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Is She Really Going Out with Him? Chapter 13 39%
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Chapter 13

Google searches:

Are there CCTV cameras on streets in Hay?

Specifically, CCTV outside the Rose Hill B there’s a hot pulse between my legs as I remember him seminaked in the moonlight. What if he invites me to his hotel room now? Would I go?

Anna Appleby

Morning…

Will Havers

Something’s come up. I need to get back tonight, sorry. Can I leave you my car to drive yourself home? I can leave keys at your B that’s worth something. Out of the shop, I decide to nip back to the B and B, so I don’t have to take a shopping bag to all my talks. As I turn onto my road, I see Will on the pavement. He must have just left the car keys at my reception. Something stops me from calling out to him, paralysis over what to say. That’s when I see her: a beautiful, tall blond woman standing by an Audi, car door open, waiting for him.

As he walks around to the passenger side, they share a joke, laughing before she gets into the driver’s side. So, this is the “friend” who’s offered him a lift. Someone who just happens to be his exact type. My stomach tightens, an unpleasant wrench, like my gut is being twisted. I’ve made a complete fool of myself. It’s been such a long time since I’ve felt attracted to someone. I forgot that when you have a crush, you’re opening yourself up to a world of disappointment.

Backing away down the street, I duck behind a pillar box to wait until they drive away. As I stand there, crouching out of sight, a shameful memory forces its way into my mind, a last-ditch attempt to revive my waning sex life with Dan. Lighting candles in the living room, sending the children to Lottie’s, opening the door in a red silk negligee. He looked right through me, muttered that I was going to “burn the house down with all these candles.”

I peer around the pillar box and see the car is gone, so I can walk across the road to the B and B. Right, new rule: No more flirting with Will. No getting sucked in by the eye contact and the stories about his broken heart and his tragic family. Thank God I stopped things when I did.

Once I’ve dropped my shopping back, I try to enjoy the rest of the festival. But as I wander between events, now I can’t help feeling that I’m miles away from where I need to be. Jess sends me a few selfies, suggesting she’s bored, while Ethan texts me from Dan’s phone asking what I’m up to. I’ve been looking forward to this weekend for months, and now that I’m here, I just want to be somewhere else—at home with my children.

Driving back on Sunday, I discover the appeal of vintage cars. I can almost taste the engine as I drive, feeling the thrust of the gearbox in my palm, and I have to stop myself from speeding when I hit a stretch of open road. When I get home, I only have half an hour to spare before Dan arrives with the kids. Unpacking my bag, I shove my new underwear to the bottom of a drawer, not wanting Lottie or Jess to notice what I’ve been buying. Then I text Will.

Anna Appleby

What do you want me to do with your car?

He replies a few minutes later.

Will Havers

Can you park it outside yours? I’ll pick it up tomorrow. Thanks.

It’s so perfunctory and formal. Has something happened? Does he regret drunkenly flirting with me? In the sober light of day, is he revolted by the idea?

When the children get home, Ethan gives me a huge hug as soon as he gets through the door. Jess walks straight past me and up to her room. I take both these things to mean they’ve missed me. Dan rolls his eyes at Jess. “She’s such a teenager already, glued to her phone,” he says under his breath. “Sylvie says we should give her valerian and passionflower to help with her moods.”

“Is that something prescribed by a doctor or by Game of Thrones ?”

Dan glares at me. “Sylvie knows about this stuff. She’s done a course in herbal medicine. We’ve got to try something, Anna, she’s not exactly a barrel of laughs to have around these days.”

“It’s not Jess’s job to entertain us. She’s not a clown.”

Dan rubs a hand over his face; he looks tired. “I need to swap weekends with you in a few weeks. Sylvie’s parents are over from Sweden, I’ll text you details. Also, Ethan hasn’t done his homework.” Then Dan turns to start rifling through my post. “Have you seen a letter from NatWest? I’m expecting a new card reader.”

“You need to redirect your post,” I say tightly, annoyed about the homework. Dan has the log-in details for Ethan’s homework app; he can easily access everything from his phone.

“I know, I know. Jesus,” Dan says with a groan. Four minutes in his company and already my cortisol levels feel spiked. He doesn’t find what he’s searching for, gives me a strange look, as though he wants to say something, but then thinks better of it.

“What?” I ask irritably.

“I was just going to say, you look nice. Did you change your hair?”

Oh great, now Dan thinks I took his feedback to heart. I shrug and Dan rolls his eyes. He’s at the bottom of the stairs before he turns around and takes two steps back toward me. “Sylvie wants to meet you. She wants you to come for dinner.”

“Oh,” I say, blindsided.

“She feels weird that we speak on the phone. She doesn’t get that this”—he pushes a finger back and forth in the air between us—“is just logistic.” Ouch. “Those late-night phone calls didn’t help, Anna.” Dan lets out a tired sigh. “I think she’ll feel better once she’s met you. Will you come?”

She’ll feel better once she’s met me? Why? Because she’ll see what a haggard old crow I am and realize Dan couldn’t possibly have any residual feelings?

“Sure, text me a date,” I call down the steps.

He gives me a curt nod, then turns to go. Why did I say yes? Why didn’t I say I’d think about it? I don’t want to sit and watch Sylvie play house with my ex-husband. Now I’ll have to try to get out of it.

When Ethan and Jess get back from Dan’s, there’s always a period of adjustment. I’ve learned it’s best not to ask them too many questions or try to force them to recalibrate too quickly. I just put some music on, prepare food, then let them come to me. Ethan is first to be lured in by the smell of homemade hummus and toasted pita bread.

“Mum, I’ve thought of someone for your next date,” he tells me.

“Oh, right,” I say, having briefly forgotten about the stupid column.

“The man from the show with the dog in the snow!”

“Right,” I say slowly while handing him the hummus, “I might need a bit more to go on.” It sometimes takes a while to decode what Ethan is talking about. Once he told us about “the island that looks like an angry parrot with no feet,” which turned out to be Ireland, and that for tea he wanted “the round bread with the footprints in”—crumpets.

“You know, the show about the policeman in the snow with the dog,” Ethan explains, “the show you watch all the time. His face is on all the posters.”

Now I know who he’s talking about. Ryan Stirling, the star of Port, Starboard, Murder , is currently performing in Richard III at the Bath theater.

“Ryan Stirling?” I ask, laughing. Ethan nods. “I can’t go on a date with Ryan Stirling.”

“Why not?” he asks, his face a picture of innocence. “He might not know anyone in Bath. He might want to make new friends.”

Ethan is right about one thing: I do have a huge crush on this particular actor. He’s probably the main reason I enjoy Port, Starboard, Murder . Well, him and his cute little doggy sidekick. In the show Ryan plays a British detective, Brandon Farley, who’s called in to help with a crime that took place in international waters. He’s a good cop, but he wouldn’t hesitate to bend the law if it meant taking down the bad guy. There are thousands of memes dedicated to Brandon Farley saying his catchphrase: “You want to play by the letter of the law? Then don’t play with me.”

“What have you got to lose?” Ethan asks, parroting a question I’m always asking him.

This is technically true. I have been meaning to book a ticket to see him in Richard III . I could e-mail Ryan’s agent, tell him about the column, see if he might meet me one night after his show. The mere thought of meeting Ryan Stirling for a drink sends a buzz of excitement through me.

Jess comes downstairs, having changed into tracksuit bottoms and a black hoodie.

“Did you get the clothes you wanted this weekend?” I ask, and she nods. I sense she’s upset about something, but I know she won’t tell me if I ask the wrong questions. “Did you have fun at your dad’s?” She shrugs and I reach out a hand to rub her back.

“Penny is having a roller-skating party next weekend. Practically everyone else is invited,” Jess says, pulling her hands up into her hoodie sleeves.

“I’m sorry, honey, that’s not kind of her.”

“Whatever. I don’t want to go anyway,” she says, but I can see that she does and my heart aches for her. Jess walks across to the fridge and takes out some juice.

“I saw you threw some of your toys away. Did you really want to do that, hon?” I ask gently, and she looks thrown. “It’s okay if you don’t want them anymore, I’d just rather we gave them to Lottie for her baby or took them to Goodwill.” She turns her head to look out of the window. “I rescued them from the bin. Are you happy for me to give them away?”

“Whatever,” she says, and my heart sinks as I see the drawbridge being raised. I decide not to push it, and by the time we sit down to eat a broccoli-and-pasta bake, her mood has thawed.

“Sylvie said she is going to invite you for dinner. You won’t believe Dad’s place, she’s totally redecorated,” Jess tells me.

“We can’t put our stuff anywhere,” Ethan adds with a sigh.

“It’s minimalist. I like it, it smells nice, like a White Company store,” Jess says.

“I don’t,” says Ethan. I look around at our kitchen, crammed full of schoolbooks, the children’s artwork, and half-finished crafts. The vibe is anything but minimalist.

“Well, everyone is different, the world would be a boring place if we weren’t.”

“I think you’ll like her, Mum,” says Jess. I will not like her. I already know from her Instagram page that I will not like her. “Oh, and I’ve thought of who your next date should be.”

“I already chose one,” Ethan says. “Ryan Stirling.”

“Ryan Stirling is a long shot, honey,” I say, patting him on the shoulder, then turning to Jess. “Who were you thinking of?”

“Michael,” Jess says, her face settling into a satisfied smile as though I’m going to think this is genius. Ethan and I exchange a look. Neither of us know who Michael is. “Michael!” she repeats. “Our parcel delivery guy.”

“Oh,” I say, handing Jess a plate of pasta bake.

“And I can’t believe you don’t know Michael. I talk to him all the time.”

If it’s the man I’m thinking of, then Michael is a slightly rotund man in his thirties. He does always give me a cheery hello whenever he’s dropping off parcels, but I’m surprised to hear Jess is on first-name terms with the man.

“Brown hair, tight trousers?” I ask Jess.

“Yes,” she says, staring at me unblinkingly, waiting to see what my objections might be.

“Well, he’s a little, um…”

“What?” She raises one eyebrow at me. “You’re above dating a delivery driver?”

“No, not at all,” I say, affronted. “I’d just assumed he was, um, well, that he might prefer men.”

Jess opens her mouth wide in cartoon shock. “How would you know that? You don’t even know his name! Just because he sings songs from musical theater doesn’t mean he’s gay.” She’s right, and now I feel guilty for making assumptions. “Last week, he told me he’d broken up with his partner, Gail,” Jess says.

“First of all, since when have you been having heart-to-hearts with the postman about his love life? And secondly, Gale could be a man’s name.”

“There’s a Gail in my class, she picks her nose the whole time,” says Ethan. “Her desk is covered in boogers.”

“He said ‘she,’ is that enough evidence for you, Detective Mum?” Jess says, taking a bite of pasta. “You need someone to write about. Why not him?”

“Why not indeed. Fine, I will ask him.”

Since my sexy texting with Will has turned into perfunctory “car picking up” admin, no doubt because he’s off having fun with the tall blonde, there’s all the more reason to keep myself busy. Secretly I have more faith in my celebrity crush Ryan Stirling agreeing to go out with me than Michael the singing postman, but as my new mantra goes—what have I got to lose?

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