Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 14

Google searches:

Ryan Stirling, wife?

Ryan Stirling fan fiction

Ryan Stirling naked

How to erase your search history

We don’t have to wait long before an opportunity arises with the singing postman. The doorbell rings as we’re having breakfast.

“Hi!” I say, opening the door and giving the deliveryman my best Julia Roberts smile. “Michael, is it?” This man has seen me in my pajamas, with greasy hair and Cheerios stuck to my dressing gown. If he is straight, there is no way in hell he finds me attractive.

Michael looks back and forth between Jess and me. “Yes. Here you go,” he says, scanning the barcode, then handing me a parcel addressed to Jess. She is hovering on the stairs.

“I ordered new highlighters,” she tells me.

Michael holsters his scanner, and I realize if I’m going to do this, I don’t have much time.

“This is going to sound crazy,” I say, pausing to laugh, but then the laugh only makes me appear crazier. I stop and clear my throat. “I’m a journalist and I write a dating column where I try to date someone new each week but without the use of the internet, so people I meet in real life.” I clear my throat again. He looks confused and slightly afraid. “My daughter suggested you.” I laugh again, then let it fade into a sigh.

“You want to go on a date, with me?” Michael clarifies, looking bemused.

“Yes,” I say, trying to radiate sincerity.

“She likes books,” Jess calls from the stairs. “She writes about them too.” For a moment, I wonder what she’s doing, then realize Jess is trying to sell me to him. Hello, new low.

“Won’t your husband have something to say about that?” Michael asks warily, holding up a parcel addressed to Dan Humphries.

“Oh, right, sorry, no. We’re divorced.” I pause. “He hasn’t changed his address yet.” I take the parcel, and we all hover by the open door. Now it’s awkward because he hasn’t said yes or no and I just want to shut the door and pretend this never happened.

“My dad is crap at that kind of thing,” says Jess. “They’re one hundred percent divorced. Dad lives with someone else now. She’s Swedish.”

Michael’s eyes flicker with sympathy.

“Let’s forget I said anything,” I say, waving a hand in front of me as though I can erase the words from the air.

“I’ll go out with you,” says Michael, and now I’m even more confused. Turning around to look at Jess, I see she is shooting me “See, I told you so” eyes.

“You will?” I ask, doing a double take.

“Sure. It’s good to have something to look forward to.” He gives me a kindly nod, then hands me a notepad and pen. “Write down your number. I’ll juggle my shifts, see what I can sort out.”

He will juggle his shifts. This is too humiliating; the sexually ambiguous postman is agreeing to take me on a sympathy date.

—

Once I’m in the office, I rush off an e-mail to Ryan Stirling’s agent, hoping to get all my humiliation for the day over early. I know it’s highly unlikely the agent will even relay the message, but it’s worth a shot.

“Hi.” A voice comes from behind me, and I spin around in my chair to find Will standing right there. I say “my chair”; technically it’s his chair. I took it back because I got to the office first and, well, I like this game.

“Hi,” I say, trying to keep my voice flat and professional, but it comes out squeaky and girlish. An image of Will in his boxers staring up at me in the moonlight forces its way into my mind.

“How was the rest of the festival? Sorry I had to leave early. Did you manage the car okay?”

“Yes, I ‘managed the car okay,’?” I say, crossing my arms in front of my chest, tilting my head to one side as I look up at him. “It has a scratch on the passenger door, one hubcap is missing, and I picked up four speeding tickets, but apart from that, I managed.”

He narrows his eyes, a hint of a smile on his lips. “You’d better be joking, Appleby. My dad will—”

“What? Dock your pocket money?” I cut in, arching an eyebrow.

Will bends down, closer to my ear, then says, “I’ll come by and pick it up later.”

His words feel loaded, and my cheeks heat as though he’s said something highly suggestive.

“Take the keys now, I might not be in,” I say, handing him the car keys from my drawer. He reaches to take them, and I become hyperaware of every point where his hand makes contact with mine.

“Out on a hot date?” he asks, his tone teasing.

“Possibly,” I reply, flicking my hair back over one shoulder. I don’t have a hot date, I’ll be in, doing what I do most evenings—laundry, dishes, and helping with homework—but I don’t want him to imagine me sitting around waiting for him to pop by.

“Well let me know once you have something firmed up,” Will says.

“Why? So you can keep tabs on me?” I ask archly.

“No.” He frowns, confused. “So I can work out what my column needs to be about.”

Oh, right, the column. Oops . “Sure. Will do,” I say briskly, swiveling my chair back around to face my desk. Will doesn’t walk away immediately, I can feel him standing behind me for a moment, but then he leaves, and my heart starts pounding unnaturally fast in my chest. Great, now I have a full-blown crush on stupid Will. This is a disaster. It’s distracting and pointless. He already has every girl in sales fluttering their eyelashes at him, he doesn’t need me to further inflate his enormous ego.

Putting my earphones in, I try to focus on work. It takes me most of the day to write up my feature on the literary festival and make some follow-up calls to two local authors. As I hang up from a call, my WhatsApp pings.

Will Havers

So when’s the next full moon?

Reading the message, I look over at his desk and see he’s watching me. He tilts his chin, raises both eyebrows, and bites his lip. My insides swirl into hot jelly, and I swivel back to my computer so he can’t see me redden. What unbelievable gall. Does he really think he can blow me off, go home with some other woman, and then continue this low-level flirtation with me?

Anna Appleby

What happened in Hay stays in Hay.

Will Havers

Shame.

Anna Appleby

Wouldn’t want you cricking your neck.

Will Havers

And then nothing. When I turn to sneak a look across the office, I see he’s left his desk. Turning back to my screen, I have a reply from the agent.

Dear Ms. Appleby,

Thank you for your e-mail. I must admit in fifteen years as an agent I’ve never received a request quite like this one. I passed your message on to Mr. Stirling, and he said he would be delighted to meet you for a drink and is flattered that your son chose him as a potential suitor. If you are free on Thursday night, could you meet him at the stage door after his show? I’ll leave a comp ticket for you at the box office if you’d like to watch the play. I suggest you do; Mr. Stirling is wonderful in the role.

Best wishes,

Evan Greenswab

What? He said yes? I do a little excited dance in my chair. Who else could I ask out under the pretext of research? Brad Pitt? Bradley Cooper? They probably live too far away. Colin Farrell? Now I’m just being ridiculous. My mind jumps from Colin Farrell to Dan. Dan loves Ryan Stirling. Imagine if this date went well, imagine if I started seeing Ryan Stirling. I know divorce isn’t a competition you can win, but if it were, this would be the mother of all trump cards.

“Everyone,” Jonathan says with a clap, walking out into the open-plan office. “Crispin from Arch Media is coming down on Thursday. He wants to meet the team, sit in on some meetings. Can everyone make sure they have something intelligent to say?” He looks flustered. “Especially you two.” Jonathan points to Will, who’s standing by the water cooler, and then to me at my desk. “Crispin loves the new dating column. Let’s make sure we’ve got copy for him to read, fresh ideas to get him excited.”

Jonathan scurries around straightening pictures and fluffing cushions, as though Crispin is going to be judging Bath Living on its soft furnishings rather than its bottom line. As Will walks back past my desk, I call over to him, “I’ve just sorted a date for next week’s column.”

“That was quick. Who?” he asks, coming over to perch on a corner of my desk. He smells like pine needles, soap, and the clean, good kind of sweat. I can’t help looking at his glasses. Now that I know, it’s so obvious that the glass in them is clear.

“Ryan Stirling,” I say, shifting self-consciously in my chair. “I asked him out via his agent. He said yes.”

“Your kids chose Ryan Stirling?” Will asks with a frown, then he pushes up his shirtsleeves, revealing a tanned, firm forearm. Is he doing this on purpose?

“My son saw a poster for his play,” I explain, trying not to look at the taut flex of muscle in front of me. I imagine Will has no problem opening jars, even ones that are really stuck. He’d probably just pop those lids off, one after another. Pop, pop, pop. That’s certainly one of the downsides of being divorced; I have no one to help me with stuck jars. I mean, sure, I’m not miserable anymore, but the jar help was always appreciated.

“Anna?” Will says. I look up and realize he must have said something, but I missed it because I was daydreaming about watching him open pickle jars. I don’t even like pickles.

“Sorry,” I say, shaking my head.

“I’ve heard Ryan Stirling is an arsehole,” Will says with a frown.

“Lucky I’m not looking to marry the guy then,” I say airily, peeved he isn’t more impressed by my celebrity date. “What’s the online equivalent of dating an A-lister?”

Will taps his fingers on my desk, his eyes serious, no hint of a smile. This is so strange; a few minutes ago we were flirting via text, now he’s all business.

“There’s this exclusive dating site supposedly used by celebrities and millionaires. If I could get access to that, it might mirror your angle.”

“That could work,” I say, impressed he came up with that on the spot.

“Membership is all through personal recommendations, so it’s a long shot,” Will explains. He glances down at my desk, and I realize my latest pay slip is sitting open right there. He frowns. “You need to ask for a pay rise, Appleby.”

I snatch it up and shove it into my drawer. Rude. Will looks at me now, and it might be the first time we’ve made real eye contact since the window in Hay. I can’t read him at all. He looks somber and sincere, but also like he’s trying to stop himself from undressing me with his eyes. Then, as if he knows what I think he’s thinking, his eyes dart away. “And tonight, I have a date with a forty-five-year-old marine engineer.”

“Ah, the ‘older woman,’?” I say. “Poor you, how will you cope being in the vicinity of such decrepitude?”

“I’ll try to be strong. If you could send me some talking points for people of your generation, that would help.”

“Sure, I’ll e-mail you, is it still [email protected]?”

He grins as though he enjoys it when I’m mean to him. It definitely feels like we’re flirting again. But I need to knock this silly crush on the head. It’s taking up brain space I don’t have, and it can’t lead anywhere good. On the drive to Hay he basically admitted that’s he’s playing the field until he meets “the one.” I don’t think I could handle being toyed with, then discarded, especially by someone I have to work with.

I turn back to my computer and wave a hand in his direction, batting him away. As he leaves, he presses the lever on my chair so that my seat drops right down, and I find my chin level with the desk. Mature.