Thank You, Next: A perfect, uplifting and funny romantic comedy

by Sophie Ranald

  ‘Maybe they think you’ll be flattered. Maybe they’re trying to show you that reading about how you love Quentin Tarantino movies and halloumi fries has given them the raging horn.’

  ‘God, the idea of halloumi fries is giving me the raging horn right now,’ Dani said. ‘I’m always starving after a workout. I could totally inhale an entire portion of those bad boys to myself and move on to potato wedges and it wouldn’t touch the sides.’

  ‘Oh my God, potato wedges.’ I levered myself to my feet, waited a second to make sure my legs would actually hold me up, and took a gulp from my water bottle. ‘We’ve got them on the menu in the pub tonight – it’s burger night. The punters will be lucky if there are any left once I get my hands on them.’

  ‘It’s protein you need after a heavy workout, you know, ladies,’ said a voice behind us. I turned around and Dani sat up. ‘You’ve heard about the thermic effect, right? The calories burned in protein metabolism are twenty to thirty per cent higher than when metabolising carbs and fats. Plus proteins trigger the release of satiety-inducing hormones in the brain’s hypothalamus, while inhibiting the release of ghrelin, the hunger hormone.’

  Normally, I’d have rolled my eyes at the tedious inevitability of having fitness mansplained to me by some random dude in the gym. But I couldn’t roll my eyes now, mostly because they were in danger of popping out of my head. Not because the man who’d spoken was hot – although objectively he was: six foot two of pure, rippling muscle, with an elaborate sleeve tattoo wrapping around one bulging bicep, tousled dark brown hair and Hollywood-perfect teeth – but because of who he was.

  Fabian Flatley. The same Fabian Flatley who’d made a bid to purchase the Ginger Cat last year, wanting to close it down and turn it into luxury apartments. In the end there’d been a massive scandal over his tech start-up squirrelling away funds in the Cayman Islands to avoid taxes, as well as dodgy quality and extortionate service charges in the apartment blocks he’d already built (never mind his habit of talking loudly on his mobile in the gym, which as far as I was concerned should have carried a custodial sentence), and he’d disappeared to San Francisco, where I’d assumed he still was.

  But he wasn’t. He was here, and he was bad news.

  ‘That’s really interesting,’ Dani was saying. ‘So if you eat, like, an egg, that’s got the same number of calories as a piece of toast, you basically get fewer calories from the egg?’

  ‘Correct,’ Fabian said, squatting down next to her and taking out his phone. ‘There was a great article about it recently in Fitness magazine. Why don’t you give me your number and I’ll WhatsApp you a link?’

  ‘That would be great! I’d be really interested to read that,’ Dani said, reciting her number, although I knew she was as likely to read an article about calories as The Complete Works of William Shakespeare.

  I hesitated. I could hang around, wait for Fabian to go away and carry on sweating all over the weights bench, which he never wiped down after he’d used it, and warn Dani to give him a wide berth. Probably it was what I should have done.

  But he didn’t look like he was going to make himself scarce any time soon; he’d stretched his legs out on the mat next to Dani and was settling in for a good old chat about whey-powder shakes (yawn). Also, his presence was making me feel really weird – almost like there was some kind of force field coming off him that was interfering with the signals in my brain, or I was allergic to his super-strong piney deodorant. And anyway, I needed to get back to work.

  ‘I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’ I said to Dani, who gave me a half-wave before turning back to Fabian, as mesmerised as a mouse watching a snake that was about to swallow it whole. I’d have to warn her about him – although, from the way she was looking at him, I wasn’t sure she would listen to me.

  I hurried back to the pub, showered and changed in my upstairs flat, and was back in the kitchen with plenty of time to get ready for evening service. But I didn’t start shaping the burgers and frying the onions. Instead I pushed open the door to the pub and went to look for Alice.

  It was a strange thing. Last year, after I’d unexpectedly encountered Joe after so many years and he – with a good-hearted obliviousness to other people’s darker feelings that was typical of him – had offered me their spare room when I told him I had nowhere to live, I’d seen Alice as a rival. I’d persuaded her to give me the job at the Ginger Cat not just because I saw the potential the pub had, but because it was another way to get closer to Joe. But over the months we’d worked together, I’d got to know Alice as a person. She loved the pub and the community it served. Together, we’d fought off the threat from Fabian Flatley and worked our butts off to make the Ginger Cat the thriving business it was now. And during the course of all that, I’d realised Joe and Alice were rock solid and I would never be able to come between them – not that I wanted to, any more – and come to regard her as a friend.

  And so, now, I was going to mention that I’d seen Fabian again. Just, you know, in case.

  At first I couldn’t see her, then she straightened up from behind the bar, where I guessed she must have been checking the stock in the wine fridges. Her hair was scraped back in a ponytail, there was a smear of dust on her cheek and a pencil behind her ear, and she looked stressed and knackered. For a second I wondered whether this was a good time to bring up Fabian Flatley’s reappearance, but then I was pretty sure there never would be a good time.

  ‘Hey, Alice. How’s it going?’

  ‘God, it’s been the day from hell. The beer order hasn’t turned up and the Wi-Fi’s been down and one of the kids in the mums and tots group puked all over the carpet this morning. And I’ve got a meeting with the bank tomorrow to discuss our mortgage and I haven’t had a second to get the figures in order. And, worst of all, bloody Drew’s let me down.’

  Okay, so maybe now wasn’t the best time. Alice’s brother had worked in the pub for a few months, and still played an active role in organising the packed calendar of social events. Everyone loved him, but everyone – including or maybe especially Alice – knew that he was about as reliable as a plastic chip pan.

  ‘What’s Drew done?’

  ‘You know the fantasy role-playing game night he was meant to be organising? Nerd central, but we’ve had quite a lot of interest.’

  ‘The Dungeons & Dragons game? It’s been in my diary for ages. I’m taking the night off, remember, so I can join in. I’ve wanted to play D&D for ages, ever since I saw it on Stranger Things. The nerd is strong in me. Eight weeks on Tuesday, right?’

  ‘That was the plan. Only now Drew’s gone and had a poem he wrote long-listed for some award, and the ceremony is guess when?’

  ‘Eight weeks on Tuesday?’

  ‘Correct. I mean, obviously I’m thrilled for him, but he was going to be the Dungeon Master and apparently you really need to know what you’re doing and understand the rules and stuff, and I don’t, and even if I had time to learn them, which I don’t either, it’s got to be the same person every time, apparently, so you can get to know the players’ characters and everything. So he can’t do it – not ever.’

  ‘Can’t we put off the first game?’

  ‘We could, I guess, but we’ve been promoting it on our social media and we’ve already got people signed up and they’re really keen and you know how I hate letting customers down. And we planned the social events calendar so carefully so there was a good mix of stuff and nothing clashed. Zoë, I don’t suppose you could…?’

  I felt a familiar twist of guilt. Alice was my boss and my friend, but she hadn’t always been. Before, she’d been the woman whose boyfriend I was in love with. The Zoë who’d behaved that way seemed almost like a stranger now, but I could still clearly remember the doubt and confusion in Alice’s face when she’d seen – and how could she not have; I hadn’t exactly been subtle about it – that I still had feelings for Joe.

  But still, however much I wanted to help Alice, I was pretty sure that runn
ing a Dungeons & Dragons game when I’d never even played it was beyond my limited skill set. I thought of the multifaceted, sparkly dice in the box that Drew had bought, the innumerable variables of character attributes and monster lethalness and treasure value I’d have to get my head around – all while I was trying to have a life and actually date people.

  ‘Leave it with me,’ I said. ‘I can’t do it myself, but I’ll try and find someone who can.’

  Every day for the next couple of weeks, my first thought on waking in the morning was, ‘Shit, I need to try and get a Dungeon Master sorted for Alice.’ But it didn’t happen. Partly, this was because I had no idea where to even start looking for one. I mean, there’s not a Dungeon Masters’ college, is there? And it’s not like you could ask the JobCentre to advertise for one, like I did when I was recruiting Robbie. I posted on my Instagram asking about it and got nothing beyond a few random likes – far fewer than when I posted pictures of Frazzle. Clearly, accumulating a following made up of cat lovers and foodies had been a major tactical error and I should have gone after the hardcore nerds who used hashtags like #pathfinder and #instarpg.

  So every day, I moved the notification in my calendar a day forward, and every day nothing happened.

  It didn’t help that work was crazy busy – it was half-term and the pub was packed with groups of mums (and sometimes dads) bringing their kids in for breakfast in the mornings before heading off to the park, the lunchtime regulars, and bigger throngs than usual in the evenings, because the weather was fine enough for us to set up a barbecue in the tiny beer garden. Robbie, wearing a stripy butcher’s apron and tall white chef’s hat, clearly thought he was the dog’s bollocks and wouldn’t let me have any say in his mysterious marinades, sauces and skewers, so I was stuck in the kitchen keeping the regular menu ticking over. I began to think that maybe it was time to employ another sous-chef, before I remembered that there was barely room for two of us in the Ginger Cat’s cramped galley kitchen.

  And it didn’t help, either, that my phone kept pinging with notifications from Tinder. I tried to be methodical about it, checking in every morning, swiping left on lots of people and right on a few, responding to the messages that came in (unless they had pictures of penises in them, which many did – by the time I’d been doing this a couple of months, I reckoned, I’d have quite the collection, enough to open a gallery or maybe publish a glossy coffee-table book) and sending a few new messages of my own.

  But the process took ages. I mean, like, ages. Looking at guys’ profiles and trying to think of interested-sounding questions to ask them, weeding out the ones who appeared normal but within a couple of messages revealed themselves to be pervs. (‘Do you do that thing where you cross your legs and dangle your shoe off your toes?’ asked one. I mean, come on. I’m as broad-minded as the next person, but I was pretty sure I wasn’t in the market for a foot fetishist.) Then trying not to keep checking over and over again and not feel hurt when ones who seemed normal and nice descended into total radio silence when I suggested actually meeting up. Not to mention that, under my self-imposed rules, I had to rule out all the ones whose star sign wasn’t right.

  So I was relieved when schools went back, a week of solid rain was forecast, Robbie was able to return to his usual post in the kitchen and the daily rhythm of the pub, from opening time to Maurice and his friends, the local retiree regulars, arriving at eleven for their daily dominoes game, to lunch and on through the afternoon and evening, was able to resume. And, one evening, I stuck my head around the door to check that Robbie had everything under control, because I had the evening off and I was going out.

  His eyes widened when he saw me. ‘You’ve got a date! Oh my God, Zoë, you’ve actually got a date! Your first one!’

  ‘What makes you think that? I could just be meeting a mate for a pizza.’

  ‘Yeah, right. Dressed like that? I don’t think so.’

  ‘Dressed like what? Is it too much?’

  ‘Course not. You look stunning. Just, date-stunning, not meeting-a-mate-for-pizza stunning.’

  I paused, tempted to ask if he was sure, and whether my green midi dress, denim jacket and gingham Converse were too girly, too frumpy, too try-hard or too something else, and whether my hair looked okay or had managed to explode into frizz in the time it had taken me to walk down the stairs.

  But as I was trying to find a way to do that without sounding pathetically needy, Robbie demanded, ‘So who is he? Go on, spill.’

  ‘Just a guy off Tinder.’

  ‘Just a guy off Tinder! Come on, Zoë. That’s not good enough and you know it. Details, please.’

  ‘Okay, okay. His name’s Dominic. He’s thirty-one and he works for a construction company – I don’t know what doing, he could be the MD or a scaffolder or anything in between. Plays football on weekends, has a dog called Rufus, is a Virgo and is decent-looking.’

  ‘Ooooh, I shagged a Rufus once; he was lovely. And a Dominic, now I come to think of it. Let me see his piccy.’

  Reluctantly, I handed him my phone with Dominic’s profile on the screen. I’d looked at his photos often enough to know what Robbie was seeing as he swiped through them: Dominic drinking beer out of a plastic pint glass at a festival, Dominic pressing his face up to his chocolate Labrador’s, Dominic holding his phone up to his bathroom mirror to take a shirtless selfie. Okay, that last one suggested that he might have a bit of a high opinion of himself, but I’d told myself I needed to be open-minded. And besides, anyone with pecs like that was entitled to want to show them off just a bit.

  ‘Hmmm. Bit hairy, isn’t he?’

  ‘I don’t mind hairy. Better than a man who waxes his chest, right?’

  Robbie’s face fell. ‘I wax my chest.’

  Oops. ‘It’s just personal taste,’ I soothed. ‘But I’d better get going or I’ll be late. Full report tomorrow, I promise. Sure you’ll be okay here?’

  Robbie nodded, wished me luck and turned back to the stove, and I hurried out to the station. The evening was cool and fresh after yet another rain shower, and I glanced anxiously up at the sky, wondering if I should have brought an umbrella. But it was a clear, washed-looking blue, with just a few clouds receding to the horizon. A good omen, I told myself.

  Half an hour later, I was perched on a bar stool in a packed central London pub, nervously sipping a glass of white wine and trying not to jump out of my skin every time the door opened, which was often.

  Seven o’clock came, then five past. I glanced at my phone. My Stargazer app had told me that Virgos were meticulously punctual – clearly Dominic hadn’t got that memo. To pass the time, I flicked the app open and turned again to the entry that was meant to tell me what to expect from my date.

  As steady as the earth element that governs this sign, your Virgo fella is hard-working, meticulous, patient and kind. He’s a perfectionist and good with his hands – so maybe a scaffolder, then, not the MD of a construction company. And good with his hands? I could get behind that, depending on where said hands were at the time. The downside? Picky Virgo can be critical and stubborn, prone to overthinking. Well, he was fifteen minutes late already. I’ll give him some bloody criticism when he turns up and let him overthink that, I thought.

  When it comes to intimacy, your virile Virgo is a slow-burner. He waits for love before rushing into a physical relationship, and as a lover he’s caring, romantic and skilful. And did we mention good with his hands?

  That was all very well, but it didn’t mean a row of beans if Mr Meticulous wasn’t going to show up. I checked WhatsApp, my text messages and the Tinder app, but – apart from a couple of new ‘Hey girl’ messages, which I always ignored, and a new dick pic to add to my growing collection – there was nothing. I double-checked the messages we’d exchanged; I was definitely in the right place. And it wasn’t like the pub was called the King’s Head or something, and there might be another half a mile away with the same name. The Horse and Feathers was about as uncommon as pub names
got, possibly even better than the Ginger Cat. It was a pub-name googlewhack.

  My wine glass was empty and I was starting to feel that toe-curling awkwardness you get sitting alone in a bar, like everyone there knows you’re single and your date’s stood you up.

  Maybe, I thought, Dominic was sitting somewhere at a table just a few feet away, waiting for me. Maybe, even though the photos on my profile were all less than eighteen months old, he’d somehow failed to recognise me. Maybe – I died a bit inside at the thought – he’d actually turned up, seen me, and turned right around again and left. I scanned the room again, but there was no stocky dark man sitting alone looking out of place and anxious. No stocky dark man sitting alone at all, in fact.

  Enough, I decided, was enough. It was seven twenty-five. I was done here. I was going to get the train home and see if Robbie could use any help, and if he couldn’t I was going to go up to my flat and get into bed with Frazzle like the sad loser I was.

  No – I wasn’t, I told myself. I was going to pull up my big-girl pants and go to Din Tai Fung, a restaurant right round the corner, and order their famous soup dumplings and eat them by myself, with my head held high, like the strong, independent woman I was. Or the strong independent woman I wished I was. There wouldn’t even be a wait for a table, since there was only one of me. And I was a chef – it was basically research, as opposed to having a meal alone like a saddo.

  I stood up and put my phone in my bag, after giving it a final scan for messages but drawing a blank. With an attempt at nonchalance, I strolled towards the door. I had an hour to kill between a work meeting and cocktails with some of my glamorous, fascinating friends, I told myself. I enjoy a glass of wine alone in bars all the time. It doesn’t faze me in the slightest. I’m independent Aquarius, among the crowd but not of it.

  If I’d had a bit longer to work on my technique, I might just have convinced myself that all that was true. But I didn’t – and I’d failed to convince someone else.