Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 12

Google searches:

What percentage of people believe in “the one” / soulmates?

Can you have more than one soulmate?

Quiz: what percentage cynical are you?

When we finally arrive in Hay, Will drives straight to his hotel. He hasn’t even asked me where I’m staying.

“We’re here,” he says, turning off the engine.

“I’ll just walk to my B and B then, shall I?” I ask, incapable of shaking my irritation.

“What’s the name of your place?” Will asks.

“Rose Hill something,” I say, getting out my phone to look it up, but when I look back at Will, he’s pointing across the road.

“Can you walk across the road, or you need me to valet you to the door?”

I stick my tongue out at him, and he sticks his tongue right back, which makes my mouth twitch with the urge to smile.

“Good luck with your talk,” I say, getting out of the car to grab my bag from the boot. “Try to remember to let the panelists get a word in.”

Will gets out of the driver’s side and opens the boot for me. “I will write a memo on my hand.” He pauses, leaning against the roof of the car. “Will you come? It’s tonight at eight. I’m kind of nervous and it would be good to see a friendly face in the crowd.” He gives me a mock grimace. “Okay, a face in the crowd.”

“I have a pretty full agenda, but I’ll see,” I say airily.

—

Once I’ve checked in to my sweet little B and B, I lie back on the chintzy bedspread and cast my eye around the room. It is full of eccentric British details: lace doilies on every surface, a mahogany cupboard designed to conceal the television, and a collection of ornamental ducks waddling their way along the skirting board. It is the kind of room you would laugh about if you were with someone, but on your own it feels mildly tragic. Pulling a pillow over my face, I let out an audible groan. Why do I care about Will’s dating policy? Am I jealous that it’s easy for him? Maybe I am offended to be outside his search criteria. Not because I have any interest in him myself, but because Will’s tastes reflect what most men are looking for—young, fertile, baggage-free. Most men are not looking for someone like me. Dan can easily date a woman in her twenties; he could have five more kids if he wanted to. It’s only women who seem to have a sell-by date.

This must be the hangover speaking. I don’t even want to meet someone, so why am I obsessing over this? I’ll go to some talks, enjoy the festival, forget all about last night. I look down at the tattoo on my arm and groan again. From my research—Google—tattoo removal is painful and expensive. How can I have been so stupid? I guess it could have been worse, I could have gotten Caleb’s name inked onto my skin.

Getting up from the bed, I glance out of the window and realize I can see right into the window of the hotel opposite. Will is on the second floor, unpacking his bag. Shit . Before he sees me, I leap back onto the bed like a panicked frog. Then, getting onto my hands and knees, I slowly slide off the bed and crawl toward the window so I can draw the curtains without his seeing me. Risking one more peek, just to check he didn’t notice me looking, I see him sitting on the bed with his head in his hands. He looks upset. Was that me? Did I upset him? No. No one upsets Will. He’s probably just tired from driving. Maybe he really is nervous about hosting this panel. I quickly close the curtains. I shouldn’t be looking into anyone’s hotel room window, least of all a colleague’s.

After a power nap, a brisk walk in the fresh air, and a bowl of hearty chicken soup, my lingering brain fog finally starts to ease and I open my meticulously planned agenda of talks and interviews. Bath Living readers always appreciate a local angle, celebrating homegrown talent, so I’ve scheduled coffees with several West Country writers who are involved in the festival. Just being here, around so many people celebrating books and reading, feels so restorative. The day flies by, and I barely think about Dan or Will or my ampersand tattoo.

When I get to Will’s panel that evening, I look for a seat as I deal with a flurry of text messages from Dan. Jess says she won’t wear any of the clothes he has at his house, and he’s going to nip back to mine to pick up what she wants. He knows where the spare key is hidden but wants to check I haven’t changed the code for the alarm. Jess has become particular about the style of T-shirt she’ll wear, baggy, in a color palette of black and white. She doesn’t feel comfortable in anything else. While I want Jess to have her clothes, I don’t like the idea of Dan being in my house without me. Will he look in the bedroom and see I’ve moved the bed? I can’t imagine a similar scenario where I would ask to let myself into his house. But I put Jess’s comfort over my own and text him the new alarm code.

The audience chatter subsides as Will walks onto the stage. He’s dressed as “Intellectual Ken” in a crisp white shirt, his favorite blue suit, and those trademark dark-rimmed glasses. I can’t help smiling when I see him, his familiar gait. He introduces the panelist and the topic they’ll be discussing, contemporary adaptations of Shakespeare in literature. Will is articulate and confident, clearly well-read on the topic. But he also deflects questions to other panelists and makes sure the quieter author gets a chance to speak. When the panel veers too far off topic, he skillfully pulls the dialogue back to the books, posing questions that keep everyone engaged. In short, he was born to do this.

I’m so caught up in the panelists’ conversation that the end comes too soon. I planned on sneaking out early so Will wouldn’t see me during audience questions, but now I’ve missed my opportunity. Someone in front of me raises their hand, and I try to sink down in my chair, but I can see from the delight in his eyes that Will has clocked my presence. Once the questions are over, I try to hurry out of the marquee but there’s a crowd of people to navigate. When I finally emerge, I run straight into Will, who is waiting at the exit.

“You came,” he says, eyes alive with some private victory. “Couldn’t resist seeing me take the literary world by storm?”

“I booked before I knew you were chairing,” I explain, my body tense with irritation. “It was good, well done.”

“?‘Good’? That’s all I get? Where’s the insult hidden inside the compliment?” he asks with a grin, shifting his weight from side to side. He’s full of energy, high on the adrenaline.

“By ‘good’ I mean you held your own alongside four heavyweights of literature. You didn’t embarrass yourself.” Will narrows his eyes. “Though you were touching your crotch a little too much. You need to find something to do with your hands.”

“I was not,” he says, lowering his voice, and I grin because even though he knows I’m joking, I’ve successfully planted the tiniest seed of doubt.

“Will, darling, that was gorgeous!” I turn to see a woman about my age in a sleek dress and heels lean in to air-kiss him.

“Hi,” Will says, brushing a hand through his hair. The woman glances toward me and Will holds out a hand to introduce us. “Hen, this is a colleague of mine at Bath Living , Anna Appleby. Anna, Henrietta Stone, editor of the City Book Review .”

“Hi.” I raise my hand in a little wave.

She looks me up and down, then says, “Anna Appleby, well, isn’t that a name for journalism.”

“Yes, or porn,” I say with a laugh, but as soon as it’s out of my mouth I see I’ve misjudged the tone of the conversation. Why did I say that? Of all the words not to be saying in the first thirty seconds of meeting someone, “porn” would be up there.

“Indeed,” Henrietta says, giving me a thin smile, while Will covers his mouth and feigns a cough. “You’re not the pretty little reason we couldn’t get Will to leave Bath, are you?”

Will shakes his head, his cheeks flushed. “Um, no. This isn’t her.”

“We offered him an editorial position, but he wouldn’t move to London. Said matters of the heart were keeping him in Bath. Such a waste of talent. Look at him!” She reaches out to squeeze his cheek. “You rarely get a brain like his in a package like that.”

“It wasn’t the right time,” Will says, removing her hand from his face, then tugging at the collar of his shirt. I’ve never seen him look so flustered.

“These openings only come up once in a blue moon, you have to make your career a priority.” She’s still looking at me, and I nod reflexively. “I’m sure you’ll be snapped up if you’re really back on the market,” Hen tells him, reaching out to straighten his shirt lapel. “Do a few more events like this. Pull yourself out of that backwater before you drown.” Then she kisses him on the cheek while simultaneously seeing someone she knows behind him, calling, “Stanley!” as she hurries away without saying good-bye.

“Backwater?” I mouth. Will avoids my gaze and tugs at an earlobe. I suddenly have so many questions, but before I can ask any, we’re interrupted by two teenage girls who want Will to sign their program. He does so graciously, and I tingle with delight at the amount of ammunition that has just been handed to me.

“Do you want to get some food?” he asks, turning back to me.

“Only if you sign my napkin afterward,” I say, unable to resist. He glares at me, but his mouth twitches. As we walk away from the marquee, I ask him, “So are you going to tell me why you turned down a job at the City Book Review ?”

“If you tell me why you’re so annoyed that I did this panel,” he says. His strides are so long, I need to power walk just to keep up with him, but then he notices and slows his pace.

“I’m not annoyed,” I sigh. “It’s just, if someone called the office looking for a local journalist, I usually cover arts and culture—”

“They wanted me. It’s my contact,” he says matter-of-factly.

“In the meeting, you said someone cold-called the office. That wasn’t true?”

“No, I put myself forward for it. I just didn’t want Jonathan to think I was looking around for other work. I’d like to do more stuff like this in the future—interviews, on-screen reporting. I didn’t know you were looking to do that too.”

“I don’t. I’m not.” I blush, feeling stupid and petty. “I could never do what you just did. It’s just with the column and then this, it feels like we’re covering a lot of the same ground. If anyone is going to be made redundant—”

“You’re feeling threatened. I understand,” Will says. He stops walking and turns to face me. I pause too and look up at him. His eyes flicker across my face, lingering on my lips, and now my gaze settles on his. In my belly, a tiny roller coaster freewheels down a bend and spins into a loop-the-loop. It unbalances me, like an intrusive thought, a sensation I don’t want to be feeling. I break eye contact and turn to keep walking.

After a few steps I say, “When they were little, I took my kids to the playground. There was this boy on our street who was always there, James Bailey. Every time Ethan wanted to go on the swings, James would jump on the swings, then Ethan would head to the slide, and this kid would start walking up it, to stop him from going down. So then Ethan goes to the monkey bars, and there’s James, lying on top of them. You’re that kid. You’re James Bailey.”

Will laughs out loud, a warm burst of sound. “What ride is it you want to go on, Anna?” he asks, all smooth flirtation.

“Oh please, don’t try and flirt your way out of this. You know you’re doing it. You’re trying to prove you can do my job better than me.”

“That’s not what I’m doing,” he says, his voice silken. I’m carrying a heavy tote bag full of books, which Will wordlessly takes from me, slinging it onto his shoulder as though it weighs nothing.

“I can carry my own books,” I protest.

“Well, I can’t walk at this pace. Come on, I’m hungry.” Even in an act of chivalry, he manages to be rude. I don’t even know why I’ve agreed to go to dinner with him, when I could be ordering takeout and watching Emily in Paris in my hotel room. But now my curiosity has been piqued. I want to know who he was so in love with that he couldn’t bear to leave Bath.

—

Will chooses a Thai restaurant with dark wooden walls and dim lighting. There are red paper lanterns strung from the ceiling and a mosaic of the Buddha along the back wall. A handful of other diners are already eating, but it’s quiet and the waiter quickly finds us a table. Once we’re settled, Will looks across at me, his eyes glinting with mischief. “I finally get you to have dinner with me. Shall we count this as a date? Write it up for the column—two sides of the same evening?”

“This is not a date. This is two colleagues consuming food in the vicinity of each other,” I say. He pretends to look disappointed and taps his fist against the table. “Besides, my kids didn’t pick you and you didn’t find me online, so it wouldn’t count for either of our columns.”

“Your kids have met me now. I’m sure they’ll suggest me once they run out of waiters.” He fixes his gaze on me, then raises both eyebrows. I shake my head and drop my eyes to the menu. I hate this about Will. While I know he couldn’t be less interested in me, he still turns on this flirtatious charm, he can’t help himself, and I’m nauseated with myself for responding to it. It’s like when the musical score in a movie makes you cry, and you know you’re being manipulated by the sound edit, but you still can’t stop the swell of emotion.

“Is that why you made a point of coming to my house early?” I ask.

“Sure, let’s go with that,” he says, eyes back on his menu.

“Are you going to tell me why you turned down Henrietta’s job offer?”

“I couldn’t move to London at the time,” he says. “Do you like red or white?”

“She said matters of the heart were keeping you in Bath.”

“You are nosy, aren’t you, Appleby?” he says, shooting me a rakish frown.

“Just making conversation,” I say with an innocent shrug.

“If I tell you, then by Monday the whole office will know.”

“They won’t. What’s said in Hay stays in Hay, I promise.”

The waiter comes over with a basket of prawn crackers and then asks if he can take our drinks order. Will opts for a bottle of red. Once the waiter’s gone I say, “You didn’t wait to hear if I even wanted wine.”

“I ordered your favorite.”

“How do you know my favorite wine?”

“You told me at the work Christmas party, a light pinot noir.”

I don’t even remember talking to Will at the Christmas party. Now we’re getting off topic. “Well remembered. Come on, tell me about the great love of your life, the reason you gave up the job of a lifetime,” I say, leaning forward, resting my elbows on the table.

“This is your interview style, is it?” he asks, holding my gaze with unabashed directness. “No foreplay, just beat it out of me.”

My cheeks heat. “Intense eye contact and innuendo doesn’t work on me, Havers. It’s pretty unsophisticated, actually.”

“It’s working a bit though, isn’t it?” he says, biting his bottom lip. He takes his glasses off, lays them on the table by his plate, then fixes me with overblown, smoldering “come to bed” eyes. I laugh out loud.

“I can assure you, it is not. I am immune to your charms and you’re prevaricating on answering me.” A frown line appears between his eyebrows, and I sense I’ve won a minor victory, because now he blinks and leans back in his chair.

“Fine. If you must know, her name was Maeve. I met her in Mr. B’s bookshop,” Will says, fiddling with his napkin. “We both reached for the last copy of The Remains of the Day .”

“Nice,” I say.

“I let her have it,” he tells me.

“How chivalrous. So Maeve is why you turned down the London job?”

“Yes.” He takes a breath, then runs a hand through his hair. “It was complicated.”

The waiter returns and Will pauses his story while the man pours the wine and takes our food order. Will orders a prawn pad Thai and I ask for the same. “How spicy would you like it?” the waiter asks.

“However it comes,” I tell him.

“Medium, but with chilis on the side for mine, thanks,” says Will, handing back the menus. I take a sip of the wine; it’s delicious.

“How do you like it?” he asks.

“I’ve had better.” I pause, and he grins, knowing I’m lying. “You were saying?”

“Why do you want to know this?” he asks with a sigh.

“I’m innately nosy.”

“Fine. Admit you like the wine, and I’ll tell you everything.”

“It’s exquisite. It’s the best wine I’ve had in years, my tongue is dancing in delight.”

Now when he smiles it’s a real smile, not a curated attempt to charm. He looks like a boy who just bowled his first wicket, and his joy makes me ache with an unexpected pleasure.

“I’ll need to tell you some backstory first, about my family.”

“I love a bit of backstory,” I say, knitting my hands beneath my chin.

“I have three brothers. There’s George, Harry, me, then Simon, the youngest. When Simon was seventeen, he was involved in a bad car accident. His friend was driving, a guy who’d passed his test two days before.” Will’s jaw tenses, and he grips his bottom lip between his teeth. “This was ten years ago. My brother is paraplegic now; mentally, he’s not who he was before.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, my heart in my mouth. I don’t know what I was expecting him to tell me, but it wasn’t this.

“My mother died when I was eight, so it’s just me, Dad, and my brothers.”

“That must have been so difficult,” I say, leaning further across the table, feeling terrible for ever having teased Will, for making assumptions about his life, his background.

“We grew up in this incredible house on the Circus. It’s worth a bit now, but it wasn’t when my great-grandfather bought it. We all love that house, it’s full of memories of our mother, her taste, her things, but it’s a historical building, not the easiest to adapt for a wheelchair.” He takes a breath, fiddling with the stem of his wineglass. “When we realized Simon wasn’t going to get any better, that this was how his life was going to be, we knew Dad wasn’t up to looking after him alone, not on top of keeping up that house. He has some help, but my brothers and I agreed, if we wanted to keep the family home, one of us would always need to be in Bath to support them.”

Will rubs his eyes. Then he puts his glasses back on. “I was studying at Bath uni at the time, so I was there anyway. We agreed I’d stay until I was twenty-four, then Harry would have finished his MA in Oxford and could come back. Four-year rotations, that was the idea.” Will takes a prawn cracker and snaps it in half. “Only Harry got selected to play rugby professionally. It’s all he ever wanted. I wasn’t going to ask him to give that up.”

“So you stayed?” I ask.

“I stayed. George was living in Switzerland. He said, ‘Give me six months, I’ll look for a job in the West Country.’ But then I met Maeve.” He pauses, gives me a look, as though I must know the rest. “She’d just started a postgrad at the university. I knew George wasn’t ready to leave Switzerland; he was about to get promoted. And now I only wanted to be where Maeve was. I had a decent job at Teen Girl .” He pulls a face. “I wasn’t in a rush to go anywhere. Dad agreed to convert the top floor into a flat for me and Maeve. It was great, for a while.”

“What happened?” I ask, leaning further toward him.

“Things didn’t work out,” he says, rubbing a hand across his lips, and I can see I’m not going to get the whole story. “I was na?ve to plan my life around her. It was the first time I’d been in love. Well, the kind of love that makes you want to change all your plans.” Will frowns, as though he thinks himself a fool. I feel an urge to reach across the table and squeeze his hand, to tell him he isn’t the first person to do that and he certainly won’t be the last, but then our food arrives, so we pause to thank the waiter. Then I squeeze a piece of lime over my noodles as I wait for him to go on.

“By this point, George is married to his Swiss girlfriend, Lena. She’s pregnant, but there are complications, they’re consulting with a specialist. It’s not a good time for them to move. Harry says he’ll quit rugby but…” He shakes his head. “I couldn’t ask him to do that just because I had itchy feet and a broken heart.”

“That sounds tough,” I say, picking up my fork. Our food smells delicious and we pause our conversation to start eating.

After finishing his mouthful, Will says, “I had all these ambitions, jobs I wanted to apply for, places I wanted to live. All the exciting stuff seemed to be happening somewhere else, to somebody else.”

“Did you tell your dad you felt that way?” I ask.

“No. I always told him I was happy in Bath, loved living with him and Simon, which I do, I do . Simon and I, we’re incredibly close. But…Bath is a city that feels like a town that acts like a village, you know?”

“I know,” I say, and I do.

“I can’t feel sorry for myself.” He twists the stem of his wineglass on the table. “Bath is my home. I’ll probably end up back here eventually, but right now I feel like a bird who’s had its wings clipped. I never got to fly the nest.” He looks up from his wineglass, perhaps weighing how much to tell me. “Now things have changed again. George and Lena are moving here with their family. Harry’s coming back too. He’s got a job coaching Bath under-fifteens.” Will pauses, lifting his gaze to mine. “I’m finally free to go wherever I want.”

“So you’re leaving?” I ask, feeling a tug of disappointment that makes no sense. Professionally, it would be better for me if Will left; I’m less likely to be made redundant.

“I don’t know.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I feel guilty even thinking about it. Simon is my best friend, he relies on me. He would be devastated if I moved away.”

“That can’t be the only reason you stay,” I tell him.

“I’ve started asking around, so we’ll see.” Will looks up at me beneath lowered lashes. “That’s why I’m trying to diversify my portfolio. My experience is too narrow, my network too small.” He pauses, looking worried. “I’m telling you this in confidence, Appleby.”

“What’s said in Hay stays in Hay,” I say, zipping an imaginary zipper across my lips.

“You’ll be happy, you’ll have all the rides in the playground to yourself again,” he says, raising his glass in the air as though making a toast.

“But who will I turn to for unsolicited feedback on my grammar and spelling?”

“You can e-mail me.”

Our eyes meet and we smile at each other. I suddenly understand him so much better, just from this one conversation. I realize where his drive comes from, why he’s reluctant to get into a relationship. I see a boy without a mother who has put everyone else first for years, and my antagonism toward him melts away. Watching Will pick up his chopsticks again, I notice what exceptional table manners he has. He is an engaging dinner companion; I haven’t looked at my watch once. Perhaps I have been too reticent about spending time with new people. There is pleasure to be had in the right kind of adult company. This evening I’ve felt a long-held tension inside me start to loosen its grip.

“You’re a good brother and son. I hope your family appreciates you,” I say, finally reaching across the table to squeeze his hand. He looks pensive, all that smirking confidence gone, his piercing green eyes half-hidden beneath dark, heavy lashes.

“Let’s talk about something else,” he says, pulling his hand away, then taking his glasses off again. “I don’t think I’ve ever talked about myself this much to anyone.” He gives me a playful, pained look. It’s adorable.

“So, what you told me in the café was true,” I say, clapping my hands down on the table, as though I’ve just found a missing puzzle piece.

“Can we just go back to ribbing each other, to you glowering at me like you can’t stand me? I can’t handle you looking at me with those pitying eyes, Appleby.”

“Fine,” I say, reaching out to pick up his glasses from the table, then putting them on myself. He lunges for them, but I push my chair back so that he can’t reach. Looking around the room, I don’t see anything distorted. The lenses are clear. “I knew it! They’re fashion lenses.”

Will flushes bright red. He’s totally thrown, all composure gone.

“I have never seen anyone blush so hard,” I say, finally handing them back.

He shakes his head, face still red, but now there’s a smile playing at the corner of his lips. He bites it back. “You’re going to delight in telling everyone that, aren’t you?”

“No. Your secret’s safe with me, that your vanity knows no end,” I say, thrilled.

“It’s not vanity,” he says, putting them back on. “Not entirely. I used to need glasses, then I got laser eye surgery, and—it’s ridiculous, I know, but part of me missed wearing them, having something between me and the world. I also look too young without them. It was harder to be taken seriously—”

“Poor Will, it’s so tough being so fresh-faced and gorgeous,” I say in a babying voice, reaching across to squidge his cheeks.

He juts out his chin and narrows his eyes at me, then reaches across to put the glasses back on me. “They look cute on you.” As his fingers brush my cheek, I feel an unwelcome flutter inside me. He flexes his fingers as though he felt it too.

When he leans back, he says, “Your turn. Tell me, are you going to see this twenty-two-year-old again?” Now it’s my turn to blush, and I’m glad I have his glasses to hide behind. “Maybe getting back in the saddle will make you less of a sourpuss, Appleby.” He gives me an overblown wink. I don’t know if it’s the drinkable wine or the fact he’s shared so much, but I find myself wanting to be honest with him too.

“I’m certainly not getting ‘back in the saddle.’?” I pause. “Caleb was attractive, fun, I think he liked me, there was a moment I could have…” I trail off.

“Kissed him?”

I nod. “Maybe I should have. Maybe I should be more spontaneous. But I didn’t feel that—” I stop, suddenly self-conscious again.

“What?” he asks. “What didn’t you feel?”

I shrug.

“Tell me,” he says, nudging my foot beneath the table. Why does this feel like we’re flirting? And who is flirting with whom?

“That draw, like gravity, like the kiss is inevitable,” I say. Will’s eyes meet mine and now I have to look away, because my stomach drops. “That sounds silly.”

“It doesn’t. I know exactly what you mean,” he says, and there’s a crackle in the atmosphere, a shift, like an oyster slowly opening to the air. Will clears his throat. “So how did you end up doing this job? Did you always dream of being a Bath Living journalist?”

“No, but then I hadn’t planned on having a baby at twenty-five. I barely had time to work out who I was, or what I wanted, before becoming a mother. I’d done an MA in news journalism, which I loved. I’d learned to use a camera, edit footage, put story packages together. Then I applied for this graduate training program at Al Jazeera. It was highly competitive, would involve a lot of travel. If I got it, Dan said he’d give up his job and come with me.”

“You didn’t get it?” Will asks.

“No, I did. But then I found out I was pregnant.” I pause. “Suddenly it didn’t feel so sensible for Dan to quit his job and follow me to Doha.”

“Ah, I see.”

“While the children were young, it made sense for Dan’s career to be the priority. When I was ready to go back to work, I’d had such a long break, I was out of touch, technology had moved on. It was easier for me to get a job in print journalism.”

“Well, you’re an excellent writer. Clearly you have a talent for it,” Will tells me.

“Except for all the typos,” I say, and his mouth twitches into a smile while he rubs an earlobe.

“Your writing was actually one of the reasons I applied for a job at Bath Living .”

“What?” I ask in surprise, and he drops his gaze and starts fiddling with his fork.

“I had the impression it was all property and interiors, then I read this interview you did with Lucy Prebble, the playwright. It was so engaging and well researched. It made me think there was scope for the kind of writing I’d like to do.”

I’m so surprised, I just look at him, dumbfounded.

“You’re not good with compliments, are you, Appleby?” he says. “What do you get up to outside of work? What are you into?”

The hobbies question again. Is it possible to exist in the world without hobbies? Unless I can say, “Hi, I’m Anna, I like crochet and paddleboarding,” am I akin to the default character in a computer game—a soulless avatar?

“You saw my life this morning, that’s basically it,” I say with a tight smile.

“You must do something that’s just for you?” he presses.

I try to think. There must be something. “I did a sculpting course when I was pregnant with Ethan. I wasn’t particularly good at it, but I loved getting lost in the process.”

“Why did you stop?” he asks.

“Money was tight. Dan didn’t think we could afford to spend money on my ‘indulgent hobby.’?”

“And now?” Will asks.

“Maybe now it’s me who sees it as indulgent.”

“Maybe you are worth a little indulgence.”

The full beam of Will’s attention is intoxicating. We talk and talk, until I look around and realize we are the last ones in the restaurant.

“We should get the bill,” I say, signaling the waiter.

“Don’t go back yet. Come for another drink with me,” he says. “There’s this delightful pub across the road, all low wooden beams and mismatched furniture.”

“I don’t know,” I say, shaking my head. Something about this new friendliness with Will feels more dangerous than being antagonistic toward him ever did.

“Excellent, I’m glad you agree,” he says with a grin, standing up to go.

It doesn’t take much to persuade me. Maybe it’s just the lubrication of half a bottle of wine, or the fact that I’m having such a nice time, but he is the Pied Piper and I am his enchanted little rat.

Once we’re settled in a cozy corner with more red wine, I take his glasses from his face.

“You don’t need these to appear smart. As soon as you open your mouth it’s obvious how intelligent you are.”

“Anna Appleby, was that a compliment?” he asks, leaning toward me.

“You’d better write it down, because you won’t be getting another one.”

He inches closer, our hands touching on the table now. The air feels thick with anticipation. He smells incredible, like Christmas morning and clean sheets. Is he going to kiss me? I tilt my chin toward him. This is a terrible idea, it would change everything .

“Are you messing with me?” I ask quietly, our faces still inches apart.

“No. Are you messing with me?” he asks in a whisper. He strokes the side of my hand with his little finger, and it sends a bolt of electricity through me. His eyes scan my face, and I’m sure he can see everything I’m feeling.

“We should probably call it a night,” I say, pulling back my hand.

“Probably wise,” he says, leaning back in his chair, but there’s a definite flicker of disappointment. Why? Was he genuinely feeling the same connection, or is this just one long game of chicken that he doesn’t want to lose?

—

Safely back in my hotel room, I boil the kettle, hoping a cup of tea might right this shift in reality. I have stepped into an alternate universe where now, rather than hating Will Havers, I want to kiss him. Of all the people to suddenly be attracted to, Will would not be my first choice. I’d be joining the ranks of all the other doe-eyed women in the office who fawn over him; it’s unconscionable. Hopefully in the sober light of day I will see sense, and we can go back to how things were before. Thank God I left when I did.

A full moon shines bright through a gap in the curtains. Walking over to the window to admire its clarity, my eye drifts across the street. Will’s light is on. He’s walking around in his boxer shorts, his physique unexpectedly broad, the curve of his arm muscles visible from here. It’s only a second, a glimpse, before I look away, but in that exact moment, he looks up at my window. Shit. My light is on too. Did he see me?

Backing away from the window, I duck down to the floor and draw the curtain as best I can from the bottom. Of all the hotel rooms in all of Hay, I had to have a view right into his. My phone pings with a text message.

Will Havers

What are you looking at?

Oh God. Oh God. No. I can’t ignore it. I have to reply. What do I say?

Anna Appleby

Full moon tonight. It’s impressive.

Will is typing. My heart is pounding, simultaneously wanting this to be happening as much as I really do not want this to be happening, whatever this is.

Will Havers

Come back to the window and point it out, I can’t see it.

Slowly, I open the curtain and make a cartoon jab at the moon. He’s standing by the window now, still in only his boxers, looking straight up at me. My God, he has an incredible body. I gulp. He looks down at his phone.

Will Havers

I feel underdressed for this moon meeting.

Anna Appleby

I’m sure the moon doesn’t mind.

Will Havers

Either I’m going to have to put some clothes on or you’re going to need to take some off.

He looks back up, lifts his chin, challenging me. I could shut it down, scold him for crossing the line we’ve been dancing around all night. But the fizz inside me springs back into life with a vengeance, the playing-with-fire fizz, which is like fizz coupled with the danger of unexploded fireworks. Without letting myself think, I use my free hand to unbutton my shirt, letting it slide open to reveal my bra, then shrug it off my shoulders so it falls to the floor. He puts one hand up to lean on the window frame, typing with the other.

My breath is loud in my own ears.

Will Havers

I have no interest in looking at the moon anymore.

I just want to look at you.

When I read the message, I stumble slightly, my feet losing their grip on the ground. I steady myself, leaning on the windowsill, then look back outside. He’s waiting for me to answer. What’s going to happen now? There is no scenario that I’m prepared for here. The street looks empty, but if someone walked by and glanced up, they’d be able to see me, standing here at the window in my bra. For what seems like an eternity we just stare at each other, neither moving, neither reaching for their phone. It’s another game of chicken.

Will Havers

Something is ruining the view.

Anna Appleby

Oh yes?

Will Havers

Your skirt.

I shake my head at him. I’m not getting any more naked, but I can see him smiling from across the street, and something about the distance between us makes me feel brave and also incredibly hot. Again, before I can overthink it, I unzip my skirt and let it drop to the floor. Standing there in my underwear by the window, I have no idea where this confidence has come from. My eyes dart right and left, checking the empty street. Will places a palm against the window.

Will Havers

That’s much better.

Anna Appleby

I think I probably need to go to bed now.

Will Havers

Don’t you dare.

I shake my head, then give him a little wave as though this interaction has been a normal, everyday occurrence. I start to close the curtain but then whip it back open. He starts to close his, then does the same, like some adult version of peekaboo. I see him laugh. Pulling the curtain around me like a toga, I slip off my bra, hold it briefly up to the window before dropping it to the floor. Where has this brazenness come from? My phone pings again.

Will Havers

Come over here, you minx.

I step briefly into view, one arm covering my chest, and blow him a kiss, then I jump back onto the bed, my heart pounding, body buzzing, laughing at the thrill of it. This delicious feeling envelops me, like a witch picking up a long-lost wand. I am still capable of this—of flirting, of wanting someone, of being wanted, of being someone other than an ex-wife and a mother.

Anna Appleby

Show’s over. Sorry.

Will Havers

Any hope of an encore?

Anna Appleby

Night, Will.

Will Havers

You’re killing me, Appleby.

Lying back on the bed, my body hums with this new feeling. A long-forgotten part of me is waking up, and it feels wonderful, like emerging from hibernation into a spring full of possibilities.