Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 10

Google searches:

What time does “the sun pass over the yardarm”?

What’s a yardarm?

Do Paul Hollywood or Sam Heughan narrate any audiobooks?

That evening, as I’m putting down food for Katniss, I get a message from Neil.

Neil Bradshaw

Sorry our date got cut short on Sunday. Can I take you out for dinner next week? Nx.

Oh no, now I’ll have to think of an excuse. I could say work’s too busy, invent some long-term ailment or fish allergy? In the end I go with:

Anna Appleby

Hi Neil, thanks again for Sunday, I think on reflection I am not quite ready to date. So sorry again about the accident. Has your cheek recovered?

The only good thing about divorce is you can use it as a get-out-of-jail-free card.

He replies immediately.

Neil Bradshaw

The wound got slightly infected. I’m on antibiotics, no biggie. Let me know if you ever change your mind. N.

Right, new rule: no dating any parents from school, it’s just too awkward. My phone pings again; this time it’s a message from an unknown number.

Unknown Number

Hey Anna. Want to go to a house party tonight? Caleb.

Tonight, as in now? It’s already eight o’clock. My first thought is, obviously, no. I’m in my pajamas, I don’t have childcare. But as I’m about to politely decline, Lottie calls and I end up telling her about the charismatic young waiter I gave my number to.

“You have to go! You’ll only stay up late watching TV and googling who celebrities are married to.” She pauses. I can’t deny it. I have a problem. “I’ll come and sleep at yours, you can stay out as late as you like,” she offers, and now I’ve run out of excuses.

Half an hour later, my sister is sitting on my bed helping me find a “house party”–appropriate outfit. I settle on a short silver skirt that I bought at a vintage market and have never had the opportunity to wear, paired with a fitted, black cashmere jumper and flat black boots. Caleb sends me the address for the house party and suggests we meet there at ten. Ten!?

“All the young people go out late,” Lottie reassures me. “Ten is early.”

“Not for me,” I say with a groan.

Lottie looks at me in the mirror, a fond expression on her face. “I love this, but maybe not these boots.”

“What’s wrong with the boots?” I ask, offended.

“They’re a bit…sensible,” Lottie says, kneeling down to riffle through my shoe rack.

“Well, I’m going to have to walk, so it makes sense to be comfortable. I’m hardly going to wear—” Lottie is holding up a pair of gold high heels I don’t remember buying. “No, absolutely not.”

“Fine,” Lottie says, relenting, “wear the sensible shoes tonight, but one day, you have to wear these, they’re fabulous.” Then she gets to her feet and rubs my back. “I love this. How many times have you helped me get ready for a date? I don’t think I’ve ever helped you. Do you remember when I was fifteen, I had a cinema date with Fergus Gibson from the year above? You let me wear your brand-new designer jeans.” She lets out a happy sigh. “I’ve never loved you more.”

“Something tells me you’re more excited about this date than I am,” I say, giving her a teasing look.

“Getting ready is the best part! All that anticipation of what might happen. I miss that,” she says wistfully.

As I watch Lottie riffle through my wardrobe, I feel a tightening knot in my stomach.

Is there something wrong with me? Why can’t I feel excited? The main emotions this dating column has elicited in me are fear and anxiety.

“You’ve dated so much more than I have,” I tell Lottie. “When relationships ended, you were so good at picking yourself up and getting back out there; I always admired that about you. You always seemed so certain that true love was just around the corner.”

“And it was,” she says with a lovesick grin. “It just took me a little longer to find it.” She pauses. “You’re going to find it again. I know you will.” She reaches out to stroke my cheek. “Now, have you shaved your legs?”

“Lottie, please. What do you think is going to happen here?”

“Isn’t it best to be prepared for all eventualities?” she asks, watching me in the reflection of the mirror.

“I think the best preparation here is for me to have a strong cup of coffee.”

In the kitchen, the coffee machine is overflowing with used pods, so I empty it into the bin. The bin is full, so I push the contents down, and my hand lands on a shopping bag that I don’t recognize . Curious, I open the bag and find all of Jess’s Sylvanian Families, small woodland animals dressed in clothes. I let out a gasp, as though I’ve stumbled upon a severed foot. These are Jess’s most treasured toys. I show the bag to Lottie.

Lottie frowns, understanding the significance. “Surely, she can’t have meant to throw those away?”

I shake my head in disbelief. “We donated a load of old toys recently, but she loves these, she makes those little stop-motion videos with them,” I say, rescuing the bag, then wiping off the outside with a cloth. “Is this it, the end of her childhood?” I ask, pulling out a small hedgehog wearing dungarees, feeling a heavy tug of nostalgia.

“Oh no, do you think she’s going to get a boyfriend and start vaping?” Lottie asks.

“I hope not.” We transfer the little figures into a new bag, then I stuff the old bag in the bin and the toys in a cupboard above the fridge. I’ll have to deal with this later.

—

The house party is in a flat near Oldfield Park, and since I don’t want to risk arriving before Caleb, I don’t get there until ten thirty. I ring the bell, my heart racing, and someone buzzes me in without even asking who I am. The flat is scruffy, with a studenty vibe. The sparse furniture looks like it was salvaged from a yard sale, there are bikes crammed into the hall, and the carpet looks older than anyone at the party.

“Hi, I’m looking for Caleb?” I ask a girl with green sparkly eye shadow, but she just shrugs and then glances down at my boots.

“Nice boots,” she says, and I have no idea if she’s being sarcastic or not.

“Thanks,” I say doubtfully. The flat isn’t big and there aren’t many people here, so I quickly locate Caleb opening a beer in the kitchen.

“Hey,” he says, his face creasing into an enormous smile.

“Hey.”

“You look great, I’m so glad you could come,” Caleb says, fishing a beer from a bucket full of ice and handing it to me. I clutch it, hoping the cold might still my nerves. I don’t know why I’m so on edge, you’d think I’d never been to a house party before.

Caleb introduces me to the people who live here: Zeek, with the skin pallor of someone who doesn’t get enough sunlight, dressed in jeans and a tie-dye T-shirt. Jasmine, braless in a halter top with impossibly pert boobs and plump, youthful cheeks. Coco, of ambiguous gender, who sports a buzz cut and bright blue lipstick, then Chai, with a mane of curly black hair skimming her bare midriff and navel piercing. I have to stop myself from staring at this willowy flame of youthful perfection, but I am an aging moth, transfixed.

“You okay?” Caleb asks, touching a hand to my arm. I nod, anxious that he’s noticed my anxiety. “We’re early. Most people won’t come until midnight.”

Midnight? I hope he’s not expecting me to stay until midnight. Caleb takes my hand and leads me through to the living room, grabbing three Ping-Pong balls from a fruit bowl on the sideboard, then setting out a row of plastic cups on the windowsill.

“How many do you think you can land?” he asks, handing me a ball. Gingerly, I aim and take my best shot. Out of three, I’m delighted when the last one goes in; several people cheer, then it’s Caleb’s turn, and he lands all three. Caleb spins me around in a victory dance, genuinely delighted. There’s something so assured in the way he takes my hand; he is entirely unselfconscious. I start to relax. Maybe this will be fine. Neil and those men from the apps all had a world-weariness about them—as though they had seen what life had to offer and were disappointed. Caleb, by contrast, is like a child with a treasure map, everything an opportunity for adventure. Am I world-weary? Is that why I focus on the risk of humiliation and disappointment rather than delight in the joy of possibility?

“I want to show you something,” Caleb says, finally tiring of our game and leading me up a stairwell, through a fire escape, and out onto the roof. Here, we find the most amazing view out over the city, Bath Abbey lit up in the distance.

“Oh wow, what a view.”

He takes off his jumper, lays it on the roof, then beckons for me to sit down. “So, Anna, tell me your dreams. What do you want out of this life? What does life want out of you?” he asks, running a hand through his bright blond hair.

“What does life want out of me?” I repeat in bemusement. I am definitely world-weary.

“Yeah. What’s your thing?”

“My thing? Well, I work as a journalist,” I tell him. “I’ve got two kids, who you met. Last night I had a dream about climbing a ladder covered in pigeons. I have a lot of dreams about pigeons for some reason.”

Caleb laughs. “You’re funny. So, journalism, is that your calling?” he asks, and I shrug. He raises both arms toward the stars, exposing a slim, taut navel as his T-shirt rises up. “I’m studying ecology management—I think that’s what the world wants out of me, to help on a practical level, to till the soil like our ancestors, but like, in a macro way.”

“I see,” I say, though I don’t see at all.

“What’s your big want?” he asks, shaking his hands at the sky.

I pause, looking out over the city, at all the lights in all the windows. Each one a person with their own hopes and fears, dreams and disappointments.

“I think I just want to get through the day without anything bad happening,” I tell him. “Is that enough? I want my kids to be happy, I want them to do well at school, I want to keep my job so I can provide for them.”

“That’s a lot of wants for your kids,” Caleb says, pressing his hands together and then twisting his body. For a moment I think he’s praying, but then I realize he’s stretching. “What about you ?” He taps his joined fingers against my shoulder. His eyes are sincere, as though he really does want to know.

“I suppose I want to laugh again, I want some of the lightness back. I want my life not to be over when I’m barely halfway through. I want to not feel like I’m a failure because I got divorced.” I pause to look at him, and he shifts his body around to face me rather than the skyline. “Do you remember those books where you could choose your own destiny by skipping to various pages?”

“Like select your own story on a video game?” he asks.

“Yes, something like that. I feel like I must have chosen the wrong path at some point, that I should go back and read the book again, make different choices.”

“What would you change?” he asks, fiddling with a pendant around his neck.

“I don’t know. Probably nothing. I wouldn’t not have met my ex, I wouldn’t not have had my children. There were plenty of good times.” I pause. “I guess I always hoped I’d get to be one of those old couples you see laughing and holding hands in their eighties. Isn’t that the ending most people want for themselves? I wish I’d gotten to fall further into love rather than out of it.”

“That doesn’t sound like something you had any agency over,” Caleb says. “You can’t regret things that are out of your control.”

“True.” I nod, surprised by his considered response. He reaches out to hold my hand, then leans in to kiss my cheek, and it doesn’t feel like a move, it feels like a kindness.

“What does this mean?” I ask, pointing to the tattoo on his forearm. “Is it an ampersand?”

He nods. “It symbolizes how nothing lasts. Unlike the infinity symbol, this says there will be an end, a new beginning, a next chapter, good or bad.” His eyes flit across to my face. He pauses, rubbing his forearm. “You think it’s cheesy?”

“No, I like it,” I say, shaking my head, all cynicism uncharacteristically dormant. Though I’m not really into tattoos, I realize that on Caleb, I genuinely like it. It suits him and I appreciate the sentiment.

“Do you have tatts?” he asks, then grins. “Let me guess.” He closes his eyes, then says, “A small rose on your right shoulder blade.”

“No, never got any,” I tell him with a smile.

“Jasmine does tattoos, she’s amazing at stick and poke. I’m sure she’d do you one if you wanted.”

“Maybe,” I say, though what I mean is, “No way, not in a million years.”

When we get back downstairs, the party is heaving. Every surface has someone occupying it. Even though it’s late, I’m now wide awake. When Zeek offers me a brownie from a golden biscuit tin, I gladly take one because dinner with the kids feels like a distant memory. The brownie is claggy with a soily aftertaste, but now I’ve drunk enough beer not to care.

As the music shifts to something more up-tempo, Caleb pulls me up to dance. Looking me in the eye, he says, “You’re great,” with a beaming smile. I can’t think of the last time anyone said something that nice to me. My head spins as Caleb pulls me close in a dance. I let him, shutting off the self-conscious part of my brain that’s telling me I haven’t been this close to a man who isn’t Dan in seventeen years. It feels nice, but also strange. You’re overthinking everything, I tell myself. Just relax.

Over the next few hours, Caleb and his friends sweep me up in their music, their energy, and their optimism. Having lost all desire to go home to bed, I find myself laughing at everything, though it’s not clear what’s so funny. My heart is pounding.

“I feel a bit strange,” I confide to Caleb as we tire of dancing and sit down on a scruffy, torn sofa.

“That will be the brownies kicking in,” he tells me. “Zeek makes them strong.”

“Brownies? Why, what was in them?” I ask, feeling my forehead bead with sweat.

“Pot. Chill, it’s all good.” Caleb squeezes my shoulder.

Well, I’ve taken it now, there’s nothing to do but go with it. “I’m having the best time,” I tell Caleb.

“Me too,” he says. Then he leans in to kiss my cheek again. It’s chaste, and sweet, and makes me smile. I rest my head on his shoulder as he wraps an arm around me. I feel like a teenager, sitting on this shabby couch, flirting with a hot boy. This is great. This is what I’ve been missing. My twenties weren’t that long ago, I am still that person inside, I can be that person again.

Soon we’re dancing, sweaty and wild and unselfconscious. Time becomes stretchy. I’m talking to Jasmine about her tattoo business; I’m on the balcony calling Dan. I feel confident and strong, like this is the best possible time to tell him I want him to wash the children’s clothes, that I am not a laundry service. I’m in the kitchen, Caleb is making me a cheesy toastie, there are bottles and cans strewn everywhere, but we just push them out of the way, giggling as hot cheese runs out of the sandwich and onto our hands. Jasmine is here. A great idea. An ampersand on my inner arm. Yes, yes. Just the same as Caleb’s. I’m sure, I’m sure . A pain that’s not unpleasant. More music, more dancing, someone hands me a tequila shot. My stomach tells me to stop, but this is the most fun I’ve had in years.

Caleb squeezes my hand and pulls me up from the living room sofa. How did I get back here?

“Let’s get you some air,” he says, his pupils huge.

“Sure,” I say, leaning into him, gripping his hand in mine, feeling glad I have something to hold on to while I try to put one foot in front of the other. How did I get so wasted? Caleb leads me back to the roof, the cold night air hitting me with a sobering slap. We find a group of people all vaping or passing around rollies. Caleb asks them to make room so we can join the circle.

“You okay?” Caleb asks, leaning his chin against my shoulder, and I nod. “If you’re going to puke, just let me know, I’ll grab you a bucket.” He reaches out to rub my back and in the dim recesses of my mind I make a note: if I ever fall in love again, I hope it’s with someone who will find me a bucket to be sick in.

“If there’s a God, do you think he knows he’s God?” someone in the circle asks, a girl wearing a velvet headband and a T-shirt that reads No Problemo . “Or do you think God is more of an insentient power?”

People contemplate this for a while, nodding, as though this girl has asked something deeply profound.

“If there’s a God, I don’t think they’re gendered,” says Jasmine, pressing her hands together.

“I don’t know how anyone can believe in a God when innocent children are dying in war every single day,” says the girl next to Jasmine. She looks young enough to be my daughter, with a mouth full of braces and a smattering of acne on her forehead. “Like, who can see that kind of suffering and still believe in a higher power who would allow that?”

“Religion is an elaborate thought conspiracy, designed to oppress the masses,” says Zeek, and several people make noises of agreement.

“The two arms of oppression, religion and the patriarchy,” says someone else.

“I don’t agree. How can you look at a shell with the Fibonacci spiral, or a dragonfly mating in midair, and believe that came into being by accident?” Coco says, voice light and ethereal. They hold up their hands as though holding an imaginary orb. “God is beauty. God is love.”

“Intelligent design,” Caleb says. “I get that.”

It has been many, many years since I last sat around and debated the existence of God. On the one hand I admire their ambition—it beats talking about the school run or house renovations—but there’s also something painfully na?ve about it. Do they really think they’re going to solve the mysteries of the universe, wasted, at three in the morning? Shit, is it three in the morning?

“What do you think, Anna?” Caleb asks, turning to me. Everyone in the circle looks in my direction. They want to know what I think. What do I think? There are many things in life I haven’t made up my mind about yet: whether Apple products are really worth the money, who the best Batman is (Ethan swears it’s Robert Pattinson), and whether I believe in God. I keep thinking I will get around to deciding these things, that I will trial a different smartphone, that I will take a weekend and watch all the Batman movies back-to-back, but somehow it never feels like a good use of time. So, for now, I will maintain my brand loyalty to Apple, I’ll take an uneducated guess at Christian Bale, and as for God—I remain undecided.

“I think it’s late. I think I’m drunk. I should go home,” I say, not wanting to rain on anyone’s parade by telling them what I really think—that they’re recycling well-worn ideas debated for as long as humans have existed. How everyone’s time would be better spent studying, trying to get a decent job, saving for a house deposit, and contributing to a decent pension scheme. I must be sobering up if I’m thinking about pension schemes.

As I stand, Caleb jumps up to follow me and I wave good-bye to everyone in the philosophy circle. Downstairs I feel wobbly on my feet, the hallway spinning.

“You can crash here if you like,” Caleb offers. He reaches out to hold my hand, and I lean into him.

“I should get back,” I say, but my legs are having a hard time holding me.

“Grab a few hours’ kip, there’s loads of room.” Caleb pushes open a door with his foot. On the other side is a bedroom; the walls are covered in Moroccan-style throws and posters of Frank Ocean and Harry Styles. A girl is passed out on one side of the bed in her clothes. I don’t know when I last “crashed” anywhere, but the decision is now out of my hands, because my legs are taking me to the bed in a desperate bid to be horizontal. Just a quick nap, then I’ll call a cab.

—

When I wake up, my head is pounding and I have no idea where I am. When I find limbs draped across my body, like a complex human seat belt, my first thought is that my children are in bed with me. But once my eyes focus, I see that this is not my bed, these are not my children. What might have felt warm and cozy a minute ago now feels like an intolerable invasion of my personal space. I am not comfortable sharing a bed with—I pause to count—four people I don’t know. Slowly extracting myself from the Jenga game of body parts, I slide out at the bottom of the bed.

The house is quiet, the party over. I find a bathroom, and my stomach clenches as I see the state of the place. Cigarette butts in the sink, vomit on the floor, a blocked toilet. Who lives like this? But I know the answer—students, students live like this. I decide to wait for my bathroom at home. Back in the corridor, I check my phone and see several missed calls from Lottie, then two messages asking if I’m okay. Shit. I quickly text her back, telling her I’m fine and on my way home.

Pulling up a taxi app, I see Caleb leaning against a wall, vaping. He smiles when he sees me, and I feel reassured after the horror of the bathroom. My eyes fall on his long eyelashes. He really is very pretty. Perhaps too pretty.

“Hey.”

“Hey. You’re still awake,” I say, stating the obvious.

“Took some uppers, couldn’t sleep,” he says, his eyes firing with tired energy. “You leaving? Can I call you?”

“Thank you for inviting me, I had fun. But I’m not thirty-three, I’m thirty-eight. I’m sorry, I don’t know why I lied,” I say, biting my lip.

“I’m not twenty-seven either,” he says, stretching his arms in a full-body yawn.

“Right.”

“Closer to twenty-two.”

Twenty-two. Shit. “I see.” I swallow hard, relieved nothing happened between us.

“You don’t look that old, you’re hot,” he says. He’s sweet, but right now I feel every one of my thirty-eight years. But I’m also fine with it. I am not twenty-two anymore, and I don’t want to be. I want to sleep in my own bed, in clean sheets, and use my own bathroom. I want to get to bed at a reasonable hour and be able to function in the morning.

“I think this was more of a one-off,” I say, reaching for his hand.

“Fair enough,” he says, putting his vape into a pocket and squeezing my hand back. “I enjoyed buzzin’ with you, Anna.”

“Thank you for being so lovely to me,” I tell him.

“You won’t forget it.” He nods down at my arm, where I see an inky smudge. Lifting my arm toward my face, I see the black lines of a tattoo, pink and raw around the edges. An ampersand, etched onto my forearm. What? You’ve got to be kidding me. “Jasmine usually charges two hundred quid for those,” Caleb says. The sight of it makes me feel nauseous . How the hell am I going to explain this to my children?

—

When I get home, it’s five in the morning. I find Lottie asleep on the pullout on Ethan’s floor. He must have had a bad dream. I can’t believe I left my pregnant sister to deal with my children while I was out taking drugs and getting tattoos. Finding a blanket, I lay it over Lottie, watching her for a moment. She has all this ahead of her, becoming a mother, the recalibration of her identity, her marriage. She has always been such an idealist when it comes to love, and as I tuck the blanket over her, I make a silent prayer: I hope you never lose that.

Walking back across the landing to my bedroom, I stand in the doorway and stare at the king-sized bed I shared with Dan for over a decade. His side of the bed is empty, but with Lottie having slept in it, it looks as though he just left. Will this house always be haunted by him? All I want to do is fall into bed, but now I’m seized by an urge to rearrange the furniture. I move Dan’s bedside table, making way to shift the bed out of the middle of the room and up against the window, covering the ghost of the coffee stain on the carpet. It’s a small change, but when I lie in the middle of the bed, looking up through the dormer window from a different angle, it feels significant.