Page 33 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“What’s yours?” Will asks him.
“Duck, then lemur, then armadillo. It was armadillos first, but then I changed it.”
“What’s your mum’s favorite?” Will asks.
“Cats,” Ethan says, turning up his nose as though this is boring.
“What are her favorite flowers?” Will asks.
“Peonies,” Jess tells him, and I look back and forth between them in bemusement.
The doorbell rings and I’m glad that for once, Dan isn’t running late.
“Morning,” Dan says as I open the door. He’s wearing a too-tight Aertex, tucked into chinos, and his face is unusually somber.
“Kids, Dad’s here!” I call back into the kitchen.
“You okay?” Dan asks, narrowing his eyes at me.
“Sure, why?” I run a hand over my face, worried there might be a stray blob of peanut butter hanging from one nostril. But before he can answer, the kids are in the hall throwing on their coats and shoes and I’m caught up in the cyclone of “leaving the house.”
“See you Sunday, Mum,” yells Jess.
“Love you,” says Ethan, enveloping my waist in a bear hug, as I cover his head with kisses. “Feel better.”
“Can you wait on the street for a second?” Dan asks Jess and Ethan once they’re out of the front door. “I need to have a word with your mother.”
This does not sound good. “This isn’t a great time,” I say, nodding toward the door, hoping my subtle head movement will convey that I have a colleague waiting in the kitchen who really does not need to hear whatever grievance Dan has this morning.
“Two a.m. is also not a good time, Anna.” Dan’s hard stare shifts to something resembling pity. “I know you’re struggling with this, but you can’t call me at all hours of the night. It’s not fair on me and it’s certainly not fair on Sylvie.”
“I called you?” I ask weakly. I don’t remember calling him,but since I don’t remember getting a tattoo, it stands to reason I could have made some phone calls too.
“Three voicemails, most of them unintelligible.” He pauses, sighs, then gives me his “disappointed” face. “If you’re finding things hard, maybe you shouldn’t drink so much. It’s not good for the children to see you so”—he pauses, weighing his words—“unhinged.”
“Unhinged?” I parrot.
“I can see how this might be challenging for you. But I don’t want to have to put a time window on when it’s appropriate for you to call me and when it’s not. I’m proud of how unboundaried we are. We put the work in and it’s better for everyone if we can all get along.”
What are these words coming out of Dan’s mouth? “Put the work in,” “unboundaried”? These are not words I have ever heard Dan say.Has he been having therapy?Before I can muster a response, Dan puts a hand on my shoulder, then leans in to say, “And I say this in the spirit of friendship, but you shouldn’t give up on your appearance. You need to show up for yourself.” He taps his heart, gives me another pitying, intense gaze, then bounds off down the steps in his too-snug chinos.
My body starts to tremble. I don’t know whether I’m shaking with rage, or hangover, or an infection from my unsterilized tattoo, but for a minute I’m unable to move because every part of me thrums. Putting a hand over my chest, I take five deep breaths to try to steady myself. Back in the kitchen, Will looks at the floor; I take that to mean he heard the whole conversation.
“Sorry about that. You weren’t meant to be here this early, so…” I trail off. “You’ll have to give me a minute.” I run upstairs, clamping my teeth to stop the tears. Running a brush through my hair, I wipe away last night’s mascara from beneath my eyes, have a quick shower, then throw on my favorite jeans and green silkblouse. Glancing in the mirror, I don’t think I look too bad, considering. There’s a flush to my cheeks from the hot shower, and my eyes look brighter than I feel. Grabbing the weekend bag I packed after dinner, I hurry back downstairs, aware I’m now keeping Will waiting.
“Ready?” I ask. Will is standing in the hall and opens the front door for me. He’s only being courteous, but even this irritates me. This ismyhouse; I don’t need anyone openingmydoor for me. And I don’t need people coming intomyhouse and telling me I look like shit. Will nods his head toward a sports car, an MG parked on the road. “It’s my dad’s, I borrowed it,” he explains. “I thought we could travel in style.”
“Cozy,” I say diplomatically. I’ve never understood people’s interest in vintage cars. They’re more likely to break, and they have none of the right sockets for charging your phone, but as I climb into the passenger seat, I’ll admit something about this car—the shape of it, the smell of old leather—conjures a spirit of adventure.
We travel in silence until we’re on the main road out of Bath. Will must sense my need for quiet as he doesn’t try to make small talk. Scrolling through my phone, I view my call history and sent e-mails, checking whether there is anything else I did last night that I need to apologize for. There’s an e-mail from Amazon confirming an online order for a toastie machine. Wow, drunk me cannot be trusted.
“Do you want to talk about it?” Will asks, his fingers tapping the steering wheel.
“About what?” I ask, putting my phone away.
“Whatever you like, your date last night, your patronizing ex-husband, the delightful spring weather we’re having. We have two hours of driving ahead, so possibly all three.”
“I’m good with the radio,” I say, twisting the old-fashioned dial, feeling a burn of irritation that he’s mentioned Dan. Whenit comes to family, even ex-family, it’s not anyone else’s place to criticize.
