Thank you for everything,’ I stuttered. It didn’t seem adequate for what he’d done.

  He shrugged his shoulders. ‘It’s what anyone would have done.’

  ‘I don’t even know your name.’

  ‘Aidan,’ he said softly.

  ‘Thank you, Aidan,’ I said.

  ‘You take care,’ he said, stepping out of the car and gently closing the door.

  ‘Where to, love?’ asked the taxi driver.

  I gave him my parents’ address and he pulled out into the road. I turned back and looked at Aidan standing there on the pavement. He waved and I waved back. But then I remembered that Ben had gone and the rest of the journey became a blur.

  Two Years Later

  Welcome to May

  This_Izzy_Loves IGTV

  No. followers: 15.3k

  Hello! I’m back. Sorry to those who missed me over the last couple of days. I was away with my family and we chose to stay offline – I know, I KNOW! But I survived and I had lots of time to think up wonderful things that I’m going to put up on my feed this month. Can’t wait to share it all with you – including hopefully a great brand collaboration. Keeping all my fingers and toes crossed, and wrapped in plastic – wink.

  Chapter 1

  There are many ridiculous things I have done in the name of ‘the Gram’. Walking past restaurants that I know have mouthwateringly delicious meals only to eat at mediocre places because their food is more photogenic. Standing alone on the South Bank posing like I’m in Britain’s Next Top Model whilst discreetly pressing the remote for my camera. Maxing out my credit card to bring home an ideal #OutfitOfTheDay wardrobe only to take all the items back after I’d snapped myself in them. But being wrapped up in three 20m rolls of clingfilm in an attempt to snare a lucrative marketing campaign probably takes the biscuit.

  ‘Are we sure this is a good idea?’ I ask, staring at the rolls of clingfilm in Marissa’s hands like they’re a deadly weapon.

  ‘It’s a great idea, it’s going to be fantastic,’ she says. Of course she’d say that; she came up with it. ‘It is the perfect Halloween costume and probably the easiest one.’

  ‘Do you think people will get that I’m one of Dexter’s victims? Is it too old a TV programme?’

  She tuts dismissively and walks closer towards me. She’s so keen to get me wrapped up in this plastic that if she wasn’t my best friend that I’ve known for practically my whole life, I’d be worried that she was actually trying to bump me off Dexter-style.

  ‘OK, hold tight,’ she says, a glint in her eye.

  I know that there’s no point in protesting. The only positive I can think of right now is that it might warm me up. I’m standing here in a skin-coloured strapless bra and giant knickers, shivering. I’d turned the heating down thinking that I’d be far too warm when wearing my new plastic fantastic outfit. I hadn’t factored in the pre-wrapped stage.

  Marissa starts to pass the plastic round and round and it starts to get tighter and tighter.

  ‘Do you think it’s actually safe? Are you sure I can’t suffocate?’

  ‘Come on, we checked this. Google never lies, right?’

  ‘Did we google that specifically? “Can I die from a clingfilm costume?” Maybe we should have used the American brand name. What do they call it, it’s something-wrap isn’t it?’

  ‘Saran wrap,’ says Marissa, bending down to start wrapping up my waist.

  I go to reach for my phone to check and Marissa slaps my hand away.

  ‘It’s not like you’re going to be covered in it for long. We only need to take a few photos.’

  ‘A few photos?’ I laugh.

  It makes it sound like one or two, but to get the one golden shot we usually take fifty or sixty. Luckily Marissa’s a fellow Instagrammer so we go above and beyond classic best friend duties by being each other’s stylist, muse, photographer, editor and number one fan.

  Our friendship has always been mutually supportive. At fourteen, when I joined the school choir, Marissa did too, despite being tone deaf. At sixteen, when she went all goth I dyed my hair black and boiled all summer long in black velvet dresses. At eighteen, when I wanted a Chinese symbol on the small of my back before I went to university, Marissa not only held my hand but got a matching one on hers too. So when Ben died and I moved back to my hometown of Basingstoke with a serious Instagram addiction, it wasn’t long before we fell into our old pattern and she became an addict too.

  ‘OK, here we go,’ she says, bending down and wrapping my bum. ‘We’re getting there. How are you feeling?’

  ‘Like I’m in a straitjacket.’

  ‘Perfect. It’s looking great.’

  She switches to a new roll.

  ‘We’re going through them quickly,’ I say. ‘Is my bum really that big?’

  ‘It is a lot of plastic, isn’t it?’ she says.

  ‘Oh crap, do you think I’ll get in trouble? Will the brand call me irresponsible?’

  Marissa stops and stares at the empty rolls on the floor. ‘Shit, I hadn’t thought about that.’

  We both look down at my costume.

  ‘The thing is, if you stop now and don’t post this then we’ll have used these rolls anyway and that would be worse,’ she says.

  ‘You’re right. It’s not like I can reuse it,’ I say.

  ‘No, you don’t want to be covering any more chicken fillets with them,’ says Marissa, laughing.

  ‘I’ll have you know these are real,’ I say, looking down at my chest that’s flattened like a pancake and could actually do with something to pad it out.

  She carries on and I hope that I don’t lose out on the contract because of a misjudgement in green credentials.

  Finally she stands back. ‘You’re all finished,’ she says, taking a snap of me on her iPhone to show me.

  ‘Wow, that actually looks pretty good,’ I say.

  ‘Now for the blood,’ she practically cackles. My eyes widen as she slips on an apron, much too like the real Dexter for my liking.

  ‘What?’ she says. ‘I don’t want to get any on my jeans.’

  Marissa signals for me to lie on the plastic sheeting that we’ve covered my very white lounge with whilst she stirs the lumpy cocoa powder and food dye paste like a witch stirring a cauldron. She bends down and expertly applies the fake blood to my stomach.

  ‘Now the duct tape,’ she says, taping my arms above my head. ‘And the knife,’ she says, whipping one out from her handbag.

  ‘What the—’ I shout until I realise there’s no glint on it and it’s quite clearly plastic.

  ‘Can you believe they still make these?’ she says, pushing the fake blade into my stomach, causing the blade to retract into the handle.

  ‘I haven’t seen one of those since primary school. I don’t think that’d be allowed in the playground anymore.’

  ‘Not likely,’ she says, taping the handle to my stomach as discreetly as she can.

  ‘I think you’re done,’ she says, pulling over the tripod. ‘You ready?’

  ‘Uh-huh.’

  ‘OK, pull some scared faces,’ she says as she starts clicking.

  She takes a couple of shots and then looks down at the camera and pulls it off the tripod.

  ‘I think it looks pretty good. I’m so going to do this for my costume when it’s actually Halloween.’

  I stare at her emerging bump.

  ‘Erm, you do realise that you’re going to be eight months pregnant by then.’

  ‘Oh yeah,’ she says, looking down at her stomach. ‘I guess that would be way too much plastic.’


  ‘Yep, that’s the problem with this costume for a pregnant woman.’

  ‘What do you reckon?’ she asks, holding the camera above my head so that I can see the photo.

  ‘I love it. But I should have duct tape over my mouth too, don’t you think?’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yeah, just don’t stick it down too hard!’

  Receiving a message from an agency representing a well-known supermarket was like a dream come true. They’re looking for influencers on Instagram to pitch them ideas for Halloween posts – the caveat being you have to come up with a costume from products you can buy in store. And with a little help from Marissa, who was insanely jealous that I got asked and she didn’t, I came up with a killer concept in all sense of the word. I’m just hoping it’s enough to win me the campaign. It would be so on brand for me – my theme is all about affordable lifestyle.

  My Instagram following has been growing over the last three years and I’m just teetering on the edge of starting to earn good money for sponsored posts. I desperately hope that soon I’ll make enough that my monthly earnings go into triple figures. In my wildest dreams I get caught up in fantasies that I’ll be able to earn enough to give up the temp job I took when I moved back to Basingstoke or at the very least move out of the little flat I now share with Ben’s ex-fiancée Becca and its mouldy bathroom, but right now I’d settle for making more from an ad than the cost of the props involved, which in this case (clingfilm, cocoa powder, food dye and plastic knife) is probably about fifteen quid.

  Marissa rips a strip of tape and places it gently over my mouth.

  ‘OK?’

  I go to nod but realise that I’m restrained and instead I blink twice, hoping she’ll pick up on the new code.

  ‘Right then.’

  My phone on the table starts to buzz and ring loudly. Only two people ring my phone: salespeople and my mum.

  Marissa peers over at it. ‘It’s your mum,’ she says and without hesitation picks it up.

  ‘Hello, Dawn, I’m afraid Izzy’s a bit tied up at the moment and I mean that literally… No, unfortunately I’m not being cheeky, it’s not a man who’s tied her up… No, she’s still not dating anyone… No, as far as I know there’s been no one since Cameron… I have suggested that… and that… uh-huh, you know what she’s like.’