Page 47 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
We don’t have to waitlong before an opportunity arises with the singing postman. The doorbell rings as we’re having breakfast.
“Hi!” I say, opening the door and giving the deliveryman my best Julia Roberts smile. “Michael, is it?” This man has seen me in my pajamas, with greasy hair and Cheerios stuck to my dressing gown. If he is straight, there is no way in hell he finds me attractive.
Michael looks back and forth between Jess and me. “Yes. Here you go,” he says, scanning the barcode, then handing me a parcel addressed to Jess. She is hovering on the stairs.
“I ordered new highlighters,” she tells me.
Michael holsters his scanner, and I realize if I’m going to do this, I don’t have much time.
“This is going to sound crazy,” I say, pausing to laugh, but then the laugh only makes me appear crazier. I stop and clear my throat. “I’m a journalist and I write a dating column where I try to date someone new each week but without the use of theinternet, so people I meet in real life.” I clear my throat again. He looks confused and slightly afraid. “My daughter suggested you.” I laugh again, then let it fade into a sigh.
“You want to go on a date, with me?” Michael clarifies, looking bemused.
“Yes,” I say, trying to radiate sincerity.
“She likes books,” Jess calls from the stairs. “She writes about them too.” For a moment, I wonder what she’s doing, then realize Jess is trying to sell me to him.Hello, new low.
“Won’t your husband have something to say about that?” Michael asks warily, holding up a parcel addressed to Dan Humphries.
“Oh, right, sorry, no. We’re divorced.” I pause. “He hasn’t changed his address yet.” I take the parcel, and we all hover by the open door. Now it’s awkward because he hasn’t said yes or no and I just want to shut the door and pretend this never happened.
“My dad is crap at that kind of thing,” says Jess. “They’re one hundred percent divorced. Dad lives with someone else now. She’s Swedish.”
Michael’s eyes flicker with sympathy.
“Let’s forget I said anything,” I say, waving a hand in front of me as though I can erase the words from the air.
“I’ll go out with you,” says Michael, and now I’m even more confused. Turning around to look at Jess, I see she is shooting me “See, I told you so” eyes.
“You will?” I ask, doing a double take.
“Sure. It’s good to have something to look forward to.” He gives me a kindly nod, then hands me a notepad and pen. “Write down your number. I’ll juggle my shifts, see what I can sort out.”
He will juggle his shifts. This is too humiliating; the sexually ambiguous postman is agreeing to take me on a sympathy date.
—
Once I’m inthe office, I rush off an e-mail to Ryan Stirling’s agent, hoping to get all my humiliation for the day over early. I know it’s highly unlikely the agent will even relay the message, but it’s worth a shot.
“Hi.” A voice comes from behind me, and I spin around in my chair to find Will standing right there. I say “my chair”; technically it’s his chair. I took it back because I got to the office first and, well, I like this game.
“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my voice flat and professional, but it comes out squeaky and girlish. An image of Will in his boxers staring up at me in the moonlight forces its way into my mind.
“How was the rest of the festival? Sorry I had to leave early. Did you manage the car okay?”
“Yes, I ‘managed the car okay,’ ” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest, tilting my head to one side as I look up at him. “It has a scratch on the passenger door, one hubcap is missing, and I picked up four speeding tickets, but apart from that, I managed.”
He narrows his eyes, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’d better be joking, Appleby. My dad will—”
“What? Dock your pocket money?” I cut in, arching an eyebrow.
Will bends down, closer to my ear, then says, “I’ll come by and pick it up later.”
His words feel loaded, and my cheeks heat as though he’s said something highly suggestive.
“Take the keys now, I might not be in,” I say, handing him the car keys from my drawer. He reaches to take them, and I become hyperaware of every point where his hand makes contact with mine.
“Out on a hot date?” he asks, his tone teasing.
