Page 48 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
“Possibly,” I reply, flicking my hair back over one shoulder. I don’t have a hot date, I’ll be in, doing what I do most evenings—laundry, dishes, and helping with homework—but I don’t want him to imagine me sitting around waiting for him to pop by.
“Well let me know once you have something firmed up,” Will says.
“Why? So you can keep tabs on me?” I ask archly.
“No.” He frowns, confused. “So I can work out what my column needs to be about.”
Oh, right, the column. Oops. “Sure. Will do,” I say briskly, swiveling my chair back around to face my desk. Will doesn’t walk away immediately, I can feel him standing behind me for a moment, but then he leaves, and my heart starts pounding unnaturally fast in my chest. Great, now I have a full-blown crush on stupid Will. This is a disaster. It’s distracting and pointless. He already has every girl in sales fluttering their eyelashes at him, he doesn’t need me to further inflate his enormous ego.
Putting my earphones in, I try to focus on work. It takes me most of the day to write up my feature on the literary festival and make some follow-up calls to two local authors. As I hang up from a call, my WhatsApp pings.
Will Havers
So when’s the next full moon?
Reading the message, I look over at his desk and see he’s watching me. He tilts his chin, raises both eyebrows, and bites his lip. My insides swirl into hot jelly, and I swivel back to my computer so he can’t see me redden. What unbelievable gall. Does he really think he can blow me off, go home with some other woman, and then continue this low-level flirtation with me?
Anna Appleby
What happened in Hay stays in Hay.
Will Havers
Shame.
Anna Appleby
Wouldn’t want you cricking your neck.
Will Havers
And then nothing. When I turn to sneak a look across the office, I see he’s left his desk. Turning back to my screen, I have a reply from the agent.
Dear Ms. Appleby,
Thank you for your e-mail. I must admit in fifteen years as an agent I’ve never received a request quite like this one. I passed your message on to Mr. Stirling, and he said he would be delighted to meet you for a drink and is flattered that your son chose him as a potential suitor. If you are free on Thursday night, could you meet him at the stage door after his show? I’ll leave a comp ticket for you at the box office if you’d like to watch the play. I suggest you do; Mr. Stirling is wonderful in the role.
Best wishes,
Evan Greenswab
What? He said yes?I do a little excited dance in my chair. Who else could I ask out under the pretext of research? BradPitt? Bradley Cooper? They probably live too far away. Colin Farrell? Now I’m just being ridiculous. My mind jumps from Colin Farrell to Dan. Dan loves Ryan Stirling. Imagine if this date went well, imagine if I startedseeingRyan Stirling. I know divorce isn’t a competition you can win, but if it were, this would be the mother of all trump cards.
“Everyone,” Jonathan says with a clap, walking out into the open-plan office. “Crispin from Arch Media is coming down on Thursday. He wants to meet the team, sit in on some meetings. Can everyone make sure they have something intelligent to say?” He looks flustered. “Especially you two.” Jonathan points to Will, who’s standing by the water cooler, and then to me at my desk. “Crispin loves the new dating column. Let’s make sure we’ve got copy for him to read, fresh ideas to get him excited.”
Jonathan scurries around straightening pictures and fluffing cushions, as though Crispin is going to be judgingBath Livingon its soft furnishings rather than its bottom line. As Will walks back past my desk, I call over to him, “I’ve just sorted a date for next week’s column.”
“That was quick. Who?” he asks, coming over to perch on a corner of my desk. He smells like pine needles, soap, and the clean, good kind of sweat. I can’t help looking at his glasses. Now that I know, it’s so obvious that the glass in them is clear.
“Ryan Stirling,” I say, shifting self-consciously in my chair. “I asked him out via his agent. He said yes.”
“Your kids chose Ryan Stirling?” Will asks with a frown, then he pushes up his shirtsleeves, revealing a tanned, firm forearm.Is he doing this on purpose?
“My son saw a poster for his play,” I explain, trying not to look at the taut flex of muscle in front of me. I imagine Will has no problem opening jars, even ones that are really stuck. He’d probably just pop those lids off, one after another.Pop, pop, pop.That’s certainly one of the downsides of being divorced; I have no one to help me with stuck jars. I mean, sure, I’m not miserable anymore, but the jar help was always appreciated.
“Anna?” Will says. I look up and realize he must have said something, but I missed it because I was daydreaming about watching him open pickle jars. I don’t evenlikepickles.
“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head.
