Page 25 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“What? What’s wrong?” I ask in a hushed voice, leaning across the table toward him. I have never seen Will look upset before.
“The truth is, I had my heart broken a few years ago,” he says quietly, his face dipped into his hand. “I’ve found it hard to be open to anything serious since then. I find myself going from meaningless fling to meaningless fling because the risk of anything else feels like more than my heart can handle.”
“Oh, Will.” I quickly get up and cross over to the other side of the table, sitting on the bench beside him, so I can put an arm around his shoulder. I have never seen this side to Will; I can’t believe that beneath all that cocksure confidence, he is willing to cry in a crowded café. Now I feel awful that I’ve upset him, but also distractingly aware of how firm and broad his shoulders are. “I’m so sorry, I had no idea. I shouldn’t have made such a personal comment. You’re right, I don’t know anything about you, it was wrong of me to assume.”
“When I meet someone that I like, after a few dates I justfreeze, shut down. I’ll probably be alone forever.” Will wipes his eye, and I start gently rubbing his back.
“You’re a great guy, Will. You’re smart, you’re attractive. You’re still really young. I know heartbreak can be hard, but I’m sure eventually someone will come along who makes the risk—” I stop talking. Will has tilted his head toward me. He is not crying. He is smiling, a sly grin plastered across his face. “What?”
“You’re too easy, Appleby,” he says, eyes glinting.
“What? Was that a joke?” I push him away from me, so I can see his expression more clearly.
“I knew it. Beneath that rottweiler exterior you’re just a soft little puppy,” he says, beaming at me.
“You made all that up?” I ask, feeling my cheeks heat as I gently punch him on the arm.
“Just testing a theory. Seems like you’re fine with me sleeping around, as long as it’s because of some emotional trauma.” He tilts his head, challenging me to deny it.
“You’re despicable. I really thought you were upset,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him as I sit back down on the other side of the table.
“Sorry to disappoint you.” Will holds my gaze, his eyes the color of a forest you could get lost in. “But I think you’re right,” he says, “it might read better without those lines. I’ll edit it before sending it to Jonathan.”
I roll my eyes at him, pick up my coat, and stride out of the café. All my instincts about Will were correct, and working with him on this column is going to be a real endurance test.
Back at the office, I nip to the loo, and when I return to my desk, the chair is gone. In its place sits an overturned wastepaper basket. Resisting the urge to laugh, I look across at Will, but he’s sitting in the chair, studiously ignoring me.
I think today I might have lost the battle, but the war is not over.
—
That afternoon, thewhole editorial team has a meeting in the living room. Jonathan gushes about the columns Will and I have submitted. They’re “just what the magazine needs,” and he “can’t wait to see what we come up with next.” Will swells with pride. I can see him physically expanding, like a silverback gorilla puffing out its chest. I want to reach over and pop him with a pin.
“I’m glad I’ll have something fresh to show Crispin. He’s coming to the office next week.” Jonathan pulls a cartoon grimace. “He’s going to reinterview everyone, give people a chance to prove how indispensable they are.” Jonathan chuckles, though I don’t see how this is funny. “You’ll all be fine.” He holds out a hand toward us. “He needs local journalists, it will be accounts and marketing who bear the brunt of it.” He pauses, and a few of the more junior writers exchange worried looks. “If it’s any consolation, he’s cut my Friday afternoon cocktail budget to the nub. Bleak times, bleak times.”
Jonathan’s reassurances are anything but reassuring. A newly framed “Keep Calm and Carry On” poster has appeared on the wall in the main office, and I suspect it’s having the opposite effect on morale. I’ve also noticed Jonathan’s postprandial sherry, which he usually indulges in at around three o’clock, is now being consumed at eleven a.m. He’s a stickler for convention and has told me it’s “unseemly” to have a drink before “the sun is over the yardarm.” I don’t know what this translates to in normal language, but I doubt it’s eleven a.m.
“In any case, back to today’s business. What’s on everyone’s agenda next week?” Jonathan asks, sitting up straighter in his chair and fiddling with his tie. “Anna, are you still covering Hay this weekend?”
“Yes, of course,” I say, surprised he needs to ask. I attend the Hay literary festival every year. It’s only a two-hour drive fromBath, and it’s a highlight of the events calendar for me. Two whole days of book talks and panel discussions. It is heaven. I had to swap two weekends around with Dan to make it work, and now I owe him one in the favor bank, but it will be worth it.
“Excellent. I loved how you covered it last year,” Jonathan says. “Are you imagining a double-page spread, or could you stretch to four? You had an embarrassment of riches last time.”
I blush and take a breath to answer.
“I’m going too,” says Will, casually raising his pen in the air.
“What?” I ask, a little too sharply.
“I’ve been asked to host a panel, stepping in for someone who dropped out,” he says, knitting his fingers, then reaching both hands behind his head, as though he’s having a nice relaxing time at the beach.
“What? What panel? Why?” I ask, possibly too aggressively. People in the room look back and forth between us.
“One of the organizers called,” Will explains. “They were looking for a local journalist who knows about books; I said I’d do it. Come along if you like?” His face is a picture of innocence.
Verbal darts ping inside my mouth, but I swallow them down. Who called, and why didn’t Will put them through to me? He knows I cover arts and culture. He’s purposely muscling in on my turfagain.
“Will, that’s excellent news—you’re a credit to us, you really are,” Jonathan says, standing up and walking across the room to pull out his drinks trolley. “Anna, let’s stick with two pages for your coverage of the festival. Will, could you pen a couple of pages about this panel? Maybe get Anna to take a few pictures of you in action?”
