Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 25

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We don’t have any more conversations about what will happen when we get back to reality. I don’t think either of us want to think about it. We swim and walk in the woods and lounge by the fire or in my bed. It is a novelty to be touched so much, Will looking for my hand on a walk, throwing an arm around my shoulder, reaching to stroke dirt off my cheek. He is tactile and familiar and unselfconscious. He pulls me onto his lap by the fire or reaches out to stroke my hair. My body relishes it, like stepping into a warm shower after swimming in a cold sea.

On Sunday morning, I get up before Will and light the fire to make breakfast rolls. The smell of bacon and eggs draws Will out of my cabin and when he sees me by the fire, he shakes his head. “I wanted to make you breakfast in bed,” he says, then walks behind me and bends down to kiss the nape of my neck.

“Sorry, I woke up early,” I say.

Will leans around me and inhales the smell. “Perfectly crispy bacon.”

“I forgot I was cooking for a restaurant critic,” I say, gently slapping his hand with a spatula as he reaches for a piece.

“At least give me a job,” he says.

“Fine, you can serve.”

He grins, delighted, then fills one of the buns with a fried egg and two strips of bacon. In the cooler we find a huge array of condiments: brown sauce, mayonnaise, homemade chutneys, and relishes.

“Look at this, haute cuisine in the woods. What do you want on yours?” he asks me.

“Oh, however it comes,” I say with a shrug, but he looks at me questioningly.

“But what would you like ?” he asks.

“Mayonnaise and chutney then.”

“You always say ‘however it comes,’?” he tells me as he makes up my breakfast bun.

“Do I?”

“Yes. Maybe it’s a mum thing, my mum used to say that too. One Mother’s Day—I must have been seven—I remember asking if I could make her perfect sandwich for lunch, and she said, ‘Sure, I’ll have a ham and cheese.’ But I wanted to know exactly what her perfect ham and cheese sandwich would look like. She said, ‘However it comes,’ but I insisted I wanted to get it just right. Finally she laid it out: she wanted mayonnaise on a piece of rye, followed by ham, then cheese, lettuce, one more slice of ham, then a small dab of French mustard. I made a total mess of the kitchen, but you know, I think it was the best sandwich I’ve ever made.” He grins, and my heart melts. “She could have been humoring me, who knows.” He pauses, then says, “She used to remember all our little food preferences. Like how Simon loved Red Leicester, whereas I preferred Cheddar, or I’d eat the salami with the pepper around it, but Harry wouldn’t touch it. Every packed lunch she made was this little act of love and remembering.” He hands me my roll. “After she died, Dad made the same packed lunch for everyone. We ate what we were given.”

“Oh, that’s so sad,” I say.

“It wasn’t a big deal, we weren’t too fussy. I just remember it was one of the things I missed. Feeling like someone knew these little details about me.”

“Well, this is the best breakfast sandwich I’ve ever had,” I say, feeling slightly choked up by his story. “What are you having on yours? I’m feeling the pressure now.”

“Brown sauce, always brown sauce,” he says, taking the other roll from the griddle and talking me through his preparation. “Mayonnaise, but only if it’s Hellmann’s, and never mixed with the brown sauce; you’ve got to keep them separate, either side of the bun.”

“You know, Will, I think eating at all those five-star restaurants has turned you into a sandwich diva,” I say, elbowing him.

“Really? Wait, you’ve got a little—” He reaches across to wipe something from my nose, but when I reach up, I realize he’s wiped brown sauce onto it.

“Hey!” I say indignantly, but then I forgive him when he leans in to kiss it away.

—

After breakfast we head out for a walk in the woods on the other side of the river, holding hands like teenagers. This weekend has been so perfect—I’ve never felt this connected to someone so quickly before—but then I remember it has to end.

“Wouldn’t it be great if we could just stay here forever,” Will says, as though reading my mind.

“I wish,” I say.

“Why don’t we? I could learn to forage, catch fish?”

“My children might miss me,” I say.

“Right,” he says, and now I feel like I ruined the fantasy by mentioning my kids. Thinking about them stirs a nagging guilt. I’ve never been uncontactable for this long before. What if something’s happened? When Jess was two, I had a weekend away with girlfriends. It was the first time I’d left her. I had such a nice time, but then came back to find Dan had trapped her finger in the door and they’d ended up in the emergency room. Some part of me felt the universe was punishing me for daring to enjoy my time away.

“I might just check my messages,” I say when we get back to camp.

“Don’t. The weekend’s not over yet. When we let the outside world back in, the spell will be broken.”

But now that I’ve thought it, I can’t not. A dissonance crept in the minute I mentioned the children. “I need to,” I say, more firmly than I intend. Will doesn’t know what it’s like to be a parent, he doesn’t understand you can never truly check out. A chill wind blows through the woods and something in my gut tells me I need to check my phone.

“Sure, do what you need to do,” he says, walking across to the log pile to start splitting wood. I can’t tell if he’s annoyed or just being matter-of-fact.

Retrieving my phone from his lockbox, I walk out into the valley and up the hill. I feel a surge of anxiety as messages, e-mails, and alerts start to ping in. I home in on the ones from Jess.

Jess

Mum when are you back? I need you.

Mum, call me. Now.

Then a third message, just a sad-faced emoji.

Nothing from Dan, nothing to give me a clue as to what might have happened. I try calling her, but her phone is off, so I try Dan.

“I thought you were off-grid communing with nature?” he says, and his voice pulls me right out of Eden, slamming me back into real life.

“I am, just checking in. Is Jess okay? She messaged me.”

“She’s being tearful and weird. Girl stuff. Sylvie’s taken her out for a milkshake. You don’t need to worry.”

“Has something happened with her friends? Is it Penny?” I ask. I hear clinking on the line, the sound of tools tinkering with a bike chain.

“I don’t know, Anna, it’s probably a storm in a teacup, you know what she’s like,” Dan says. But now I am worried. Something happened, she wanted to talk to me, and I wasn’t there. Now Sylvie’s taken her out for a milkshake. Running back down the hill, I see Will is stacking up logs.

“I have to go. I need to get back,” I tell him.

“Why? What’s happened?” he asks, his face shifting to concern.

“I don’t know, mother’s intuition. I want to catch an earlier bus home.”

“Okay, I’ll come with you,” he says, but then we look around at everything that needs doing—the blankets strewn in the grass, the cups and bowls from breakfast lying unwashed.

“There’s a bus at two,” I say, looking at the clock on my phone, then quickly start picking up the rugs, shaking them out, and folding them. Will strides across the glade and takes the rug from my hand.

“I’ll do this. You won’t make the two o’clock otherwise,” he says.

“You’re sure you don’t mind?”

“If you need to go, you need to go. I’ll sort everything out here.”

So I run to the cabin to pack, and Will helps gather up my things. When I’m ready to go, he walks me back to the road and waits with me until the bus comes.

“Sorry to break up the party,” I say quietly, suddenly feeling awkward in front of him. We’re standing a foot apart, and I want to reach for his hand, but I don’t know what the rules are. Is it over now, or only when I step onto that bus?

“I guess it had to end sometime,” he says, taking a long exhale, reaching out for my hand. I savor the feel of it, the strong heat of his grip. If this is it, if this is all I get, I want to kiss him again. One more chance to hold him to me.

“Will…”

“This weekend, Anna, it’s been—”

But then my bus arrives, and he doesn’t finish the sentence. The spell is already broken. “See you around, Appleby,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

“See you,” I say. As I get on the bus, I give him a wave before turning around to let my face crumple. I take a seat next to a window, and the noise of the engine and other people feels like too much. My ears need time to recalibrate, as though I’ve been living in a quiet wood for months rather than two days.

As soon as my phone picks up a signal, I text Jess, asking what’s wrong, to let her know I’m on my way back.

Just come get me, she types back.

—

When I finally make it to Dan’s house, Sylvie answers the door. She’s wearing skintight cycling gear. I have never seen anyone look good in cycling gear before. Her face creases in concern when she sees me.

“What happened?” I ask.

“Shall we have a quiet word out here, mum to mum?” Sylvie whispers, stepping out into the street and closing the door behind her. Mum to mum? A month of being Dan’s live-in girlfriend does not make her my children’s stepmother.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, swallowing my anger in the hope she’ll spit it out quicker. Sylvie knits her fingers together, then bows her head, like a priest about to deliver a sermon.

“Our little Jess became a woman this weekend,” she tells me.

“Oh.”

“There was a…a situation with our white sofa.”

“Oh God.”

“It’s fine. I sorted it out before Dan noticed. The poor thing was mortified. She had some cramping, she didn’t have any of the products you bought her. It’s been a bit of a morning. But you don’t need to worry, we went for a girls’ lunch, talked it all through. I bought her a moonstone. My mother bought one for me when I started my journey into womanhood.”

The tightness in my chest releases; I’m relieved it isn’t something worse. But now my stomach is a soup of unpleasant feelings: sadness that I wasn’t here, anger that Sylvie was, heartache that my daughter was embarrassed and away from home. We’ve had conversations about it, I have a special box of pads at home, just in case, but she doesn’t have anything like that at Dan’s. I should have planned for this, I should have known it might happen.

“Thank you for doing that,” I say to Sylvie, and I genuinely am grateful to her for being kind.

“How was your holiday?” she asks.

“It was a work trip, and it was fine, thanks.” I give her a grudging smile. “Are the kids ready to go?”

“Come in, come in,” she says, opening the front door and walking through to the beige hall. I don’t want to come in, but I don’t want to risk looking rude by saying I’d rather wait in the street. Dan is in the living room, wearing cycling spandex.

“Hon, have you moved the Allen key for this saddle?”

“No,” I say, a reflex, before remembering he’s not talking to me.

“Oh, hey, Anna,” he says.

“I haven’t moved it,” Sylvie says, and there’s a sharp edge to her voice. She noticed my mistake, even if Dan didn’t.

Seeing Dan in his spandex after so recently seeing Will in much less, I can’t help but compare the two. Do Sylvie and Daniel have the kind of sex I just had with Will, or do they have the kind of sex Dan and I had? My mind jumps back to Friday night, Will’s commanding voice: “ You want me. Say it .”

“You okay? You look flushed,” Dan asks me, then frowns. “Don’t come in if you’re sick, I’ve got a Tri Club event next weekend. I can’t get sick.”

“I’m not sick, it’s just hot in here.” Why did I come in? It’s always a mistake to come in.

Ethan is in the garden playing with a plastic cricket bat and stumps. When he sees me through the French windows, he throws down the bat, runs to pull open the door, then comes in to hug me.

“Hey, kiddo,” I say, pulling him into my arms and kissing his hair, inhaling the glorious, sweaty smell of him.

“Did you see how good I got at cricket?” he asks.

“Ethan, let’s finish what we were doing. Stumps away,” Sylvie says, slowly circling a finger toward the garden. Ethan obediently shuffles back toward the door. “We like things spick and span here, don’t we?”

There’s a heavy stomping on the stairs, and Jess comes down and stands in the hall with her bag.

“Hey, Jess,” I say, giving her a sympathetic look and holding out my arms for a hug.

“Don’t be weird. Let’s just go,” she says. So I follow her out of the house, trying to be as non-weird as possible.

—

At home, Ethan runs straight into the garden to play with the cricket bat and ball we keep in our garden shed. While he’s outside, I take the opportunity to talk to Jess.

“Sylvie told me you started your period. I’m sorry I wasn’t there when you needed me.”

Jess grunts in response, and I reach out for a hug. To my relief, she walks into my arms and lets me hold her.

“It was so embarrassing, Mum. I just wanted to be home with you,” she whispers into my shoulder.

“I get it, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there. It sounds like Sylvie was nice about it though?”

“She bought me this,” Jess says, showing me the moonstone bracelet. “She says it symbolizes feminine energy.”

“Uh-huh.” It’s all I can muster.

Jess fiddles with it as she leans against the kitchen counter. “She made out it was this big moment, but it just feels gross and annoying.”

“It is a bit gross and annoying, but it’s also completely natural.” I pause, watching her, my daughter—still very much a child, yet now something else as well.

A ball of guilt lodges itself in my chest. What was I thinking? Living out some sexual fantasy in the woods, forgetting about my responsibilities here. I hardly thought about the kids all weekend; I should have foreseen this, but I was too preoccupied by Will. I am a terrible mother.

When Ethan comes in from the garden, we all curl up on the sofa together and watch Miss Congeniality , a family favorite. But I can’t focus on Sandra Bullock’s makeover; my mind is still in the woods. I wonder where Will is now. Is he back yet? I fiddle with my phone, tempted to text him. I should let him know everything’s okay. I’m not not going to text him just because we slept together.

“So how did you cope without your phone for two days?” Jess asks, seeing me grasping my phone, plagued by indecision.

“It was easier than I thought it would be.”

“How was Will?” Jess asks.

“Excuse me?” I say, thrown by the question.

“You went with that guy Will from your work, didn’t you?”

“Oh, right, yes, fine. It was fine.” Why are they asking me questions about Will? They never ask me questions about work, or anything in my life that doesn’t directly relate to them. I get up and go to the loo, lock the door, then start composing a message.

All fine here, glad I came back when I did. Thanks for a lovely weekend. Then I erase it and retype. All fine here. Can’t stop thinking about you. No. I can’t say that. That’s too much, it’s supposed to be over. Should I send him a GIF? Something that conveys I’m thinking about him, without being too needy. What if I just said, Miss you already ? I tap my phone against my forehead in frustration. What is wrong with me? I feel fifteen again, wondering whether Lance Reynolds will notice me more if my hair is up or down.

“Mum, are you okay? You’ve been in there for ages,” Jess calls from the living room.

“Fine. Just a minute,” I call back. Quickly I type, All fine here. Hope you got home okay , then send it to Will before I can overthink it.

“Can I get an axolotl, Mum?” Ethan asks.

“Show me what they are,” I tell him. We look them up on my phone, and I find photos of a strange, smiling pink amphibian with a crown of feathery gills. “They look high-maintenance.”

“They’re not. They can regenerate their own limbs.” Ethan looks at me hopefully.

“Let me do more research, I promise I’ll think about it,” I tell him, leaning over to kiss his head. “Also, I need another date suggestion, if either of you have any ideas.”

“Why can’t you date Will?” Jess asks, and the question makes me tense. Does she know something?

“No, I can’t date Will,” I say as casually as possible. “He’s a colleague.”

“Kenny at school says his grandad keeps a goat as a pet and it lives in his house. It chews all his shoes,” Ethan says.

“That makes him eligible, does it? How old is he?”

“The goat?” Ethan asks.

“No! Kenny’s grandad. You know what, no, veto. No one from school or connected to school, and no one’s grandad.” Ethan’s face falls, as though I’ve quashed his dream of meeting that goat. “Why not ask Kenny if you can go meet his grandad’s goat one day after school?” Ethan looks thrilled by this suggestion.

“Are you going to see Michael again?” Jess asks.

“Michael was lovely, we’re going to stay in touch, he was a great suggestion. But I need a fresh lead.”

“Why do you keep checking your phone?” Jess asks me.

“I’m not,” I say, pushing it down the side of the sofa.

“Wouldn’t it be great if you could have a playdate with loads of people at the same time and then work out who you wanted to be friends with?” Ethan says.

“I think that’s called speed dating,” I tell him.

“What’s speed dating?” Jess asks, and once I’ve explained the concept, Ethan and Jess agree this sounds like an excellent plan and I open my laptop to do some research.

“Look, there’s an over-thirty-fives event. Mum, that’s you,” says Jess, pointing at the screen.

“I don’t know if this strictly meets the column’s criteria,” I say with a frown. “You really can’t think of anyone else?”

The doorbell rings, and I go to open the door. On the doorstep is Noah, holding a mangled milk carton.

“Foxes got into your bin again,” he says gruffly, pointing at our wheelie bin. “I’ve just cleaned it up. You need to put a sturdy brick on the top if you’re going to put rubbish out before the morning of collection.”

“Thank you, but I did put a brick on it,” I say, irritated by this admonishment.

“It can’t have been big enough,” says Noah.

“Maybe the foxes are getting stronger. Maybe they’re evolving, working together to get the bricks off the bins,” I suggest, my eyes falling to Noah’s feet, where I see he’s wearing odd socks. One is a smart red tartan, the other gray and woolen.

“Just try to be more vigilant,” he grumbles, turning to stomp down the steps, then calling back, “And fill in the form for the hedge arbitration.”

I close the door, muttering to myself, “I’ll show you more vigilant.” Then when I turn around, Ethan and Jess are looking at me with identical looks on their face.

“Oh no, no, no, no. Not him. Veto, huge veto,” I say, raising both palms in the air.

“I don’t think you have any vetoes left, Mum,” Jess says with a sly grin.