Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 5

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Sylvie Nilsson

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How many series of Outlander are there?

The next morning, on my walk to work, I call Dan.

“Hey,” he says. “Everything okay? I’m getting on a train in five minutos.”

“I’ll be quick,” I say, bristling at his use of the word “minutos.” “Please don’t get angry with Ethan if he wets the bed. That will only make things worse.”

Dan sighs with a familiar combination of irritation and impatience. “He’s nearly eight, Anna. You baby him.”

“Getting frustrated with him won’t help. I’ll send you an article about it.”

Dan goes quiet on the line. It’s a new technique he’s developed when we disagree; he just stops talking and hopes I’ll move on. In this instance, it works.

“Also…” I pause, bracing myself. “I hear from the kids that you have a new living arrangement.”

“Oh, right. Did I not mention that? I’m sure I did,” Dan says, clearing his throat.

“No, I definitely would have remembered. That’s a big step, Dan. I haven’t even met this woman, and now she’s living with my kids?” I clear my throat. “They don’t need any more disruption. It’s not fair on them if she’ll be gone in a few months—”

“She’s not going anywhere, Anna,” he says irritably. “I’m in love with her.”

“Right, good. Well, a heads-up would have been nice,” I say, feeling the words dry in my mouth and a rush of blood heat my cheeks. Why do I feel embarrassed? What have I got to be embarrassed about?

“Like you gave me a heads-up before cutting up my credit cards?”

Classic Dan, countering a reasonable request with an entirely separate grievance from two years ago.

“I’d like to know a bit more about the woman living with my children,” I say, feeling hot, panicky anger pressing against my chest.

“What do you want to know?” Dan asks. I use his pausing technique, waiting for him to speak. It works. “We met at Tri Club.” Of course they did. “She was born in Sweden, she works in public relations. Do you want me to send you her CV?” He sighs. “Anna, it’s been two years, you can’t begrudge me for moving on. You should too.”

This rankles. It’s only been eighteen months since he moved out and only a year since the official divorce came through. I still have cans of food in my cupboard purchased by Dan. I have dry shampoo in the bathroom that I had when we were together. Okay, so I don’t use the dry shampoo often, and the onion marmalade is probably out of date, but the point stands.

“I’m not begrudging you anything, and I have ‘moved on,’ thank you. Please just do me the courtesy of keeping me in the loop with any other major life changes. If you’re having another baby or something, I’d rather not hear about it from Ethan.”

“Sure. You want me to ask my girlfriend if she can sync you into her ovulation app?”

“Oh fuck off, Dan.”

I hang up, aggressively stabbing the screen with my finger. How many calls have ended with those four words? I hate the angry, sweary person he brings out in me. I don’t want to be that person. Is she really using an ovulation app, or was that just a joke?

Walking through the front door of the office, I come face-to-face with Will Havers standing in the hall. He is singing “Build Me Up Buttercup” to himself, which feels incongruous.

“Morning, Appleby,” he says, smiling at me with that infuriating, well-rested face. I take a moment to imagine Will’s morning. He probably got up early to go for a run, had a nice leisurely shower, had time to shave and then brush and floss his teeth, caught up on the news over a quiet cup of coffee while listening to birdsong and Radio 4. I shouldn’t resent someone for having a morning that doesn’t involve throwing together packed lunches, prompting forgotten homework, and searching for lost sports kit—I know I chose to have children—but for some reason, I do, I really do. I’m sure we’d all have time to correct every single typo if we got to start our day in such a delightful way.

“Morning,” I say curtly.

“You look stressed,” he tells me.

“What makes you think I’m stressed?” I snap.

“You’re tugging your hair.” Am I? “You do that when you’re anxious.”

I clasp my hands together, embarrassed. When things were at their worst with Dan, I developed an unconscious habit of hair pulling. I only realized I was doing it when I noticed a small bald spot appearing behind one ear. It’s grown back now, but there’s a telltale tuft of regrowth that I need to comb down with hairspray every morning to stop it from sticking out. I am mortified that anyone, least of all Will, might have noticed this about me.

“Do you count how many times I use the bathroom too?” I ask.

“Usually three. Five when you’ve been drinking the night before,” he says, following me into the office. I turn to shake my head at him, and he laughs. “I’m joking, I am not keeping track of your bathroom usage.”

When I get to my desk, Will is still next to me, and I look up, my eyes questioning.

“How’s the dating column going?” he asks.

“Great. I’m excited.” Two lies in just three words, impressive. “I love this, by the way,” I say, pointing at his monogrammed document wallet. “Is it from WHSmith?”

“Funny,” he says, a smile playing at the corner of his mouth. “Listen, I’ve got a table at Henry’s on Thursday night. Amazing seafood, impossible to get a reservation. Do you want to come?”

This question throws me even more than the ovulation-app quip of Dan’s.

“What? Me? Why?” I ask, feeling my forehead crease into a deep frown.

“Why?” he laughs. “Because the food is supposed to be incredible, and I thought it might be nice.”

“Is this some ploy to steal my column?” I ask, swiveling my chair to face him, then crossing my arms. Whatever game he’s playing, I don’t have the bandwidth today.

“No. I need to review the place for my food column, and I prefer not to eat alone.” He pauses, looking at me with an intensity that suddenly makes the air between us feel charged.

“What, so like a date?” I say, more in shock than horror, but it comes out as horror.

Will crosses his arms. Is he blushing? “No, never mind, just trying to be friendly.”

Now I’m thoroughly confused. Will doesn’t do friendly. This must be part of some diabolical plan. “Well, thanks for the invitation, but I’m afraid I can’t this week,” I say, then shoot him an unsteady smile. What if he really is just trying to be friendly? Maybe I’m still in fight-or-flight mode from my conversation with Dan. My hackles sometimes feel permanently raised.

“Sure, maybe another time,” says Will. He looks as though he wants to say something else, but now Malik, one of the junior copywriters, is hovering by my desk, waiting for me to review something, so Will walks away.

What was that all about? I don’t have time to dwell. I quickly scan Malik’s copy and mark up some changes, then I need to prepare for my ten a.m. with Jonathan. I sent him my column last night, “Love in the Time of AI.” I have to say I’m pleased with it. Not only is it the story of a terrible date, but it’s also a deeper examination of AI communication, how it might affect the world of online dating.

“So?” I ask Jonathan as I walk into his office at one minute to ten. “What did you think?”

“It’s clever,” he says, with less enthusiasm than I’d been hoping for.

“And funny?” I suggest. I know it’s funny. Lottie proofread it for me. She said it was hilarious.

“Yes, it’s funny,” Jonathan acknowledges. I sense a “but” coming. “But…”

“But?”

“It’s a little bleak, Anna.”

“Bleak?”

“Here, where you detail a future of virtual boyfriends who fulfill all your emotional needs and a drawer full of sex toys to fulfill your physical ones—that’s bleak.”

“I was being facetious.”

Jonathan takes his glasses off and pinches the skin between his brows. “Our readers don’t want facetious; they want hope. They want to feel empathy, a connection. They want to feel optimistic, not depressed.”

“Depressed? Jonathan, come on. It’s wry!”

“Crispin didn’t like it,” Jonathan says, his face somber. “This isn’t a judgment about you as a journalist, Anna. I just don’t think you’re in the headspace to come at this from the angle he’s looking for.”

Panic floods through me. I genuinely thought he was going to love it.

“You’re a great writer, but being a columnist is a more personal undertaking. You need to be willing to show a little of who you are, to be vulnerable on the page. This piece tells me nothing about you, your divorce, how you feel about it. It all feels rather…well, snide.”

Vulnerable? Vulnerable! If he only knew just how vulnerable I feel all the time . Having to be strong for Jess and Ethan, to not go to pieces when I learn Dan has moved in with Sylvie, to hide how much it hurts when he says he’s in love. To have the financial strain of running a household entirely on my shoulders. To question whether I am even lovable now, since the fun-loving, carefree girl I was no longer exists. Then I picture Ethan’s little face, his excitement at telling me about Tilly’s dad, and I think about this job that’s kept me sane through everything. I will not be labeled dead wood.

“I do have another angle,” I say before giving myself time to fully think it through. “I’m not sure online dating is for me. What if I set out to meet someone the old-fashioned way, only dated people I met in real life?” I pause; Jonathan looks intrigued. “My son suggested setting me up with his classmate’s dad because we’re both divorced and we both hate bikes.”

Jonathan bursts out laughing, a genuine laugh. “How to find a man in ten dates…chosen by your children,” he says, moving his hand through the air as though it’s a headline on a billboard.

“Um, well, they wouldn’t all need to be chosen by my kids, that was just one example.”

“No, it needs to be your kids, that’s the unique selling point. It’s brilliant. Just the kind of thing Crispin is after. It’s a fresh take, no one else has done it.” Did I pitch this? I don’t think I did. “And you have to go out with whoever they suggest.” Jonathan is still talking. “Be open-minded and vulnerable. Take it seriously. No cynicism.”

“No cynicism,” I say, crossing my fingers behind my back. Why am I agreeing to this? This is the worst idea I’ve ever had.

As I’m wrestling with what I’ve just signed up for there’s a knock on the door and Will’s head appears around it.

“Ah, Will, perfect timing. Anna here has just bought herself ten more weeks on the dating column. Ten dates, found from real life, all chosen by her children. An anti-online-dating column,” Jonathan says, rubbing his palms together.

“Maybe not ten,” I mutter. “I could start with five, see how I go.”

“I like it,” Will says with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes . He does not like it. I can tell by the pulse in his jaw . He’s annoyed he’s lost his chance to steal my column.

As I’m savoring the sweetness of victory, Will walks into the room and takes a seat in the chair next to me. Why is he sitting down? This is my meeting.

“Though people do like to hear both perspectives when it comes to dating. Maybe I could do an online column as a contrast. We could pick a theme to write about each week, do a his-and-hers, online/offline, cover all bases,” Will suggests, his face animated.

“Cover all bases?” I repeat, looking back and forth between Will and Jonathan.

“Oh yes,” Jonathan enthuses. “The working mum looking for love in real life, versus the man about town who only has time for the apps.” Jonathan grins. “You’re onto something there, Will, and with both of you on the back page, we’d be appealing to the broadest possible range of readers.”

What? You’ve got to be kidding me. “Why does there need to be a second column at all? Isn’t my idea enough to stand on its own?” I ask, sounding like a petulant child. I don’t know why I’m so annoyed about this, but it feels like I had my eye on something good and Will just can’t let me have it.

“A rising tide lifts all ships, Anna. I’ll let you guys hammer out the details. I have lunch with Bonhams, toodle pip.” Jonathan stands up, grabs his Burberry trench coat and trilby, then pauses in the door. “?‘Philosopher,’ nine letters, fifth letter T?”

“Aristotle,” I say, and Jonathan claps one hand against the doorframe, then pulls a pencil and his newspaper out of his satchel before he leaves.

Alone with Will, I let my fake smile drop. “You just had to muscle in on my idea, didn’t you?”

“I’m not muscling in on anything,” he says, slowly stretching his arms above his head and shifting to sit with one ankle resting on his thigh. “This way we both get a column, and our readers get two different perspectives. Everybody wins.”

“Because you care so much about the readers,” I say, rolling my eyes as I stand up.

“I get it, you don’t like to collaborate, but I want this column, and the MD likes it, so it looks like it’s happening,” Will says, his voice uncharacteristically sharp. Then he stands too, so he’s towering over me.

“Why would you want this?” I ask. “You don’t need extra credit. You’re already the golden boy who won over the investors with your winning pitch. They’re hardly going to make you redundant.”

“I’m not worried about that,” Will says, taking off his glasses, then stowing them in his pocket.

“Right, so you just have a burning desire to become the next Carrie Bradshaw, do you?” I scoff.

“I need it for my portfolio. I want to show I can author a column about something other than food. Dating has broad appeal. I don’t want to be pigeonholed as the food guy.”

“You could add Teen Girl to your portfolio.”

His mouth creases into a smile. “Anyone would think you were scared of a little competition, Appleby.”

“What would I be scared of, exactly?” I ask, taking a step toward him, refusing to be intimidated by the foot of height he has on me.

“Scared that my column will be better than yours. That my dates will be more fun,” he says, closing the space between us by another inch.

I jut my chin forward. “I don’t think the magazine needs an X-rated column, so you might be limited on how much ‘fun’ you can write about, Havers.”

“Right, because that’s all a date with me would be,” he says, shaking his head, a flash of something new in his eyes and a lift to his eyebrow. “You don’t know me. You reject any attempt I make to get to know you. I really don’t get what your problem is, Anna.” His piercing green eyes stare directly into mine, and the narrow space between us crackles with some furious energy. My palms start to heat, and I struggle to think straight.

“You really want to know what my problem is?” I ask, and he nods. “I’ve been here six years, I work hard every day, late into the night sometimes, I never take a lunch break, I know this magazine better than anyone. Then you swan in with all this swagger and confidence and start critiquing other people’s work when no one asked for your feedback. You ingratiate yourself with Jonathan, volunteering to write up secret pitches none of us were even told about.” I take a beat. It feels so good to be saying all this . “I heard you asked for a raise before you’d even finished your probation, so I’m guessing you already earn more than me, even though I have years more experience, but you probably think you deserve it. You asked for a brand-new ergonomic office chair, even though the rest of us are making do with the crappy old ones, and HR ordered you one, just like that.” I snap my fingers. “You think you can charm everyone into doing exactly what you want, but it won’t work on me. Okay?” I take a breath; the air in the room pulses with emotion.

Will reaches for his glasses and puts them back on. “So, you dislike me for wanting a comfortable chair, for being ambitious and good at my job?” he says, his voice calm and even. He raises a hand to his chin in a faux pose of contemplation. “I won’t apologize for trying to make the magazine better, and if you think you’ve earned a pay rise, you should ask for one. Your lack of confidence and unwillingness to take a lunch break are not on me.” His eyes are steely now, a cool detachment in his tone. “Now, we’re working together on this column whether you like it or not, so let me know when you’re ready to have a constructive, professional, grown-up conversation.” He walks past me toward the door, reaching for the handle, then pauses, turning to give me a final withering look. “And, Anna, if I needed to charm you, trust me, I would have.”

Then he leaves and I pick up the paperweight from Jonathan’s desk and make to hurl it at the door but groan in fury instead, placing the paperweight back down carefully. What a narcissistic sociopath. I am riled and infuriated and ready to punch something, but my skin tingles also with a new exhilaration. Because now, this is war.