Sweatpants at Tiffanie’s: The funniest and most feel-good romantic comedy of 2018!. Pernille Hughes
business should be mine. I was his son,’ Aaron shouted right against the door pane. Spittle splattered on the glass.
‘Stepson and a rubbish one at that,’ Tiff muttered. She didn’t have a plan if he chose to storm the building, but instead he walked slowly backwards, staring at her. ‘You should have been kinder to him while he was around then,’ she said louder, so he’d hear.
‘Like you did?’ he sneered, giving her a filthy leer before turning and swaggering away. Tiff watched him cross the car park like he owned the place. He didn’t look back. He’d come to rattle her, and he’d done the job.
‘Afternoon.’ Ron stood in the doorway to the office. Tiff froze with her mug of tea halfway to her mouth and looked at the clock. It was still morning. He was having a dig.
‘I was at the will reading.’
Ron’s brow furrowed. ‘That was today?’
‘Nine o’clock.’ The scowl on his face told her exactly how he felt about not being invited.
‘What’s the score then?’ He needed to know whether he had a job or not. Whilst he was a grumpy bugger, Tiff knew he worked hard. He’d have a job if he wanted it. She tried not to think about how much she was depending on him if she was going to do this. He was her continuity.
‘You’d best sit down,’ she said. Ron slumped in the corner armchair, an apprehensive look on his face.
‘Is it closing?’
‘No,’ she said, adamantly. Whatever happened, she’d do everything to keep it open. Blackie’s legacy demanded it.
‘Being sold?’
‘Not if I can help it.’ Ron’s face perked up. ‘See, Blackie left the place to me.’
‘You?’ he asked, incredulous.
‘Me.’ There didn’t seem much to add. She could desperately start justifying it, but she didn’t want to come across as panicking. And she was panicking.
‘Didn’t see that coming.’ Tiff didn’t take it as a compliment, nor had Ron meant it as such. To be fair she hadn’t seen it coming either.
‘You and me both.’
‘You don’t box.’
‘No.’
‘You don’t even follow boxing.’
‘No.’
‘And you’re a w—’
‘Yes.’ Tiff considered having a feminist debate with him but didn’t have the strength. What would be the point?
‘What the hell was he thinking?’ Ron exploded, expecting her to share his outrage.
She tried to placate him. ‘Um, perhaps he was thinking I didn’t need to box or follow the sport,’ or have a penis she added, but only in her head, ‘to be a business manager. Perhaps he thought, having worked with him, I knew enough about the place to keep it going, to progress it, and more importantly give proper consideration to the people who work here.’ Tiff gambled Ron’s primary concern was his own job.
‘Too right. About the staff, I mean.’ Neither mentioned that beyond themselves, the sum of the staff came to precisely one, in the form of Vonda the intermittent cleaner. ‘He should have told us what he was planning.’
‘Well, he liked his surprises,’ was all she could think to say.
‘This is going to have a major impact on the business. The lads aren’t going to like it.’ She hadn’t really considered that bit, but his prejudgement seemed a tad unfair.
‘Apart from Blackie’s absence, the clients shouldn’t feel any difference, Ron. Blackie’s will stipulated that your job should be safeguarded, if you still want it.’ She’d hoped to see relief in his face, but he’d moved on from that. ‘I’m hoping you do want it, Ron,’ she added to be clear.
‘Well, I’m sure you do. A club without a trainer isn’t much of a club, is it?’
‘No, of course not.’ He was talking to her like she was an idiot. She wanted to show him she wasn’t. Vision. Vision and ambition, that was what impressed people. ‘Going forward,’ she said, feigning confidence, ‘I’ll be looking to modernise the club, but it will always be a boxing club at heart, and you’re integral to that.’
‘Blackie didn’t want to modernise it. It works perfectly as it is – provided I’m here to make it work – so what’s the point?’ Ron was sporting a fine display of outrage. ‘Don’t mess with things that aren’t broken, Tiffanie. Why do women always do that?’
Tiff bit her tongue.
‘He left you everything?’ Ron double-checked, with an air of disbelief and a hint of resentment.
‘The building, the land, some capital,’ she detailed, feeling uncomfortable. She tried to divert the conversation. ‘The ring goes to Mike Fellner as some penance for the past – don’t ask, I don’t know – so I’ll need a new one ASAP. All the sappy pictures with the moody shots and emo texts go to Aaron. For guidance apparently.’
That raised a wry smile from Ron.
‘Nice one, Blackie. He always liked a subtle jab to the nuts.’
‘So Ron,’ said Tiff, making her first managerial move, ‘if you’re on board then the title of Head Coach is yours and obviously there’ll be a salary increment attached.’ She tried to sound as professional as possible, until she saw his eyes ker-ching at the money, which caused her to falter a little, ‘The exact details of which to be confirmed once I’ve checked the figures.’
Ron stood up, nodding. His staying was a massive weight off her mind.
‘Glad you can see sense, Tiff. You leave running the club to me while you crunch the numbers and things will be fine.’ He left the room shaking his head.
Watching him disappear down the stairs and finally having a large gulp of her tepid tea, Tiff couldn’t help but feel her first step into her future had lacked any clout or elation.
Tiff’s lunch hour mainly involved staring at the office in fear and disbelief. It was all hers, from the walls to the bins. Yet little plan-bubbles were beginning to form. She’d be thinning out the glut of furniture for a start; navigating the office was an obstacle course in itself. The posters on the walls were going, which would expose the fade of the paintwork, adding another thing to the To-do list. Still, with their phrasings of Dream Big and to go Above and Beyond, she’d happily lose them. They annoyed her. They were Gavin’s clearly destructive life-coaching DVDs in paper form.
Getting into it, she wandered down the corridor and stairs, surveying her domain until she found herself standing outside the sparring hall door. It was years since she’d set foot in there. She’d spent hours in there as a teen, watching one Mikey Fellner, but that had stopped when he’d left. Coming to work for Blackie she’d still managed to dodge it; there was nothing urgent enough in the bookkeeping to force her in there.
‘’Scuse me, love.’ A client moved around her and entered the hall. The open doorway blasted Tiff with the squeaks of footwear on the polished floor and also a potent waft of testosterone and sweat. She couldn’t think of a space smelling more of bloke. And yet it was a nostalgic odour to her. She’d never minded it back then.
It took her a moment to realise the guy was holding the door for her.
‘Oh, thanks,’ she said, scurrying through. This was hers now. She needed to know it again.
Brick walls and