Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 8

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The children come back from Dan’s house with a bin bag full of dirty clothes. I bite my tongue as he ushers them through the front door. He never does their washing. They return as though from holiday, clothes ready to be laundered by yours truly.

Dan doesn’t usually linger when he drops the kids off on a Sunday night. But tonight, as Jess and Ethan race inside, vying to be first to the TV remote, he pauses on the doorstep.

“Can I have a quick word?” he asks, scuffing his trainers against the step. I still can’t get used to how different Dan looks. His muscles now bulge from beneath his Aertex shirt, and he must have had his teeth whitened because they look brighter than they were before. “Why isn’t Ethan doing football this term?” he asks.

“He doesn’t like it.”

“So, you just let him quit, without telling me?”

“He doesn’t like football, he likes field hockey,” I say tightly. This is the first time Dan has expressed any interest in the children’s extracurricular activities.

“So, we’re raising a quitter?”

“We’re raising someone who has the right to choose what they’re interested in.”

Dan rolls his eyes, then takes a step backward. “Just consult me in future.” He bounces down the steps, then pauses on the street. “Did you see there’s a new series of Port, Starboard, Murder starting tonight?”

“Is there?” Port, Starboard, Murder is a crime drama we watched religiously for four series. It’s one of the few TV shows we both enjoyed.

“It’s on Apple TV,” he says. “Use my log-in, if you like. I’ll text it to you.”

And then he’s gone. And this is what an ex-husband is: one minute exasperating and petty, the next, reminding you why you loved him in the first place.

“Hey, where are all my toys?” Ethan yells from inside, and I walk back through to the living room.

“I moved them to the garage. They’re all toys you don’t play with anymore.”

“What! I play with them all the time!” Ethan cries as I pull him into a hug.

“I haven’t thrown anything away, just had a sort-out. You have all that room in your cupboard if you want to move any of them upstairs.”

“I think it looks good,” Jess says. “Maybe there’ll be room for a fish tank now?”

“Oh yeah, great idea,” Ethan says, instantly forgetting about the toys. He goes over to assess the new space, measuring it with footsteps just like Dan would do. “Can I get a pet axolotl?”

Jess pulls a face at me, like she doesn’t know if she just helped or made things worse. “What’s for dinner?” she asks, striding toward the kitchen.

“Can I, Mum?” Ethan asks.

“I don’t know what an axolotl is,” I call back, following Jess into the kitchen. “I have a casserole in the freezer. Are you hungry now?” Watching her standing by the open fridge door, I swear she’s grown an inch in the forty-eight hours she’s been away.

“It’s an amphibian salamander. Kenny has one,” Ethan says, walking in behind me. “They eat bloodworms.”

“I don’t want to eat meat anymore,” Jess says, closing the fridge door. She looks down at her phone, and her eyebrows dip into a tense frown. “Sylvie says eating meat is causing climate change. She says if we’re not part of the solution then we’re part of the problem.”

“Why don’t we go out for dinner?” I suggest, suddenly feeling disinclined to cook. “Sunday-night treat.”

—

As we walk up the street to the vegan café Jess has suggested, Ethan asks, “How was fishing?” as though he’s only just remembered that I went.

“Fine. Good,” I say, reluctant to tell them much more about it. “We didn’t catch anything.”

“Give it a score out of six,” Ethan suggests.

“Six? It needs to be out of five or ten,” says Jess.

“Why?” he asks.

“Three out of six,” I tell him, opting not to factor in the journey home.

Once we’re seated in the café, Jess opens the menu, her eyes wide with delight. “Sylvie says this place is great.”

I feel as though I’m playing that children’s game Simon Says, where you only follow the instruction if Simon says it. With Sylvie Says it’s more of an internal game I’m playing with myself, where I must resist the urge to shout, “I don’t give a flying fuck what Sylvie thinks,” but instead smile and nod agreeably. It’s not a good game, it takes a great deal of concentration, and it is not at all fun. As I’m concentrating on playing Sylvie Says, a waiter with peroxide-blond hair approaches the table.

“Hi, I’m Caleb. Have you dined with us before?” he asks. Caleb is in his twenties and has luminous skin, jutting cheekbones, and a tattoo on his neck that looks like a smudged chessboard.

“No,” says Jess, beaming up at him. “It’s our first time.”

“This food looks weird,” says Ethan, staring across at another table’s meal.

“Well, just try it and you see if you like it, what’s the worst that can happen?” I tell him.

“So, you can choose to eat tapas style with a few small plates from here,” Caleb says, handing me an open menu, then indicating the left-hand column, “or each pick a larger dish from the right. It’s all delicious, so you can’t go wrong.” His upbeat energy is contagious, and I start to feel more enthusiastic about this Sylvie Says food. “Would you like to know the specials?”

“Sure,” I say with a shrug, watching Ethan turn the menu over twice, looking for something he recognizes.

“Would you like me to tell you the specials or rap them?” Caleb asks.

Jess giggles, and Ethan perks up. “Rap!” he shouts.

What follows has all of us laughing as our waiter tries to rap a list of dishes, which in no way rhymes or works as a rap. But he delivers it with such bravado, moving his whole body to an imaginary beat, that he has the whole café applauding.

“Do you always rap the specials?” I ask once he’s finished.

“Only for my prettiest customers.” He grins at me, then turns on his heel and dances back toward the kitchen.

Once he’s out of earshot, Jess leans forward and hisses, “He’s got serious rizz. You should ask him out.”

“Jess, he’s about fourteen,” I whisper back.

“Fourteen-year-olds can’t work in cafés. He said you were pretty,” Jess says, eyes wide with conviction.

“Waiters say that kind of thing to everyone. They’re just trying to get a good tip.” Caleb is undeniably attractive; twenty-five-year-old me would have clocked him immediately. But I’ve never asked a stranger out in real life, and someone this young and good-looking feels like an ambitious place to start.

When he brings our food over, Jess nudges me beneath the table. “My mum wants to ask you something.”

My throat starts to constrict and I’m filled with a sudden urge to run from the restaurant. “No, I don’t, it’s fine,” I say, shaking my head at Jess, then giving Caleb an embarrassed look.

“Are you single by any chance?” Jess asks him, bold as brass.

“Yes,” Caleb says, looking at me. “Don’t look so nervous. Whatever the question—the answer is yes,” he says, and when he grins, he looks like a rock star. Jess laughs and taps the table with her hands.

“You shouldn’t say yes when you don’t know what the question is,” Ethan points out. “What if the question was ‘Will you poke your own eye out with this spoon?’?” He holds up his spoon in a threatening manner, and I reach across the table to press it back down onto the table.

“True,” says Caleb. “Let’s hope that’s not the question.”

He looks at me and winks. Is he flirting with me? Jumping to my feet, I beckon Caleb across to the service area. If this conversation is really happening, I don’t want to have it in front of my children.

“Sorry about that,” I say, feeling flustered. “I’m a journalist, I’m writing a column where my kids choose people for me to ask out and, well, do you maybe want to have a coffee sometime?” I feel my cheeks flush, but then a rush of adrenaline at the fact that I managed to get the words out.

“Sure,” he says, running a hand back through his hair. He looks delighted.

“How old are you?” I ask, smiling now.

“How old are you?” he counters.

“Probably too old for you.”

Caleb pulls clean knives and forks from a tray on the counter. “What’s your cutoff, age-wise?”

“Well, I’m thirty-three,” I fib. “So, I don’t know, twenty-six?” I don’t know why I just lied. Maybe I want to see if he’ll believe I could be thirty-three?

“Lucky for you, I’m twenty-seven,” he says.

He’s twenty-seven? He doesn’t look twenty-seven. But then, stones, glass houses, and all that. Maybe I shouldn’t dwell on the age question.

“I’m Anna. You don’t have to call me, but here’s my number if you’re ever bored and fancy a vegan beer. Sorry.” I scribble my phone number on a napkin, and Caleb reaches for my hand.

“Stop apologizing. I would love to go out with you.”

Now I am the one who feels young and inexperienced, a clueless child who doesn’t know how this works, while he is gloriously mature and straightforward.

“Did you give him your number?” Jess asks, once I’m back at the table.

“I did.”

She nods, something resembling respect in her eyes. “Way to go, Mum.”