Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 18

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At home later that evening, I rush about trying to find something to wear to the theater. Why don’t I have any “theater clothes”? Lottie has plans, so my colleague Kelly has offered to babysit, but she’s running late. I’ll need to be out of the door the minute she arrives if I’m going to make opening curtain. When I finally find something appropriate to wear, a denim dress with tights and gold heels, I notice Ethan itching his head as he sorts through his Pokémon cards on the floor.

“Mum, when I get an axolotl I’m going to call it Ninja Kid.”

“Why are you itching?” I ask him.

“I’m itchy.”

Walking across to him, I squat down and gently tilt his head so that I can inspect the back of his neck. There is a cluster of telltale red spots. Shining my phone torch into his hairline, I see something crawling. Nits. Shit. I let out a groan.

“What? Is it nits?” Ethan’s voice is high-pitched and panicked as he swivels around to look at me. I grimace. We haven’t had a lice infestation in years. When Jess started school, it felt as though we were constantly delousing her. She has long, thick hair, and I would spend hours in front of the Disney Channel combing conditioner through it with that dreaded narrow comb. It makes me feel itchy just thinking about it.

“Don’t worry, your hair is short, we’ll get rid of them in no time. I’ll pick up a treatment from the chemist in town,” I say, giving him a reassuring pat on the shoulder while also keeping him at arm’s length. Ethan starts itching again, and now I reach a hand up to my own hair. Am I itchy, or is it psychological? Oh God, what if I have nits and I give them to Ryan Stirling? No, no. I’m being paranoid. I might wear my hair up, just in case.

When Kelly finally arrives, the first thing Ethan says to her is “I’ve got nits,” and she recoils back toward the door. Not the best opener for a new babysitter.

“It’s fine, they can’t jump across the room,” I tell her. If Kelly bails on me, I won’t be able to go and I can’t easily get in touch with Ryan to reschedule. Besides, this is one date I really don’t want to cancel. Then Jess walks down the stairs scratching, and Kelly looks at me like I’ve asked her to babysit Medusa and Medusa’s little brother. “Don’t panic. We can fix this,” I say, while having no idea how I’m going to fix this in the two minutes I’ve got before I need to leave.

Four minutes later, the children are both wearing swimming caps in front of the TV and Jess looks like she wants to murder me.

“I can’t believe you’ve given me nits, fleabag,” Jess groans, elbowing her brother.

“How do you know you didn’t give me nits?” Ethan says, punching her on the arm.

“Let’s not play the blame game, okay? These things happen, it isn’t anyone’s fault,” I say, itching my own neck. “I will get you both treatments, and we’ll sort it before school tomorrow. Okay?” Kelly perches on the edge of the sofa, as though it too might be infested with lice. “I’ll, um, I’ll pay you danger money,” I tell her with a half smile, half grimace, “on top of what we discussed.”

By the time I get near the theater I’ve convinced myself I have nits too. My head feels alive with tiny crawling insects, and whether it’s paranoia or not, I’m not going to feel comfortable sitting so close to other people in the theater for two and a half hours. I’d hoped to project myself as a confident, sexy, together woman, and I’m not sure that’s going to happen if I’m scratching like a feral cat. Nipping into a late-night chemist on the high street, I grab three boxes of lice treatment. At the till, I notice a display of silk head wraps. They’re designed to wear at night to protect your curls, but they could pass for fashion. Could they pass for fashion?

When I arrive at the theater, the last bell has rung and I’m the only person left in the foyer. Picking up my comp ticket from the box office, I slip on my new green silk cap before being ushered to my seat in the stalls. Sitting to one side of me is a woman in her fifties who, bizarrely, is wearing a similar silk cap in light blue. She gives me a nod as I sit down. I assume she’s sympathizing with my lateness, but then as the lights go down, she leans over and says, “God bless you.”

It’s only ten minutes later, when I notice her frail hands, that I realize she might have cancer, or be recovering from cancer, and she must have assumed I have cancer too. Now my guilt about abandoning my nit-ridden children is surpassed by the guilt I feel for receiving unearned cancer sympathy. Sinking down into my seat, I try to focus on the play. Ryan Stirling is incredibly hot, with such a natural stage presence that I’m soon lost in the production. The whole audience is so enthralled, you could hear a nit cough.

During the interval, the lady beside me clasps my arm. “Can I get you a drink, dear?”

“Oh no, let me get you one?” I say overeagerly.

“I insist. We girls must stick together,” she says, nodding toward my head. I don’t want to embarrass her by explaining that I don’t have cancer, if that’s what she thinks. It’s too awkward and might involve my bringing up the nits situation. I’ll probably never see this woman again, it’s politer to say nothing.

When we stand up, I notice her outfit is a cascade of color. She’s wearing a rainbow-colored skirt, a bright green shirt, and a white sequined waistcoat. She looks amazing, like a fashionista you might see strutting the streets of Manhattan. She heads to the bar and comes back with two proseccos.

“Thank you, that’s very kind,” I mumble.

“Loretta,” she tells me.

“Anna,” I say, shaking the thin hand she proffers.

“Three months in remission,” she says, raising her glass to mine in a toast. “After four years of treatment. Hair’s still refusing to grow.” She taps her cap with a flourish of her hand. “How about you?”

“Oh, nothing like that,” I say ambiguously. What am I doing? Why don’t I just tell her she made a mistake? Because it’s rational to assume that no one would be wearing a silk bed cap as a fashion statement.

“You’re young, you’re strong,” she says, clasping my hand again. “Nothing puts your life into perspective like the big C.” Loretta goes on to tell me her life story as we sip our drinks. I’m happy to listen to her talk, she’s had a fascinating life. I learn she’s a scientist who’s helped develop a pioneering type of gene therapy that will save thousands of lives once it’s been properly trialed. She’s traveled the world, been married twice, and has the perfect voice for audiobooks.

“Are you married?” she asks eventually.

“Divorced,” I tell her. “Though I don’t love the term ‘divorcée.’ It makes me think of Zsa Zsa Gabor.”

Loretta laughs. “I had a friend who referred to herself as PM, ‘post-married,’ which I liked. You’re not doing it all alone, are you?” Her voice is full of concern. I’m going to assume she means divorce, though I suspect she means cancer.

“I’m close with my sister, I have two great kids,” I tell her.

“Good,” she says, “then embrace being PM. This is your rock era.”

“Excuse me?”

“Fleetwood Mac.” She smiles as though this should be enough for me to know what she means. “They thought they were a blues band, then they lost Peter Green and were forced to reinvent themselves. When Lindsey Buckingham and Stevie Nicks joined, they found their rock era and became one of the greatest bands in history. That could be you, you just need to find your Stevie Nicks.”

“I don’t really know their music,” I admit.

“Oh, you’ll know it when you hear it. There’s no funk I couldn’t pull myself out of, belting out ‘Go Your Own Way ’ while dancing around the house in my knickknacks.” I can’t help smiling at this, and as the lights go down, Loretta squeezes my arm on our shared rest and whispers, “Your rock era.”

The second half of the play drags, and I struggle to keep my eyes open. As a rule, Shakespeare is best enjoyed before seven p.m., or after a double espresso. Ryan Stirling taking his shirt off before a battle scene briefly perks me up, but when the crowd starts applauding, I realize I must have nodded off and my head is lolling gracelessly on Loretta’s shoulder.

“Oh, I’m so sorry,” I say, jerking upright, flustered, as everyone around us rises from their seat for a standing ovation.

“Don’t apologize. You must listen to your body; when it needs rest, you rest.” Loretta pats my hand. As the applause finally recedes, she turns to face me. “Now, I know I’m just a strange woman you happened to sit next to at the theater, but I see in you a kindred spirit, Anna.”

I’m flattered to hear this, and apart from the awkward misunderstanding, I have loved talking to her too.

“Can I give you my digits, if you ever need the ear of someone who’s been there?” she asks, and I nod.

“That’s incredibly sweet of you,” I say, taking the business card she’s extracted from her handbag.

“It’s a landline number. I’m rarely in but do leave a message. I can’t abide mobile phones. Who wants the world in their pocket? Not I.”

This makes me laugh. Loretta has a wonderful energy and I want to bask in it a little longer. “Did you enjoy the play?”

“Went on a bit, didn’t it?” she says, giving me a sly grin. “Though he’s rather easy on the eye.”

As I bid Loretta good-bye, I sorely regret not clearing up the misunderstanding between us. She probably would have laughed about it. I might have liked to go for a coffee with her, but I didn’t put her straight when I had the chance.

In the theater bathroom, I pull off the silk cap and try to fluff up my flat hair. I can’t have Ryan Stirling questioning whether our date was arranged by the Make-A-Wish foundation. Leaning toward the mirror to inspect my hairline, I see nothing moving. I’ll just assume I don’t have nits while simultaneously not putting my head anywhere near him.

At the stage door, a crowd of female fans are waiting for Ryan to emerge. My heart sinks when I see them. It’s already ten o’clock. If he signs all these people’s programs, he won’t be free until eleven; I’ll struggle to keep my eyes open. Just as I’m contemplating grabbing a coffee from the theater bar, the stage door opens, and a voice calls, “Anna Appleby?” The crowd parts like the Red Sea as I put up my hand and cry, “That’s me!”

A man dressed in a black polo shirt, wearing an earpiece, beckons me forward and the crowd eyes me enviously, perhaps wondering why I have been singled out. I mutter, “Journalist,” under my breath as I hurry forward.

The man in black leads me down a corridor.

“Do not ask Mr. Stirling for a selfie,” he instructs. “He doesn’t do photos after the show.” I’m led into a brightly lit dressing room, and there he is, Ryan Stirling, the Ryan Stirling. He’s dressed in jeans and a white shirt, and a young woman is wiping makeup from his face.

“Anna?” he asks, his voice loud, as though he’s still projecting from the stage. I nod, suddenly starstruck. “Don’t worry, we’ll head out the side door, avoid the baying mob. I’ll be there all night otherwise.” He gives me an overblown eye roll. “Did you enjoy the play?”

“Yes. You were great, wow, amazing,” I blurt out before I can rein in my fangirling. He grins, as though I’ve answered correctly. Then he bats away the makeup lady, holds out a hand for his coat, and leaps out of the chair.

“Shall we depart?” He puts a hand on the small of my back, steering me out of the dressing room, then through another door, out onto a dark side street. He’s much smaller than I expected him to be—he can’t be more than five foot eight—but up close, his face is even more perfect than it looks on TV. He has a square jaw, hooded eyes, and a slight Roman nose. He looks like a man from another era, a gladiator or a Viking warrior. He’s so beautiful, I need to make a concerted effort not to stare at him.

In the street outside the back of the theater, there’s a car with blacked-out windows waiting for us. Ryan opens the car door for me, then climbs in beside me.

“Where are we going?” I ask.

“Somewhere we won’t be disturbed. Nothing worse than being in a bar and having napkins thrust in your face to sign.” He leans forward, shakes out his arms, then trills air through his lips. “Forgive me, this is how I de-Richard. There’s a lot that goes into the performance. I have disturbed sleep if don’t get him out.”

“Oh, I can imagine,” I say, though as someone who has never acted, I don’t think I can.

The car drives to a discreet private members’ club called Pleets. Ryan trills his lips for the duration of the journey. The doorman must know the car because as soon as we arrive, he opens a small, hidden side door. Inside the club, we’re shown along a dark corridor, then into a cozy, dimly lit room. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I’m now wide awake. This doesn’t feel real. I’m on a secret night out with Ryan Stirling, the Ryan Stirling. I wish Will could see me now. I mean Dan. I wish Dan could see me now. Do I mean Dan or Will? The thought confuses me for a moment. Why am I thinking about either of them?

“Here we go,” Ryan says, walking into the room and indicating a low, curved black leather sofa. To the left is a bar with a red strip of light emanating from beneath it, and a backlit display of bottles. It feels like a miniature nightclub, or, more worryingly, the kind of room where you might get a private lap dance.

“We’ll be able to hear ourselves think in here,” Ryan says, his hand on my lower back again. I assumed we’d grab a drink at the theater. I don’t think I appreciated how different “going for a drink” might be when you’re so recognizable.

“So, tell me again how amazing you thought the play was,” Ryan says, sitting right next to me on the sofa, then splaying his legs out wide so that our thighs are touching. His eyes glint, as though he’s joking, but he waits for me to answer, so I’m not sure he is.

“Oh, you were wonderful. So many words to remember.” So many words? Is that really the best I can come up with?

“You’re sweet,” Ryan says, briefly dropping his eyes to my chest. “It does take a lot of practice. It’s not like TV where they can feed you lines a scene at a time. The Bard’s language makes it easier. The poetry of it feels right on your tongue; it’s not like trying to memorize the phone book.” When he says the word “tongue,” he sticks his out and wiggles it in my direction. I find the gesture off-putting but I’m not sure why. It’s Ryan Stirling’s tongue, it can’t be off-putting.

A shy-looking waiter comes over to take our order, and I use the opportunity to shift my body and put a few inches of space between us. Regardless of the nit situation, I’d rather get to know him from a slightly less intimate distance. Ryan orders a fruity cocktail for me and a whiskey for himself, then he dismisses the waiter with a wave of his hand.

“So, Anna Appleby, I have to tell you, I’ve never agreed to date a fan before,” he says with a smirk, then slowly passes his tongue across his lower lip. “When my agent showed me your e-mail, it tickled me. I was in a ticklish sort of mood.” He runs a hand up my arm to tickle me, and his touch makes me flinch.

“Ha, well,” I say, clasping my hands in my lap. “I wouldn’t say I was a fan, per se.” Ryan’s face falls. “Well, no, I am a fan. I’ve watched every series of Port, Starboard, Murder— I love that show.”

“Of course you do,” he says, running his tongue over his bottom lip again, then shifting closer to me and putting an arm around the back of the sofa behind me. What’s with the tongue? Is it too big for his mouth?

“But, um, it’s really this column I’m writing that inspired me to get in touch.” I’m so distracted by his proximity that I’m talking faster than I normally would, blurting out words like an audiobook on double speed. “I’m writing a series of columns for Bath Living , on whether it’s possible to date offline—”

“Yes, yes, I remember,” he cuts me off. “Your ‘son’ suggested me.” He lifts his fingers into inverted commas, then moves his hand onto my shoulder, where he starts twirling a piece of my hair. Oh God, Ryan Stirling is twirling my hair, my hair , what if he sees something moving in it? All the blood in my body would rush to my face and there’d be none left in the rest of me. I’d just collapse in a heap on the floor, anemically white except for my beetroot-colored head. Every muscle in my body feels tense. I don’t think it’s just the nit paranoia making me uncomfortable here; the hair twirling feels inappropriate. We’ve only just sat down, and I’m yet to finish a sentence. I reach up to tuck the piece of hair behind one ear, gently nudging away his hand, but some instinct in my gut is telling me to get up and leave.

“Which is your favorite series then?” he asks, moving his hand back to his lap as the waiter reappears with our drinks.

“Series two, I love Faye Carraway,” I tell him. Faye is the actress who plays his sidekick. This feels like a safe topic for conversation; I could talk about Port, Starboard, Murder all night.

“Well, she’s a bitch,” Ryan says, his face shifting into an unpleasant sneer. “I’m too much of a gentleman to say more, but trust me, the ‘chemistry’ everyone said we had—I deserved a fucking BAFTA for that performance.”

“Oh wow, you’d never know that you didn’t get on,” I say, clutching my drink and taking a large swig of what tastes like pure vodka.

“I didn’t say we didn’t get on. I said she was a bitch.” Ryan shifts away from me now, slouching back on the sofa, both arms spread along the top of it. “Now you’ve ruined my post-show buzz by mentioning Faye.” He stares at me, and his mouth moves into a smile, as though he’s joking, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. They lock on to me, like lasers finding their target, cold and unblinking.

“Sorry,” I say, laughing nervously.

“How are you going to give me my buzz back?” he asks, his voice quiet.

“I could tell you all the great things there are to do here in Bath?” I say lightly, glancing down at my drink, not wanting to look him in the eye. “I’m a great tour guide. Have you seen the Roman Baths yet?”

“I don’t think the Roman Baths are going to give me what I’m looking for,” he says. When I lift my gaze, his eyes are still on me. They seem darker, pupils bleeding into his irises so they appear almost black. He throws back the whiskey he’s holding, then licks his lip. There’s the tongue again.

“Why don’t you tell me about the first time you got off thinking about me?” he says. “In as much detail as possible.”

“Excuse me?” My body tenses, my hands clasping my drink so hard that I can see the pads of my fingers, white through the glass.

“Tell me your fantasy, I’ll do what I can. You want me to arrest you in character? You want to call me Detective?” Now he lunges across the sofa toward me, clasping one hand around the back of my neck, while the other grabs hold of my thigh. “Don’t be shy. You can tell me all the bad, bad things you’ve done, naughty girl.” He smells of whiskey and stale stage makeup. His movement is so sudden, his hands so forceful, that my body freezes, my eyes searching desperately for the waiter, but I see he’s made a discreet exit, and we are entirely alone in this small, dark, windowless room.

“No, no, thank you.” The words come out as a whisper, though in my mind I am shouting. Why am I not jumping up? Why do my limbs feel paralyzed?

“Playing coy? You want to play by the letter of the law, then don’t play with me,” he whispers into my ear in his Brandon Farley voice. “Shall we just get out of here?” he asks, seemingly unaware of how repulsed I am by his clammy hand running up my thigh. “My hotel’s just around the corner.”

My body is still frozen in shock; I can’t move. I open my mouth, but my brain can’t formulate words. His hand inches further up my skirt, and finally I manage to speak. “I have nits!” I blurt out, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“What?” He moves back a few inches, relaxes the hand on my neck. “What did you say?”

“I have nits. I wouldn’t get so close,” I say, louder now, and this time it has the desired effect. He jumps back as though I’ve slapped him.

“What the fuck?” He scowls at me, brushing himself down. “Why would you come here with…with that?”

“It wasn’t planned. This was a mistake.” I stand up, backing away. The more space I manage to put between us, the more my panic subsides and my voice returns. “And for future reference, just because someone likes the show you’ve been in, it doesn’t mean they want to be pawed within minutes of meeting you.”

Ryan glares at me, his short legs still splayed wide on the couch. I feel so foolish, all I want to do is run. I don’t want those cold eyes on me a moment longer. As I turn to leave, Ryan says, “You look a lot older than your byline photo. I’d call that false advertising.”

In the corridor, the doorman opens the outside door for me. “Get home safe, ma’am,” he says, and there’s a note of sympathy in his voice. Does Ryan Stirling come here after every performance, picking out a different fan from the stage door? I think I have been dangerously na?ve.

Walking down the cobbled street, I burst into tears. That was so awful. He was so awful. They say never meet your heroes; you probably shouldn’t date them either. The man just finished a three-hour play; obviously he had no interest in getting to know me. He just liked a photo he found of me online and assumed I’d be willing. I made the mistake of thinking I knew him because his face was so familiar.

At home, when Kelly asks how the evening went, I brush her off with a broad “Disappointing” and an exaggerated yawn. I pay her an extra thirty quid for the nitconvenience, then go upstairs to put one of the treatments on my head. Soaking in a too-hot bath, I try to scald away the memory of Ryan’s hands.

Replaying the conversation in my head, I wonder, if I’d acted differently, could the evening have gone another way? If I hadn’t mentioned Faye Carraway, if I’d been less uptight. Could there have been a scenario where I’d have wanted to go back to his hotel room? No, I don’t think so. From the second we met, I felt something off about him, a darkness.

Rigorously combing through my hair with a nit comb, I find nothing. I do not have nits, though my scalding bath can’t wash away the skin-crawling feeling. As I dry myself in silence, my phone pings with a message. Will. He’s sent me a screenshot of an online dating profile: “Tiffany.” She’s twenty-five and has poker-straight dark hair, eyebrows that are artfully drawn, and a face that looks familiar.

Will Havers

She’s hardly Ryan Stirling but still technically a celebrity…

Now I recognize her; she’s the daughter of a famous footballer who starred in Celebrity Love Island . He must have gotten access to the exclusive dating app he was telling me about.

Will Havers

I told her my rival columnist was on a date with an A-lister, and she was my best chance to compete. The things I do to keep up with you, Appleby.

I want to reply, but then he might ask me how things went with Ryan.

Will Havers

You’re probably still out with RS. I’ll stop distracting you.

I leave it for a few minutes, then I remember I did promise to text him after my date. I’ll need to say something.

Anna Appleby

I’d rather have spent the evening with Tiffany. Ryan Stirling = sleaze bag

I’ve hardly pressed send before Will is calling me. Why is he calling me?

“What happened?” he asks as soon as I answer, his voice full of concern.

“It’s fine, he’s just a tool. I left after twenty minutes.”

“I’d heard he was.” Will’s voice is so warm and familiar, now I’m glad that he called. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you. What did he do?”

“He thought I was a fan who was just there to…well, you know,” I sigh.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” He sounds so sincere, so full of concern, that my voice breaks as I say, “No, it’s fine.”

“Do you want me to come over?” Will asks.

“No, honestly, I’m okay.”

“I could go heckle his play? Write up a bad review?”

This makes me laugh. “No, I’m just nursing a bruised ego.” I pause. “He said I looked older than my byline photo.” I let out a dramatic sigh.

“Then he doesn’t know what he’s talking about. You’re the most beautiful woman I know.” The compliment takes me by surprise. I don’t know what to say, but I feel my face break into an enormous smile and a warm feeling settling in my chest.

“That’s definitely not true but thank you for being nice.”

There’s a pause on the line.

“I’m not being nice,” he says, and it sends a dart of pleasure through me.

“Night, Will.”

“Night, Anna,” he says. We both linger on the line for a moment, until finally, he hangs up.

When he’s gone, the room feels too quiet. My whole body feels flushed, and now I won’t be able to sleep. Picking up my headphones from my bedside table, I search a music app for Fleetwood Mac. The joyful, upbeat sound of “Go Your Own Way” fills my ears. I do know this song. I smile at the thought of Loretta dancing around the house in her underwear. Turning up the volume, I get out of bed and dance downstairs in my pajamas, imagining the soundtrack to a jubilant scene, not the scene where the heroine gets groped and humiliated by her celebrity crush.

I guess some things in life you don’t get to choose; you can’t choose the plot, but you can choose the soundtrack. As “Everywhere” comes on, I turn up the volume and shimmy around the living room, lip-synching to the words, not caring who might be looking in. Soon my blood is pumping, my skin is sweating, and my soul starts to sing.