Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 2

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The next morning, after walking Ethan to school, I get the bus into town, then I need to speed-walk up the high street if I’m going to get to my desk by nine o’clock. Bath Living has offices in the historic center, on the ground floor of a Georgian town house. I’ve been at the magazine for five years, and my job has provided much-needed stability while the rest of my life was falling apart. Jonathan, the managing director, is a sweetheart. He lets me work flexible hours, and while I started out as freelance, I’m now a staff writer with my own column. I know lots of people hate their job, so I count myself lucky that I have nothing to complain about on that front.

As I’m hurrying up Monmouth Street toward the office, someone falls into step beside me. “Morning.” I turn to see the looming figure of Will Havers smiling down at me. Scrap that, I do have one complaint. While I’ve thrown on whatever clothes I could find in my rush to leave the house, Will is always perfectly styled. Today he is modeling “spring work wear” from his catalog of looks: blue suit trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a perfectly tailored beige trench coat. He’s also sporting his trademark dark-rimmed glasses, which I suspect he wears more for fashion than for vision.

“Morning, Will,” I reply. It’s a five-minute walk to the office. I can be civil for five minutes. Though I’m power walking as fast as I can, Will has such long legs, he need only saunter to keep pace with me.

“Good weekend?” he asks.

“Yes. You?”

“Wonderful.

“I saw the layout for your piece on the art exhibition at the Pump Room,” he says.

“Right,” I say, unable to hide my suspicion. Will has only been at the magazine for six months. He’s the same level as I am but acts as though he’s more senior and has a habit of giving unsolicited feedback.

“I liked your interview with the graphic artist, it’s smart, funny,” Will tells me.

“Thank you,” I say, turning to look at him. I can’t believe he brought it up just to give me a compliment.

“If it were me, I would include a few more photos of guests at the opening,” he says, swinging his leather document wallet, which has WH embossed in gold on the side . “People like seeing the fashionable faces invited to these events as much as they like seeing the art.” And there it is, the feedback I didn’t ask for.

“It’s about the exhibition though, the artist, it’s not a who’s who,” I say tightly, trying to increase my pace.

“Sure,” he says, nodding just once. “I don’t mean to criticize.” Except he does. “Jonathan has asked me to look at how we can skew toward a younger demographic. With events like this, the social angle always helps. We need people to tag us on their socials, make the exhibition look like it was the place to be. The art is secondary.”

“Secondary?” I say while exhaling a burst of angry air. “This isn’t Hello magazine. It was a serious piece about a serious artist.”

“Which is why it was seriously dull,” Will says, and I can hear him smiling before I stop on the street and turn to glower at him, one hand planted on my hip. “Sorry,” he says, with a smile that says he’s not sorry at all. “I’m only winding you up, it wasn’t dull. I just think you should review the photos before it goes to print, make it look like people were actually there.”

“Will, I have been working as a journalist for longer than you’ve had facial hair, so I don’t think I need your input, but thank you,” I say through gritted teeth.

“Five typos says otherwise, but sure,” Will says under his breath.

“There were not five typos in that article.” I feel my rage building now, while Will remains infuriatingly cheerful.

“If we’re counting grammatical errors, yes, there were five.”

Glaring up at him, I take in the strong jaw, the green brooding eyes, the mouth that looks as though it’s permanently trying to conceal some private amusement. He reminds me of a cartoon villain or the man on the cover of a romance novel. His good looks are so boringly predictable, it’s all 2D perfection, there’s no nuance to his face at all.

“It hasn’t been proofread yet. It’s allowed to have typos,” I explain through clenched teeth. “And I’m thrilled you have time to pore over other people’s work looking for their mistakes, but some of us have lives.” I pause. “People that do that are not team players, they’re pedants.”

“People who do that are not team players,” Will says, biting his lip. We finally reach the office, and Will opens the door for me. “I’m just trying to raise everyone’s game, Anna, make the magazine as good as it can be. I would be open to feedback from you.”

I claw back the urge to say, “My feedback is to go fuck yourself,” and instead opt for, “You’re a typo, Will.” Which might be the worst comeback I’ve ever delivered and causes Will to scrunch up his face in confusion.

“Mature,” he says, hanging his coat on a peg in the hall, then reaching to take mine, but I snatch it back, childishly. I don’t need his help.

Inside, the open-plan office is abuzz with undefinable energy. Colleagues are gathered around each other’s desks talking in hushed whispers. No one is doing any work.

“What’s happening?” I ask Karl, who sits opposite me. He is vaping furiously, though we’re not supposed to vape inside. Karl wears his hair in a man-bun and has veneers so white they sometimes distract me from my work.

“Jonathan’s called a company meeting,” Karl says. “Val heard from some guy she met at Yogalates, who knows someone who works in accounts, that the magazine’s gone bust.” Karl makes a show of biting his fingernails. “I can’t lose my job. I just bought a Shih Tzu.”

A vortex of fear starts swirling in my stomach. I can’t lose my job either. There aren’t many publications in Bath, and I would struggle to find anything this flexible.

“Oh, and I need a small business owner to give me a quote on rising tourism numbers, any ideas? You always know who will be good,” Karl says.

“Sure, I’ll send you a list,” I say. Then the girls at the sales desk beckon Karl over, and he hurries off to talk to them. The magazine is a social workplace. With twenty-two staff, there are often people going for drinks after work or gossiping in the communal kitchen. I am not part of all that. I’m friendly to everyone, but when I’m here, I need to get my head down and my work done so I can leave on time to pick up Ethan from school. Making small talk with twenty-three-year-olds about their nail extensions or with Karl about his hierarchy of dog breeds is not an efficient use of my time.

“Everyone!” Jonathan calls, sticking his head out of his office. “Living room, five minutes.”

Jonathan Courtauld is a gay, graying Don Draper type with extravagant yet impeccable taste. He inherited the magazine from his father, who ran it the way his father had run it in the 1960s. Everything about the place is an anachronism, including the office itself, which feels more like an elegant private home than a workplace. Jonathan’s art collection adorns the walls, and bookshelves full of first editions line the halls. All the “necessary but ugly stuff,” like photocopiers and printers, is discreetly hidden away behind closed doors.

The living room, which doubles as our meeting room, is decked out with velvet sofas, antique Persian rugs, and a large ottoman stacked with books on art and design. In the corner there’s an ornate, old-fashioned drinks trolley for “cocktails at five” on Friday afternoons. I’m told Jonathan makes a mean gin sling, though I wouldn’t know.

Jonathan looks pensive as we all file in and search for somewhere to sit. Will takes the armchair next to Jonathan. Casey, Jonathan’s twenty-two-year-old assistant, walks across the room and runs a hand along the back of Will’s chair, brushing his neck as she goes. Will turns to grab her hand, then smiles at her, and she gives him a lovelorn look. I can’t believe how unprofessional they’re being, flirting at work. Last week, it was Emily in accounts, permanently hovering by Will’s desk. I honestly don’t know how the man gets any work done.

Unlike the rest of us, Will doesn’t look worried about this unscheduled meeting. In fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look worried. I heard one of the younger girls, Kelly, say that he comes from money. His family owns a house on the Circus, one of the most prestigious addresses in Bath, so maybe this is all just a hobby for him.

“In my father’s day, every coffee table in the county would have a copy of our magazine,” Jonathan says wistfully. “Vendors wouldn’t dream of advertising their property anywhere but in our pages.” He starts pouring tea into china teacups, then places each one into a delicate saucer before handing them around. “Unfortunately, my dears, that is no longer the case. While we are still the premiere lifestyle and culture publication in the Southwest, print orders are down and our weekly online edition isn’t getting the numbers we need to secure sufficient advertising revenue.”

Murmurs circle around the room as people absorb what he’s telling us. I feel a surge of panic. My divorce was expensive, I have to cover the mortgage on my own now, and I have hardly any savings left. What will I do if I don’t have a job?

“But I have good news,” Jonathan continues. “We have found an investor, a company with just the right online expertise. Crispin Hardman from Arch Media is going to bring us into the twenty-first century, ha ha.” He laughs nervously as he sets down the teapot. “It won’t be plain sailing, we’ll all need to adapt. As you know, I’m the biggest luddite of all, but he’s seen something special in our little publication. He’s confident in our ability to evolve.”

Jonathan looks across at Will. “We have Will here to thank.” Jonathan reaches out to squeeze Will’s shoulder. “I didn’t want to alarm anyone until we had a solution, but over the last few months, Will has been helping me put together a pitch for investors. He’s gone above and beyond to get it right.” Will knew about this and didn’t tell anyone? “Well done, Will.” Jonathan leads a round of applause while Will at least has the grace to look awkward. “Now, I’ll be talking to you all individually about what this means,” Jonathan says once the clapping has subsided, “but I think we should all see this as a wonderful opportunity.”

A wonderful opportunity? It sounds like a big change, and one thing my life does not need is more change.

I’m first to be called into Jonathan’s office for a one-to-one.

“Exciting news,” I say, with false cheer, as Jonathan closes the door behind me.

“I’m afraid I was putting a rather brave face on it out there, Anna. The reality is jobs are going to be on the line.”

“Oh.” My stomach lurches.

“I didn’t think it was good for morale to speak too plainly, but investors like to clear out any perceived dead wood.” Jonathan smiles and rolls his eyes as though this is some minor inconvenience. Am I dead wood? “And I’m going to be honest with you, Anna. Crispin is not the biggest fan of your column.” Jonathan sits back in his chair, then hunches his shoulders around his neck, raising his hands in mock surrender.

“Oh?” I say quietly.

“Afraid not. He thinks According to Anna is—hang on, I’ll pull up his e-mail.” Jonathan moves a stack of papers from his desk and logs on to his computer. “Here we are: ‘the humdrum ramblings of a mundane middle-aged existence.’?” Jonathan pulls an apologetic grimace. I feel myself bristle. “Don’t shoot the messenger. I just wanted you to know what you’re up against.”

“But readers love my column. I get e-mails about my column.”

“Our current demographic might, yes, but Crispin wants us to appeal to a younger, more ‘aspirational’ readership. He wants a column about nightlife and dating, full of drama and vulnerability. Someone who people will get invested in personally, who they’ll log in week after week to read about.”

“I write about dating and nightlife, I write about everything,” I say, crossing my arms defensively. Then I notice my smudged, messy manicure, applied by Jess, and fold my hands into fists. When I look up, Jonathan is holding up last month’s publication.

“?‘My Date Night with the Bridgertons,’?” he says, looking back at me. Jonathan picks up another issue from his desk. “The month before, you led with ‘Why Slipper Socks Are My New Wardrobe Essential.’?” Jonathan shoots me another kindly grimace.

“I can be more aspirational if that’s the steer. I can go out more,” I plead, though even the thought of having to put on real clothes and leave the house after dark makes me feel ill.

“I’m sorry, Anna, but I’m giving the back page to Will. He’s pitched me a ‘man about town’ dating column.”

“Will?” I exclaim, rising out of my chair, so I’m now standing in front of Jonathan’s desk. “But he already has the food column.”

“The way Will pitched it, he takes the whole back page, readers have the chance to really get to know him, build a personal connection.” Will pitched to steal my column? That is a new low, even for him. Jonathan gives me a sympathetic frown. “This isn’t personal, Anna. Arch Media commissioned opinion polls. Will is popular among the elusive eighteen-to-thirty age bracket.”

“And what was I?” I ask nervously.

“You get a high approval rating with the over-sixty-fives.” Jonathan bites his lip, and I groan in frustration.

“You can’t just take my column without giving me a chance,” I say, trying to sound stern.

Jonathan sighs. “The new leadership team want a dating column, and you don’t date.”

“I could date, if dating were required,” I offer rashly.

“Really?” Jonathan looks skeptical, then checks his watch. This gives me an uneasy feeling that we’re nearing the end of our allotted meeting time. “You’re a good journalist, Anna. You have a talent for finding stories no one else sees, your interviews are always well researched, beautifully written”—he pauses—“but writing a column is a more personal undertaking, it’s a different kind of journalism. Maybe your time would be better allocated elsewhere.”

I shake my head. If I lose my column, I’ll be first out the door when they start making redundancies. “Jonathan, please, give me a chance.”

Jonathan looks down, and I realize I’m now leaning across the desk and tugging on his sleeve like a pleading child. As I let go, he closes his eyes, resigned. “One week—write a fresh and original column about dating, or I’m giving it to Will,” Jonathan says, rubbing one eye with the heel of his hand. He looks exhausted.

“Yes, I will, I promise. Thank you, thank you!” I turn to go before he can change his mind.

“Anna,” Jonathan calls after me, and when I turn back, I see compassion in his eyes. “I know it’s tough, getting out there again. But if you can be honest, vulnerable, I think our readers will relate to the challenge of looking for love again after heartbreak, to being on the wrong side of thirty-five and leaping back into the dating pool without the life preservers of youth and optimism.”

“?‘The wrong side of thirty-five’? Who decided there was a right side and a wrong side?” I ask with a frown.

“That’s the spirit,” he says, clapping his hands. “Write that.”

Back at my desk, I pull up the draft layout for my article about the art exhibition. I see immediately that Will is right. The pictures are too static, too empty; I’ve prioritized the art over the event and the space looks dead. I’m going to have to change it . Damn. As I’m clicking through the photos of the event, a subtle blend of sandalwood, pine cones, and freshly ironed linen puts my senses on high alert.

“I’m sorry about the column, Appleby,” Will’s voice comes from behind me.

“Your sources are inaccurate, Havers,” I say without turning around. “Jonathan’s excited about the new direction I pitched for my column.”

I swivel my chair around now, unable to resist. There it is. So fleeting, anyone else might miss it, but I see the pulsing muscle in his jaw, the fractional slip in that cocksure grin. He’s disappointed.

“New direction?” he asks.

“Yup,” I say breezily. “I’m going to write a dating column, something fun and aspirational.”

Will raises an eyebrow at me, with a hint of a grin. Why is he grinning? “You have some real dates lined up to write about? Not Roman Roy from Succession ? Though I do so enjoy reading about your TV crushes.”

Leaning on the edge, Will picks up a pen from my desk and starts clicking and unclicking it. He flashes what I imagine he thinks is a charming smile, but it makes me want to stab him in the hand with that pen. All the younger women in the office may fawn and giggle over Will, but his charms don’t work on me.

“Don’t you have work to do?” I ask with a sigh. “Menus to peruse, calories to count, cutlery to critique?” I say, flapping a hand at him as though he’s a giant fly.

“Just know that if dating’s too much pressure for you, I’m more than ready to turn my ten-inch column into twenty,” Will says, running a hand through his thick brown hair.

“I don’t think anyone needs more inches from you, Havers.”

We lock eyes. If I blush now, he’ll know that innuendo wasn’t intentional. Do not blush, do not even blink . In my head, I count slowly to ten, holding his gaze, channeling my inner iceberg. He looks away before I get to five. Ha. I win. I know, I know, I am a grown woman behaving like a child, but this is what he reduces me to.

“My approval rating says otherwise,” Will says, putting the pen back down.

“I’m sure you were popular when you were writing for Teen Girl magazine, but Bath Living is for grown-ups. I don’t think fifteen-year-old girls are buying it.”

His face falls, and I savor the moment. I’ve been saving that one for just the right opportunity. I did some digging into Will’s CV. He claims to have worked at Publishing Global from 2019 to 2021, but a little detective work revealed he was actually employed by a subsidiary magazine, Teen Girl . I pulled a few old editions and found an excellent advice page he authored entitled “How to Talk to Boys.”

Will clears his throat. I got to him. I finally got to him.

“Well, if you’re ever stuck for dating venues, I get twenty percent off at the Townhouse. Just mention my name to the ma?tre d’,” Will says, standing up and turning to walk back to his desk. What, no comeback? I start to doubt myself. Was that too mean? But I don’t have time to worry about Will’s feelings. I need to come up with a real date to write about and I need to do it fast. Taking a deep breath, I open my phone and search “dating apps.”