Page 36 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“You know, I’m getting a second wave of hangover. I don’t think I want to talk anymore,” I say, pulling my earphones out of my bag, plugging them in, and then turning to face the window.
“Anna—” Will tries to say something, but I hold up a hand to stop him.
“Let’s just get there, shall we? Honestly, I really have got a headache.”
A hot arc of tears rises behind my eyes, and I focus all my energy on stopping them from spilling over. I have always triedto keep the drama of my home life away from work, and I hate that Will witnessed Dan talking to me like that, that he saw me as the victim I so desperately don’t want to be. I also don’t know why I’m airing such a strong opinion about Will’s dating policy. It’s not unreasonable, what he’s saying. Why shouldn’t he hold out for his perfect woman? It has nothing to do with me.
Google searches:
What percentage of people believe in “the one” / soulmates?
Can you have more than one soulmate?
Quiz: what percentage cynical are you?
Chapter 12
When we finally arrive inHay, Will drives straight to his hotel. He hasn’t even asked me where I’m staying.
“We’re here,” he says, turning off the engine.
“I’ll just walk to my B and B then, shall I?” I ask, incapable of shaking my irritation.
“What’s the name of your place?” Will asks.
“Rose Hill something,” I say, getting out my phone to look it up, but when I look back at Will, he’s pointing across the road.
“Can you walk across the road, or you need me to valet you to the door?”
I stick my tongue out at him, and he sticks his tongue right back, which makes my mouth twitch with the urge to smile.
“Good luck with your talk,” I say, getting out of the car to grab my bag from the boot. “Try to remember to let the panelists get a word in.”
Will gets out of the driver’s side and opens the boot for me. “I will write a memo on my hand.” He pauses, leaning against the roof of the car. “Will you come? It’s tonight at eight. I’m kind ofnervous and it would be good to see a friendly face in the crowd.” He gives me a mock grimace. “Okay, a face in the crowd.”
“I have a pretty full agenda, but I’ll see,” I say airily.
—
Once I’ve checkedin to my sweet little B and B, I lie back on the chintzy bedspread and cast my eye around the room. It is full of eccentric British details: lace doilies on every surface, a mahogany cupboard designed to conceal the television, and a collection of ornamental ducks waddling their way along the skirting board. It is the kind of room you would laugh about if you were with someone, but on your own it feels mildly tragic. Pulling a pillow over my face, I let out an audible groan. Why do I care about Will’s dating policy? Am I jealous that it’s easy for him? Maybe Iamoffended to be outside his search criteria. Not because I have any interest in him myself, but because Will’s tastes reflect what most men are looking for—young, fertile, baggage-free. Most men are not looking for someone like me. Dan can easily date a woman in her twenties; he could have five more kids if he wanted to. It’s only women who seem to have a sell-by date.
This must be the hangover speaking. I don’t evenwantto meet someone, so why am I obsessing over this? I’ll go to some talks, enjoy the festival, forget all about last night. I look down at the tattoo on my arm and groan again. From my research—Google—tattoo removal is painful and expensive. How can I have been so stupid? I guess it could have been worse, I could have gotten Caleb’s name inked onto my skin.
Getting up from the bed, I glance out of the window and realize I can see right into the window of the hotel opposite. Will is on the second floor, unpacking his bag.Shit. Before he sees me, I leap back onto the bed like a panicked frog. Then, getting onto my hands and knees, I slowly slide off the bed and crawl towardthe window so I can draw the curtains without his seeing me. Risking one more peek, just to check he didn’t notice me looking, I see him sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. He looks upset. Was that me? Did I upset him? No. No one upsets Will. He’s probably just tired from driving. Maybe he really is nervous about hosting this panel. I quickly close the curtains. I shouldn’t be looking into anyone’s hotel room window, least of all a colleague’s.
After a power nap, a brisk walk in the fresh air, and a bowl of hearty chicken soup, my lingering brain fog finally starts to ease and I open my meticulously planned agenda of talks and interviews.Bath Livingreaders always appreciate a local angle, celebrating homegrown talent, so I’ve scheduled coffees with several West Country writers who are involved in the festival. Just being here, around so many people celebrating books and reading, feels so restorative. The day flies by, and I barely think about Dan or Will or my ampersand tattoo.
When I get to Will’s panel that evening, I look for a seat as I deal with a flurry of text messages from Dan. Jess says she won’t wear any of the clothes he has at his house, and he’s going to nip back to mine to pick up what she wants. He knows where the spare key is hidden but wants to check I haven’t changed the code for the alarm. Jess has become particular about the style of T-shirt she’ll wear, baggy, in a color palette of black and white. She doesn’t feel comfortable in anything else. While I want Jess to have her clothes, I don’t like the idea of Dan being in my house without me. Will he look in the bedroom and see I’ve moved the bed? I can’t imagine a similar scenario where I would ask to let myself into his house. But I put Jess’s comfort over my own and text him the new alarm code.
The audience chatter subsides as Will walks onto the stage. He’s dressed as “Intellectual Ken” in a crisp white shirt, his favorite blue suit, and those trademark dark-rimmed glasses. I can’thelp smiling when I see him, his familiar gait. He introduces the panelist and the topic they’ll be discussing, contemporary adaptations of Shakespeare in literature. Will is articulate and confident, clearly well-read on the topic. But he also deflects questions to other panelists and makes sure the quieter author gets a chance to speak. When the panel veers too far off topic, he skillfully pulls the dialogue back to the books, posing questions that keep everyone engaged. In short, he was born to do this.
I’m so caught up in the panelists’ conversation that the end comes too soon. I planned on sneaking out early so Will wouldn’t see me during audience questions, but now I’ve missed my opportunity. Someone in front of me raises their hand, and I try to sink down in my chair, but I can see from the delight in his eyes that Will has clocked my presence. Once the questions are over, I try to hurry out of the marquee but there’s a crowd of people to navigate. When I finally emerge, I run straight into Will, who is waiting at the exit.
“You came,” he says, eyes alive with some private victory. “Couldn’t resist seeing me take the literary world by storm?”
“I booked before I knew you were chairing,” I explain, my body tense with irritation. “It was good, well done.”
“ ‘Good’? That’s all I get? Where’s the insult hidden inside the compliment?” he asks with a grin, shifting his weight from side to side. He’s full of energy, high on the adrenaline.
