Page 85 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
Will goes to assist. As he’s shifting the screen, Jonathan picks up his newspaper and says, “ ‘Delight,’ eight letters, fifth letter S?”
“ ‘Pleasure,’ ” I say at the exact same time as Will. Our eyes meet across the desk, and I have to look away.
“Excellent,” says Jonathan, filling in the clue. Will clears his throat, then turns the screen so we can all see. He’s pushed up his shirtsleeves, and my eyes are drawn to his forearms, the light smattering of hair on his arms, his strong broad hands, which effortlessly hold both of mine in one—
“Didn’t love your latest column, Anna,” Crispin says, and I realize the call has started and my mind is elsewhere. I clear my throat and nod, trying to focus on what’s being said. “I liked the ones you wrote about flirting with a twenty-two-year-old and getting stoned at a house party, or nearly giving nits to your celebrity crush; they were funny. Going for a walk in Regency clothes feels rather staid. Where’s the romance? Where’s the danger?”
I cross my legs, then clasp my hands tightly around my knee. “I think readers will relate to the fact that you won’t have chemistry with most people.” Now I can’t stop my eyes from darting back to Will. He’s looking right at me, and his eyes unmoor me from the meeting. I’m back in the woods, lying on the rug, his hand running up my—
“Anna, Anna.” Crispin’s tsk jolts me back to reality. He frowns through the computer screen. “I need more, Anna.More.Were you disappointed not to feel attracted to this man or were you relieved? Do you think he was attracted to you? Do youwanttomeet someone or has your divorce made you cautious? Do you have trust issues? What’s your relationship like with your ex? Real questions, real feelings. This column might as well be written in the third person. I don’t get any sense of what you were feeling.”
“I can edit it,” I say, feeling wounded.
“I liked it,” Will says, jumping in. “Anna raises an interesting point about the online/offline debate. If you’re looking for something niche, that’s where the internet really shines.”
I know he’s trying to help, but I’m annoyed Will feels the need to try to rescue me.
“What I was trying to get at in the column is that dating can forge connections, even if they aren’t romantic ones,” I explain. “There’s an Austen-themed ball next month, and I’ve promised to help Michael find a suitable date—”
Crispin holds up his finger to silence me, then taps a closed fist against his lips. “Tell me more about this ball.”
“It takes place every summer, people get dressed up in Regency clothes and throw an Austen-inspired soiree. It’s a big event in Bath.”
“This is what your column is lacking, an end point, a goal, a grand finale,” says Crispin, smacking one fist into his other hand. “You should go to the ball, choose a date from one of the men you’ve written about. It will give the column a narrative through-line, bring readers back week after week to see who you’ll pick.”
“Me, go to the Regency ball?” I laugh, but quickly look back and forth between Crispin and Jonathan and realize no one else is laughing. “I don’t even know how to dance.”
“You’d better learn, then,” Jonathan says. “Oh, what a marvelous lark. Two of the most useful things I ever learned at school, how to rewire a fencing foil and how to dance an eightsome reel.” I get the impression Jonathan and I went to very different schools.
“Will’s column needs an end point too, something more modern, but also classically romantic,” Crispin says.
“I’ve never seen the Eiffel Tower,” Will suggests.
“Perfect!” cries Crispin, pointing down his camera lens at Will. “A weekend in Paris—every girl’s dream.”
I know what Will’s doing. He’s future-proofing his column in case he’s not in the country to finish it. I shift uncomfortably in my chair. Crispin slaps his desk again, delighted. “Anna goes to the ball, Will goes up the Eiffel Tower—our readers get two happy endings.”
“Isn’t it a little contrived?” I ask. “What if neither of us find anyone suitable? Dating is as much about discovering yourself as it is about finding a partner, isn’t it?”
“You don’t have to marry the guy, Anna. People like a resolution,” Crispin says, leaning back in his chair, then shifting his eyes to the ceiling. “Look, if you’re not comfortable writing a column like this—”
“I’ll go. It’s fine,” I say hurriedly, before I talk myself out of a job.
“So who have you got lined up this week?” Crispin asks, and I sit forward in my chair, feeling ever more uncomfortable, trying not to look at Will, trying not to feel jealous that it won’t be me whom he takes up the Eiffel Tower.
“Our neighbor. He’s a widower. We don’t get on.”
Jonathan lets out a sigh of pleasure. “Ah, enemies to lovers, my favorite trope.”
—
When we finallyescape the meeting, I hurry back to my desk, trying to ignore the fact that my whole body feels like a charged magnet, drawn to wherever Will is. I put my headphones in and try to focus on my screen, but then, ping. An e-mail from him.
Will: I thought Crispin was too harsh back there.
Anna: I’m a big girl, I can handle it.
Is this how it’s going to be now? We go back to being colleagues and pretend nothing happened? Maybe it’s not a big deal for him. Maybe he has weekends like that all the time, whereas I feel bereft, because it’s like he’s woken me up but now expects me to go back to sleep. Another e-mail.
