Page 61 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
For the article I focused on my nit predicament rather than the anonymous actor’s wandering hands. “And yours, Will,” Jonathan says, clapping a hand against his thigh. “I love this competitive tone you’ve added, your hunt for a celebrity online to rival Anna’s A-lister. You two pitted against each other, it’s quite charming.” As Jonathan is speaking, Will takes his glasses off and nods, acknowledging his praise. I can’t feel so happy about it. The evening with Ryan has made me feel icky about the column, about involving my children in this and putting myself in situations where I am vulnerable. Jonathan is prone to being effusive, and he’s being too generous about my column. It might have been funny, but I left out all my real feelings, sanitizing it. It’s not the emotional sushi that Crispin wants.
“Didn’t I tell you we’d be able to collaborate?” Will says, tilting his head toward me.
“You did, you did,” Jonathan says. A look passes between the two men, and I have that uncomfortable feeling again.Has Will been flirting with me just to get me onside?
“I have some news,” says Will, leaning forward in his armchair, resting an elbow on either knee. “A national newspaper got in touch. They want us to write a version of our column for their Sunday supplement. It could be great exposure forBath Living.”
“You didn’t me tell this,” I say, narrowing my eyes at him.
“I haven’t had a chance. I only just received the e-mail,” he explains, picking up his glasses from the desk and putting them back on.
“A national newspaper!” Crispin cries. “My goodness. Will, what an asset you are.”
“They want us both to write it, they just happened to contact me,” says Will, his eyes shifting to his hands, clasped in his lap. “It’s Anna’s idea of dating offline that they were drawn to.”
“Yes, well, write whatever they want you to write. Opportunities like this don’t come along every day of the week. Celebratory macaroon?” Jonathan asks, thrusting a delicate cream-colored box toward Will.
“I haven’t even seen this e-mail, I don’t know what I’d be agreeing to,” I say, feeling a stab of petulance.
“You’d best get Will tofill you inthen,” says Jonathan, with an uncharacteristic hint of snark as he bites down on a pink macaron.Does he know something?I narrow my eyes at Jonathan, but he just pouts in response.
As we leave Jonathan’s office, Will pulls me into the photocopier room, then shuts the door behind us. “What are you doing?” I ask, my heart racing.
“Sorry to drop that on you in there,” he says. “I sent an editor at theTimesmy CV and attached a link to our column. That’s why we’re on his radar for this feature,” Will tells me, his voice lowered. “I couldn’t exactly tell Jonathan that.”
“That’s the problem with lying. It gets hard to keep track of who you’ve told what,” I say, watching his face for a reaction, but I don’t get one.
“I’m not asking you to lie. I just didn’t want you to think I was trying to push you off the swings or anything.” There’s a gleam in his eye, as though we’re sharing a joke, but I’m not in the mood.
“Fine, what’s the feature they’re asking for?” I say, keen to finish this conversation and escape this small, confined space as soon as possible. The air feels charged in here; it’s too hot. My shirt feels as though it’s clinging to me, and my neck tingles with heat.
“There’s this tech-free retreat,” Will explains. “It’s up in the Mendip Hills, they want a local journalist to write a review. You go off-grid for forty-eight hours in a bid to ‘connect with each other more deeply.’ ” He pauses, dropping his gaze to the floor, then lowering his voice. “It’s a couples’ thing.”
“Sorry, what? A romantic retreat? You and me?” I ask, then when he nods, I frown. “Was this your idea?”
Will laughs. “Anna, if I wanted to get you alone, I wouldn’t have to pitch some lame dating retreat to theTimesto do it.”Okay, so that put me in my place.He shakes his head. “Obviously it wouldn’t be a real date if that’s what you’re worried about. We would just need to write it up that way.” He pauses, fixing me with a perplexed look. “Have I done something to upset you? Cinnamon bun too cinnamony for you?”
“No, I’m just stretched as it is, and this is one more thing, one more weekend away. You should have consulted me first.”
“I can take someone else,” he offers, and I wonder if that’s what he wants.
“But it’s my column idea they like? They want both of us?” I ask, and he nods. “I’ll make it work. Just send me the e-mail.”
“It’s in your inbox already.”
“Fine.”
“Fine.” We glare at each other, the fizz morphing back into friction. He’s right, this is a great opportunity. I’m just annoyed because he’s sprung it on me, because he lied about Deedee and it makes me wonder what else he might be lying about. I don’t trust him. Or maybe it’s that I don’t trust myself to spend a whole weekend with him.
Looking into his swirling green eyes, at his dark lashes, I remember his words on the phone, saying he thought I was beautiful. My eyes fall to his lips and my breath catches in my throat. I need to get out of here. Will doesn’t make a move to leave, so I reach past him for the door handle, my arm brushing against his hip in my hurry to leave. He turns sideways to move out of my way, but then I appear to have forgotten how door handles work, as I turn it from left to right and nothing seems to happen.
“Let me,” he says, putting his hand over mine on the knob, gently twisting it, tugging it, and then finally the door is open. I lurch into the corridor, like a greyhound released from its pen, and don’t dare look back as I cradle the hand that feels marked by his.
Google searches:
Reconnect Retreats, Mendip Hills
Are epilators worth the investment?
