Sweatpants at Tiffanie’s: The funniest and most feel-good romantic comedy of 2018!

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 wooden floor, it wasn’t a million miles away from a school gym, with the exception of the massive ring at the far end, with its white ropes keeping the boxers in, and the royal blue pelmet to hide the supports. Ron hung over the ropes barking at the two fighters for being a couple of wimps and not being worth his time if they weren’t going to ‘put some bloody effort in, ya pair of pansies.’ In the rest of the space, boxers trained with skipping ropes, weights and punch-bags until it was their turn to vie for Ron’s approval. Tiff suspected they’d more chance of winning Miss Universe than winning his praise.

Walking around the perimeter of the room, the sound of her heels drew attention. She didn’t feel unwelcome as such, the guys just got on with what they were doing, more out of place and surplus to requirements. She had no role in there. She got half-way around the room, before Ron abruptly acknowledged her.

‘Need something?’

Ron’s glare forced her to fabricate something. He made her feel she was trespassing. ‘Um, yes,’ she said, clip-clopping up to the ring. She didn’t want to shout, she wanted to sound in control. ‘The new ring. I wanted to check the required dimensions.’

‘Twenty by twenty. Feet. No point having anything smaller than competition size if this lot are to have any sense of space. RingPro is the best make.’ He turned back to his boxers. Tiff wondered whether they needed the best. Best usually meant most expensive. But she didn’t have the spuds to question Ron. His glare was pretty ferocious and it would be remiss to doubt him in front of the clientele. Instead she fingered the fabric of the pelmet. ‘RingPro. Is that what this is?’

Ron tutted loudly as she distracted him again. ‘Are we compromising on quality now?’ She cowered at his hostility. Clearly he’d been mulling the news and his mood had turned sour. Sourer.

‘You don’t need to worry about quality, Ron. We’re on the same side here,’ she said. She pulled herself up to full height, but it didn’t help when he was already three feet off the ground. She took a couple of steps back to create a clear line of sight between them, without the ropes getting in the way. ‘I’m not here to cause havoc, Ron.’ Her next step back caused her to trip over a discarded kettlebell. Tiff felt her balance going, instinctively twisting, bringing her face to vinyl with a swinging punch bag.

‘Hello? Can you hear me?’ She opened her eyes to see a relieved face. ‘Are you okay?’

Tiff nodded, trying to convince her eyeballs to align.

‘It’s Jess.’ She was looking Tiff over intently. ‘You passed out.’

‘Umm..?’ Tiff knew her, but she couldn’t place the face. It was a sweet elfin face, severely framed by cropped red hair. She understood and helped Tiff out.

‘Jessica Dent. Akehurst Street.’

Tiff’s eyes widened. ‘Whoa, didn’t you grow up,’ she said, now recognising the features of a girl she’d tutored when she was eighteen. Last she’d seen Jessica, she’d sported a dodgy perm.

‘I box here. With Amina.’ On cue, they were joined by another woman, gorgeous with tight cornrows on her head, who rested her hand gently on her girlfriend’s shoulder.

‘She okay?’

Tiff nodded vigorously before Jess could answer, embarrassment setting in. She pushed herself up from the floor, keen not to look a complete lemming.

‘Sorry. I should’ve cleared my weights and I didn’t see you behind the bag,’ Jess said.

Tiff shook her head insisting she hadn’t looked where she was going. Taking a look back towards the ring, she saw Ron hadn’t budged. He sent her a withering glance and turned back to his fighters.

‘Nice seeing you again, Jess,’ she said, checking her skirt, hoping she hadn’t flashed everyone in keeling over. ‘What are you up to now?’ Small talk. Yes that worked; inane small talk could cover all sorts of humiliation. Plus she was getting to know the clients. Ron couldn’t begrudge her that.

Jess stood up straight with a proud smile. ‘I’m a builder now. Took over my dad’s business.’

‘Oh, that’s wonderful, Jess,’ she gushed, enthusiastically. ‘He must be delighted to hand it on to family.’

‘He died.’

‘Oh god,’ she choked, plunging straight back into a state of mortification. ‘I’m so sorry.’ She reached out and gave Jess a sympathetic squeeze on the arm. It was rock-solid. The equipment definitely did the business. ‘I’ll see you around, all right? Stuff to do upstairs.’ Flailing, she pointed upwards, then to the door, then felt like a prat. Wobbling back across the gym, wishing again she wasn’t in heels, Tiff suspected she’d be hard pressed to make it more obvious she was way out of her depth.

Her intention was to hide for the rest of the day. She worked through the admin, but progress was slower than normal, her mind getting distracted constantly. Finally she gave up, deciding to sort out her boxes and bags currently stashed in the storage cupboard next to the office. Shifting them had taken several trips up and down the stairs the morning after Mike’s nocturnal visit. She bristled at the thought of him. Seeing him stride in at Leonards’ made her want to gnash her teeth. And he’d shot her a cocky look which tempted her to hurl a ledger at him. So much for telling him to stay out of her life.

If she was going to try the hotel tonight, she thought, dragging her cross thoughts away from him, she’d need some clothes and various nick-nacks for her overnight stay. The idea of living out of a bag depressed her. It didn’t feel like money well-spent either.

Switching the light on in the storage room she took a proper squizz around. It was large – the club had never lacked space – and Blackie had been tidy. One corner homed a stack of exercise mats and the opposite wall was racked-out with shelves, half-filled with yet more files of outdated paperwork.

Ditching the files would free up more shelf room for… well she wasn’t sure yet, but Storage space is gold-dust, Tiff. Hearing Gavin’s words in her head made her eyes sting. Blinking it away she looked at the mats in the corner. The way they were stacked reminded her of The Princess and the Pea. An idea started to germinate.

So it was a bit grim, but there was shelving, space to move about and the door locked. That wasn’t much different from a hotel room. In Tiff’s mind it was a battle between a window at the Premier Lodge versus no cost here. Not having to pack up again was the clincher, she was sick of that already. The building was hers, and the store cupboard with it. If she was going to buy a flat when she finally found time to start looking for one – screw you, rental market – then she shouldn’t be spaffing the cash on a crappy hotel room. Seen like that, she could easily cope with temporarily living in a cupboard. A nice lamp and her duvet would make this quite cosy, she convinced herself, conveniently ignoring the strip lighting and the chipped floor tiles. A rug and fairy lights maybe…

‘You got a minute?’ Ron’s gruff voice ripped her away from her planning. He didn’t wait for her to respond and she followed him obediently into her office.

‘I should take it on,’ he said, rounding on her.

‘Take what on?’

‘The club. Watching you down in the gym I reckon it’d be best for all concerned, yourself included, if I took over the club.’

Tiff’s jaw flapped but no words came. Ron went on.

‘I can’t see how Blackie didn’t see it; I’m far better qualified to run it.’

‘You’re head coach,’ she pointed out, finding her tongue. ‘As far as the clients can see, you are running it.’ Additionally, she doubted he had the money to buy her out. If it was the glory he needed, he already had it. There was no need to tie up his finances.

‘Yes, but let’s be honest, it’s only a matter of time before you start making unnecessary changes. You setting foot in the gym was one and look how well that went.’

‘I tripped over strewn kit. It was an accident.’

‘My point exactly. The gym’s always like that. We’re all used to it. You’re clueless.’

This was grossly unfair, Tiff thought, taking a breath to say so, but Ron shook his head to stop her.

‘I’d been thinking about this before all of that anyway. I’ll rent the place off you. Blackie wanted this place to stay as it is, or he would have changed it himself. It’s what the lads would want too. I’ll run it as normal and pay you rent out of the profits.’

Tiff hadn’t expected that. Not for a second. She didn’t know what to say. Instinctively she wanted to shout But it’s mine!, but his words had her stumbling. He thought she was clueless.

‘Think about it, Tiffanie,’ she noted she wasn’t Tiff anymore, ‘you could expand your bookkeeping business, you could keep the days here obviously – that’s two bites of the cherry given I’d have to pay you for that too – and then you could spend Blackie’s money and the rent on other things; shoes or whatever you women spend money on nowadays.’

Tiff bit her cheek at the reference to Blackie’s money. She supposed every penny she ever spent hereon, anywhere, would be seen as Blackie’s money.

‘And no offence,’ he continued, though from experience Tiff knew any sentence beginning with ‘no offence’ was about to cause exactly that, ‘but you can hardly call yourself a poster girl for fitness.’ Tiff instantly looked down at herself. So fitness wasn’t her thing, but she wasn’t massively out of shape. Okay, maybe she was puffed scaling the stairs, but she could still recognise her sixteen-year-old self in the mirror. They might just not have shared clothes for a while.

‘Nobody joins gyms run by chubbies. Just saying.’ He said it with a shrug, and his face wasn’t twisted in the malicious sneer such a sentence should be accompanied by. It was his honest opinion. Embarrassed, she wanted to exit the room immediately.

‘You really don’t want me to do this, do you?’ she stammered.

‘It’s not a matter of want. I don’t think you can. I don’t want Blackie’s hard work and sacrifice wasted, when I can do the job.’

His words plunged her right in the chest, but not like a sharp implement, rather something wide, blunt and far more devastating.