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

by Sophie Ranald

  You wanted a baby, for Pete’s sake. Why are you freaking out about a cat?

  Because a baby was an abstract idea. And I’d have had Myles to help.

  Or maybe not so much.

  Thinking about it, I remembered how, when I’d gone away to visit my dad in Canada for ten days the previous summer, I’d come home to find all our houseplants parched and gasping, the bins overflowing with trash and an almost biblical plague of fruit flies feasting on a blackened banana left inexplicably under the couch.

  Maybe, I realised, the vision I’d cherished of me, Myles and our child, or children, had been light years away from what the reality would have been. I thought of Megan, struggling alone at first, then finding her feet, getting her mummy hand in, and Matt pitching in and not just helping her but being a proper father to his own child. Not reluctantly or half-heartedly. Not just doing the fun bits like tickling Ethan’s tummy to make him giggle and then walking away when shit got real – literally, in the form of the poo-nami nappies Megs had told me about until I clapped my hands over my ears and begged her to stop – but properly. Taking the rough with the smooth.

  Would Myles have been like that? Thinking about it now, I simply couldn’t see it.

  Suddenly, like a ray of light in my brain, a thought came.

  Sloane, you dodged a bullet there.

  And now – sure, I had a rented house that would need a whole shedload of sorting out. Yes, I had a cat who’d need… whatever cats needed. I made a mental note to google exactly what that was. I’d need to start doing proper crazy cat lady things like talking to her about my day, asking her about hers and cluttering up my social media with pictures of her, so she’d know I loved her. But I was flying solo. I was in charge. I wouldn’t have to wash anyone else’s clothes, or cook anyone else’s dinner or pick up anyone else’s dry cleaning or write birthday cards for any fucker who wasn’t my own family.

  Or, more to the point, deal with the fallout from anyone’s self-indulgent shagging around.

  I looked again at the contract I’d signed, and this time it looked like a reprieve – a passport to a place where I made the rules. I’d be able to tell Dad I’d found a new home. I’d tell him about the cat, too, so he wouldn’t worry so much about me being lonely.

  ‘Sloane?’ Sam’s voice startled me out of my contemplation. ‘Remember, we’ve got that meeting with the guy from that charity for disadvantaged kids, who might want to work with Ruby-Grace. He’ll be here in fifteen.’

  ‘Right. Right, yes, of course. Sorry, I was a bit distracted. Good on you for getting that set up. What does Ruby-Grace make of it – have you discussed it with her at all?’

  ‘Yep, she’s on board. So let’s see what this Edward Reeves has to say for himself.’

  ‘Edward who?’

  ‘Reeves. Apparently he was some big shot at an investment bank, then he jacked it in to give something back. He’s from a disadvantaged background himself, apparently, but got into Oxford and then had this high-flying City career.’

  Never mind his career. I’ve slept with the bloke.

  ‘Are you okay, Sloane?’

  ‘Yes, fine. It’s just – I think I’ve met him, socially, somewhere. The name’s familiar.’

  ‘Well, let’s see if he recognises you.’

  Edward did, of course. But, unlike me, he’d been forewarned and knew that the person he was coming to meet was the same Sloane Cassidy he’d last seen pulling on her clothes after multiple orgasms in his bed.

  But when he walked into the meeting room and greeted us both, he gave nothing away. His demeanour was purely friendly and professional. I, on the other hand, couldn’t help a massive, telltale blush creeping up my neck and flooding my face.

  God, you’re hot, I thought, admiring his strong, square jaw, the dimple in his chin, the smooth skin of his neck between his dark hair and his dark blue jumper, the length of his legs in his faded jeans.

  ‘Good morning,’ I said, trying to keep my voice cool and friendly. ‘It’s lovely to meet you, Edward.’

  ‘Likewise.’ He extended a hand and I shook it, feeling something like an electric shock as our palms connected. He held on maybe just a second longer than he needed to.

  ‘I’d like you to meet my colleague, Sam, who you’ve spoken to on email. Sam’s been working on opportunities for our clients to partner with companies like yours in the charitable sex – the charitable sector – to facilitate hooking them up – I mean partnering them – with organisations where there are synergies.’

  I sat down, blushing furiously, my knees feeling like jelly. I was going to have to pull myself together, and fast – that, or shut the fuck up and let Sam run the meeting.

  ‘Perhaps you’d like to tell us more about what Clear Future does.’ Sam came to my rescue. ‘A bit more of the charity’s background, and why you believe influencer marketing could be right for you.’

  ‘Sure.’ Edward leaned back in his chair and sipped his coffee. I could see the muscles moving in his lean, strong arms as he raised the cup, and remembered how it had felt to have those arms around my naked body. ‘I founded the organisation in 2017, with backing from some of my former colleagues in the finance industry, but also using my own funds. I’m conscious that the gaps within our society, of wealth and opportunity, are only getting wider, and I had a vision to help kids from difficult and deprived backgrounds access chances that might otherwise have been closed to them.’

  He carried on for a bit, talking about workshops in schools, placements in corporations up and down the country, meetings with think-tanks and politicians, and I found myself not only admiring his looks but genuinely respecting the values he represented.

  I found myself thinking, I’m not nearly ready for a relationship. And then silently telling myself off, because Edward had given no sign whatsoever that he was interested in any sort of relationship with me beyond the few hours we’d spent together and the couple of brief texts we’d exchanged. We were cool with that. It was what it was. No regrets, and no repeat performance.

  So why was I now regretting that there hadn’t been one?

  I don’t think I’d ever paid less attention in a business meeting in all my life. When, at last, Sam said he’d arrange a face-to-face with Ruby-Grace, and Edward said that would be great, I felt giddy with relief that it was over – but also punched in the gut with disappointment that he’d given no sign that there was anything between us.

  We all stood up, my knees feeling more or less normal now.

  ‘It was great to meet you,’ I said. ‘We’re always excited to connect with partners where there’s genuine passion.’

  Shit. Blushing like an idiot again, I followed Sam and Edward out of the meeting room.

  ‘Angela Granger is on the phone for you, Sam,’ Isla said from behind the reception desk, and Sam hurried off, leaving me and Edward standing by the lift.

  ‘It was good to see you again, Sloane,’ he said.

  ‘And you.’

  The elevator pinged and the doors slid open. Edward stepped in, and my heart cried out, Noooo!

  I said, ‘There’s just one thing. About Ruby-Grace.’

  ‘What’s that?’

  ‘She’s signed with another of our partner brands. Own the Night. You may not have heard of it.’

  Edward shook his head. But he’d stepped out of the elevator.

  ‘They’re a clothing company. Clubwear. Some of their stuff is pretty out there, and Ruby-Grace posts pics of herself wearing it on her social media feeds.’

  Edward said, ‘I’ll take a look. But in all honesty, Sloane, the kids we work with are exposed to all sorts. I doubt some young woman in scanty clothes will make them even turn a hair.’

  ‘Makes you feel kind of old, doesn’t it?’

  He shrugged ruefully and nodded, turning back to the elevator door. Then he paused, turned around and said, ‘Any chance you’re free for a drink this evening?’

  It felt like someone had strung fairy ligh
ts all over the Ripple Effect office and suddenly switched them on.

  ‘I can’t,’ I said. ‘Not tonight. I’ve just moved into a new place, and it turns out it came with an unexpected bonus cat. I need to get back and check she’s okay.’

  ‘As it happens,’ Edward said, ‘I love cats.’

  Twenty-Seven

  The Ripple Effect Halloween party had started life as a semi-ironic event – a way of getting our clients, partners and staff together for a few drinks to socialise and get to know one another outside of work. Over the years, though, it kind of became a victim of its own success, and now social media was abuzz with gossip and preparations about it for weeks before.

  For the minor celebs we represented, it was the chance to get dressed up in the most Instagrammable outfits they could find, get drunk at the agency’s expense and, more often than I was entirely comfortable with, hook up with each other. For the big companies we worked with on endorsements and advertising deals, it was a chance to network. And for me and the rest of the team, it meant running ourselves ragged preparing for the party, spending the entire night trying to curb the worst excesses of our clients’ behaviour and then cleaning up the mess they left on social media afterwards.

  It was exhausting, and I wasn’t looking forward to it one bit.

  As always, though, I planned my outfit with care.

  In the past, I’d done sexy witch, sexy vampire, sexy Day of the Dead carnival attendee and sexy devil. This year, though, I wasn’t feeling up to being sexy anything. Instead, I was going for a pared-down, serious, even slightly threatening vibe. My Morticia Addams dress had a high neck and long sleeves, and the skirt trailed all the way to the ground. I was planning on teaming it with bone-white foundation and red lipstick so dark it was almost black, and channelling my best ‘don’t fuck with me’ vibe.

  First, though, Rosie, Sam, Isla and I had to spend Friday morning at the venue, a Soho bar so on-trend and popular we’d had to reserve it months in advance. The company we’d hired to do the decorations were on site, draping fake cobwebs in every corner, brushing fake dust on surfaces, arranging green and red lights to faintly illuminate the ghouls and skeletons that lurked in unexpected places.

  The bar staff were putting the finishing touches to the cocktail list, which featured a Banana Banshee, Nightmare Negroni, Dark and Shadowy and Vampire Vesper. In the kitchen, trays of creepy canapés were being laboured over by the catering team. A dressing area had been prepared for the immersive theatre performers we’d booked to frighten the life out of our guests in their roles as Dracula and his brides.

  It was all completely over the top, and under normal circumstances I’d have been hitting peak excitement about it all. Now, though, I wanted nothing more than a nice, quiet lie-down in a darkened room – ideally one that didn’t have zombies lurking in the corners ready to jump out at me.

  At three o’clock, my team and I gathered in the centre of the room, surveying the handiwork that was nearing completion.

  ‘I think we’re just about all set here, Sloane,’ Rosie said.

  ‘I’ve got my Voldemort outfit here in my bag. I can stick around and get ready here, so I’ll be on hand in case there’s a crisis,’ offered Sam.

  ‘I would too,’ Isla said apologetically, ‘only I’m coming as a sexy cat, and my outfit’s so tight I’m going to have to get my mum to help me get into it. It’s the absolute bomb though – just wait till you see it. Or, more to the point, just wait till Charlie Berry sees it.’

  I shot her a warning glance. ‘Now, Isla, you know clients are off—’

  ‘Off limits, I know, Sloane. Sheesh, you’re no fun. But I can at least make him look at me. Can’t I?’

  I laughed. ‘Look, maybe. I can hardly stop him doing that. But no touching.’

  And, wearily but cheerfully, the three of us went off home to get changed, leaving Sam in charge.

  Home. It had only been two weeks, but already the little house felt like a haven – a refuge. As soon as I opened the door, Beatrice – as I’d christened the silver-grey tabby cat – came running to meet me, mewing for fuss and food. Already, she’d made it quite clear how our relationship was going to play out: she was the boss, and I was her staff. From the moment she woke me in the mornings, tapping my face with her paw to let me know it was long past her breakfast time, to when she curled up at night in the crook of my knees, so I was forced to spend the night in one position for fear of disturbing her, she’d made her wants and needs my top priority.

  The house itself was a work in progress – it needed painting, furnishing, probably a full rewire and God only knew what else. But in the meantime, it was a roof over my head – a place of my own. I had a couch, a fridge and a microwave – everything else could wait. Oh, and I had a bed, of course.

  I looked at it with fondness. It was nothing special. There were no designer touches here, no artfully arranged scatter cushions that would have made Ollie Bridges nod with approval. There was just a wooden frame, mattress and bedding that I’d ordered in a panic from the only place I could find that offered same-day delivery, when I knew that Edward was coming round. We’d assembled it together, laughing as we got confused by the instructions and fumbled with the Allen key, and Beatrice batted stray screws along the floor with her paws.

  As soon as the bed was made, we’d fallen onto it, pulling off each other’s clothes, not caring that we were dishevelled and dusty, and it had been just as amazing as the first night. And the next morning, waking up in that strange house with a man I barely knew and a cat I’d just randomly acquired had felt entirely comfortable and familiar.

  But once Edward had left, I’d felt a sudden plummeting panic, like I’d been at the top of a rollercoaster, filled with elation, and now I was hurtling towards the bottom. All the security and stability I’d built up over five years with Myles was gone – just like that. I was on my own. I was thirty-five. I wasn’t going to have a baby any time soon. If I locked myself out of my house at midnight like Vivienne had, who would I call?

  It had taken a massive effort of will, that morning, not to throw myself onto the bed and howl. But I was worried that would upset Beatrice, so I didn’t. I went to work, I carried on, and with each day that passed, the little house felt more normal, more like mine.

  But there was no time for mooning. I had to get Morticia-ed up ready for the party – just as soon as I’d brushed the cat hair off my black dress.

  By six thirty, the bar was buzzing. People in costumes of various degrees of extravagance were mingling everywhere, drinking, talking and laughing. Glen Renton was standing in a corner alone, as usual – the personality that sparkled in his gaming reviews on YouTube totally deserted him in real life. I knew that, as I’d done for the past five years, I’d have to spend a good chunk of the evening finding people I could persuade to speak to him, and then replace them when, after listening to Glen talk about himself for ten minutes, they made their escape.

  Isla was looking impossibly pretty, her black latex cat outfit more suited to a furries’ bondage dungeon than anything else, and was being chatted up by Craig McLeod, a theatre director contact of Megan’s. Across the room, I could see Charlie Berry gazing at her, transfixed. I was going to have to keep an eye on that situation – although, realistically, if they did end up going home together, there wouldn’t be a lot I could do about it.

  Rosie, dressed as a wicked fairy in flowing purple and black chiffon, was circulating like the pro she was, making sure everyone got introduced to the right people. Megan was working the room, warm and sparkling as always, wearing a glittery red devil costume that showed off the incredible cleavage she’d got thanks to Ethan.

  Gemma Grey, wearing a dress that appeared to be made of fake cobwebs, but in which she still looked beyond stunning, was surrounded by a group of admiring, less successful YouTubers, and I knew she’d be dispensing kind, helpful advice and making a point of mentioning vlogs of theirs she’d watched and liked.

  Ruby-G
race had come dressed as a sexy… I wasn’t sure what, to be honest. If I looked too hard at her, I was worried my eyes might literally pop out. She had on a barely-there black latex bodysuit, thigh-high wet-look boots and… sweet Jesus, was that a vibrator she was holding? No, it must be a truncheon. Sexy police officer, then, I decided with relief. And she was rocking the Own the Night brand, so Ross and Angela would be delighted.

  I noticed that Sam, across the room, hadn’t managed to tear his eyes away from her, looking at her with a starved intensity that reminded me of Beatrice watching me open a tin of tuna.

  Everything, I thought, surveying the room, looked under control. Perhaps I could go in and mingle a bit myself. And perhaps, since we’d learned from experience that the best strategy was to start our annual party unfashionably early, it would be wrapped up by midnight, and I could go back home to Beatrice and sleep for ten hours solid.

  But I was jerked out of my gloomy thoughts by a voice saying, ‘Darling! I’m late to the party, as usual. Don’t you look glamorous? Black is totally your colour.’

  For a moment, I thought Vivienne had literally got up and into a taxi, turning up wearing what she’d had on in bed. Then I looked a little more closely and realised that her white, floor-length silk nightdress, worn with a matching robe over it, was a costume – her hands were coloured dark red up to the wrists with some sort of stage make-up, and she was holding a tea light in a brass holder and a cake of soap.

  ‘Oh my God! You’re Lady Macbeth! Vivienne, that is total genius. So glad you could make it. Come on in! Let’s get you a drink and I’ll introduce you to people.’

  I ushered her into the bar, found her a glass of fizz and looked around, wondering who would be interested in talking to an actress who they might vaguely remember having heard of, years before. But before I could find a group in which to insert her, Ruby-Grace came hurrying over.