Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 17

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“I have a package for you,” Noah calls over the fence as I’m leaving home the next morning. “It was left on your doorstep, but you were out. I took it in for safekeeping.”

“Oh, thank you,” I call back. “You didn’t need to do that.” Our street isn’t exactly rife with package-stealing criminals.

“Wait there,” Noah tells me, then disappears into his shed and comes back with a box the size of a barbecue. “It’s heavy, you want me to carry it in?”

“That would be great,” I say, opening the garage door in the hall. “Thank you.” Once he’s put the package down on the floor, Noah stands up and pulls a leaflet from his back pocket.

“I got you this,” he says. As he hands me the piece of paper, his eyes shift to the floor.

It’s a printed form. Across the top it says, “Bath and North East Somerset, Complaint Form—High Hedge.”

“What is this?” I ask him.

“If you want to take issue with the hedge height you should do it through the proper channels. It’s two hundred pounds for the council to mediate our dispute. I’m willing to split the cost of it with you.”

“I’m not paying the council a hundred pounds, Noah. I haven’t touched your hedge since we last spoke about it.” I let out a sigh. If purgatory exists, I imagine it’s paved with council complaint forms.

“I want to be assured that you’re not going to destroy my property when my back is turned. Please just fill out the form,” Noah says, pulling his beanie hat down over his ears, then marching back toward the door. Is this why he took my package in, so he could harass me about the hedge?

Once Noah’s gone, I rip up the form he gave me, then pull my jumper over my face, screaming into the wool to try to expel the rage. It helps. Then, kneeling on the floor, I rip open the huge package. Inside, I find a giant block of sculpting clay and a small case of sculpting instruments. There’s a note printed on the delivery receipt.

It isn’t indulgent. Will.

As soon as I read it, I feel an overwhelming surge of emotion. I cover my mouth with a hand, to stop a sob that isn’t there. What a thoughtful gift. But then my gratitude is replaced by suspicion. What does this mean? Is this apology clay, pity clay? Sorry Your Cat Died clay? Whatever the motive, it is a lovely gesture. And as I press my hands against the sides of the box, I feel my fingers tingle with anticipation.

—

When I get to the office on Thursday morning, everyone is in a fluster over the prospect of Crispin’s arrival. Jonathan is wearing his best tweed suit, Karl is dusting artwork on the walls, and Steph is putting posh soaps in all the toilets. Everyone looks busy with something other than work. Everyone except Will. He is at his desk, head down, ignoring the chaos going on around him. I want to go and thank him for the clay, but he is wearing noise-canceling headphones—universal code for “Do not disturb.”

When Crispin arrives at eleven a.m., I’m surprised to find he is not much older than me. He wears a perfectly tailored gray suit, and his dark Afro is cut short and forms a sharp line around his forehead.

After introductions have been made, Jonathan claps for quiet, and Crispin addresses the staff on the office floor.

“Every acquisition is a journey,” he tells us, his voice firm and commanding, like a politician at a press conference. “There are going to be bumps in the road, but I hope the destination is going to make it worthwhile. I’m here to listen. I want to learn who you are and what you do. I’m not the guy who buys a publication, then guts it like a fish. I want to get in the water and swim around with you first.”

Jonathan laughs, and I notice the awestruck look on his face as he watches Crispin talk.

“We’re looking to future-proof Bath Living ,” Crispin continues. “So I hope you’ll be collaborative in the weeks and months to come as we work out what that future might look like.”

Everyone gives Crispin a round of applause, but I’m not sure why we’re clapping. His speech sounded like a eulogy to me. When Jonathan ushers Crispin through to the living room, the rest of us let out a collective exhale.

I feel the slightest touch on my arm and turn to see Will standing behind me.

“How did Jess take the news about Katniss?” he asks.

“Better than I thought she would. Thanks again for your help,” I say, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “And thank you for the clay, you really didn’t need to do that.”

“I thought it might get you started,” Will says, then fidgets, as though he doesn’t know where to put his hands, and finally settles on crossing his arms.

“How was your date with the marine engineer?” I ask.

“Good. She gave me some excellent career advice,” he says, eyes glinting. “Maybe older women are the way forward. Are you meeting Ryan tonight?” he asks, and I nod. “Will you text me when you get home?”

“Will, I’m a big girl.”

“I know, but I still want you to text me.”

He reaches for my arm and briefly runs a finger over the new plaster covering my tattoo. His touch sends a throb of delight up my arm, the giddiness back with a vengeance. “Don’t get his name tattooed on you or anything, will you, Appleby?” he says, eyes boring into me as he runs his thumb down to my wrist before letting go. It feels territorial, and I want to feel indignant, but I’m too focused on trying to quell the giddiness. The moment is punctured by someone calling my name. It’s time for my one-on-one with Crispin.

“Look, Anna, let’s cut to the chase,” Crispin says before I’ve even sat down. “I’ve read your work. You’re a good writer, professional, proficient. Your interviews are top-notch.” He knocks a fist gently against his other palm. “But the direction I want to take this magazine in, it’s going to be more personal, more authored, less Bath, more Living, if you see what I’m saying?” He studies my face, looking for understanding, so I nod slowly. “You know why the youth love TikTok, Anna?” He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “Because people bare their soul on there. People talk about their depression, their love life, their weight issues, their divorces.” He pauses, letting that last word linger in the air. “People our age don’t get it. Stiff upper lip and crack on, right?” He chuckles, wanting to share the joke, but all I can offer him is a confused smile.

“I thought you liked the new dating column,” I say, feeling defensive. “It has a personal angle, just like you asked for.”

“It does, and the concept is great, really, it’s great. It has so much potential.” He pauses, letting his legs splay open as he lifts one foot to rest on his other thigh. “I don’t want you to think you have to change your entire writing style to keep your job here. We need nuts-and-bolts writers too.” Nuts-and-bolts writers? Is that what I am? “Arch Media is a global network. We’re micro, local, but with a macro mindset. I’m just pushing buttons here. That’s what I do, I’m a button pusher. I want to push you.” He taps a fist against his chest. “You need to crack this open and bleed words—feed the vampires.”

“Feed the vampires?” I repeat.

“Readers don’t just want words anymore, they want blood, sweat, tears—raw humanity served up as emotional sushi.”

“I don’t know what that means,” I say tightly.

“I think you do,” Crispin says, holding my gaze for a moment. “I think you know you do.” Then he stands up from his desk and claps his hands together. “All that talk of sushi has made me hungry. Good chat. Percolate upon it.” He shakes my hand, hard.

Before this meeting I wasn’t too worried about losing my job. I know I’m well respected at the magazine, I’m a good journalist. But now my confidence falters. What if that isn’t enough? What if Crispin is right, the world wants sushi and I only know how to cook fish fingers?