Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 30

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Will throws the rental camera bag over his shoulder as we walk out of the office.

“Thank you so much for helping,” he says as we walk down Milsom Street. “I really appreciate it.”

“No problem,” I say, feeling strange about how formal we’re being with each other. I tug at my shirt; it suddenly feels too tight. Have my boobs grown? Since my conversation with Dan, I’ve spent the afternoon being paranoid that I could be pregnant. No preventative measures are 100 percent effective. What would I do if I was? I really don’t want a baby, least of all the baby of a man who’s leaving town. Casual sex might have its downsides.

“Do you mind if I grab a sandwich on the way? I didn’t have a chance to get lunch,” Will asks as we pass a popular new bagel place.

“Sure, of course,” I say, and we walk in together. There’s a line, and just as we get to the front of the queue, Will’s phone rings. He looks at the screen, and I can see him deliberate about whether he has time to take it.

“I can order for you if you need to get that?” I offer, and he looks relieved. “What do you want?”

“Anything,” he says, then steps out of the line to take the call.

“Next,” calls the flustered deli owner. “What can I get you?”

“Can I get a bacon, lettuce, and tomato on rye, please, the bacon extra crispy, and do you have brown sauce? Great, thank you.”

“Mayo?” he asks.

“Yes, if it’s Hellmann’s, no, if it’s not.” He nods. “Just a little of that too.” I watch him start to make the bagel in front of me. “Can you put the mayo on that side of the bagel, and the brown sauce on the other? Great, sorry, thank you.”

When I finish ordering I turn around and see Will watching me. He’s finished his call and is giving me a strange look.

“Are you okay? What’s wrong?” I ask. “I ordered you a BLT, I hope that’s okay?”

“Nothing. Thanks,” he says, but he’s still looking at me as though I’ve rescued a puppy from a storm drain rather than just ordered him a sandwich.

“What?” I ask, laughing now, but he just shakes his head, his cheek creasing into a dimpled smile.

Outside the abbey, we sit down on a bench so Will can eat his bagel while I take a look at the camera he’s hired.

“Is it the right kind of camera?” he asks as I open the case. It looks completely different from the models I’ve used in the past, but after a brief pause, I nod confidently.

“Sure,” I say.

“You know, this is a really great bagel,” he says with an unnervingly sincere expression.

Once I’ve worked out how to turn the camera on and found the screw for the tripod base plate, we head over to the abbey. I’ve been inside Bath Abbey many times over the years, but the building never ceases to amaze me. The huge, high, fan-vaulted ceilings and the enormous stained-glass window at the end of the nave, an intricate tapestry of color, towering up like a rainbow skyscraper. It’s impossible not to feel awed by the grandeur of such beautiful, ambitious architecture.

The choir pews are abuzz with activity. Everyone is wearing matching Raise Your Voice yellow T-shirts. There is a small orchestra of musicians warming up, and as soon as he sees people singing, Will’s shoulders relax.

“Will you come and meet my family?” Will asks, his eyes lighting up, as he leads me through the bustle of people. We reach a man who must be his father, because he has Will’s tall stature and the same expressive face. His posture is more stooped, and his hair is entirely white, but he’s clearly a Havers. Simon, on the other hand, looks nothing like his brother. He’s got red hair and a smattering of freckles. He sits in a lightweight wheelchair, which he shifts around to face me.

“Dad, Simon, this is my friend and colleague Anna, she’s helping me out today,” Will says. I reach to shake their hands, feeling disproportionately pleased to be introduced as his friend. “Anna, my dad, Rory, and my annoying little brother, Simon.”

“I’m very sorry,” says Simon somberly, and I notice his voice has a slight slur. He takes my hand in both of his and squeezes it.

“What for?” I ask, confused.

“That you have to work with my brother,” Simon says, which makes me laugh.

“Thank you. It is challenging at times, but I do my best to endure.”

“Does he give everyone advice they didn’t ask for?” Simon asks.

“He does,” I say. “Hunting out my grammatical errors is his favorite pastime.”

Will shakes his head at us both, but the smile lines around his eyes crease. “You’re ganging up on me already?”

“It’s not Will’s fault,” says Rory, slapping Will on the back. “When you have four boys, they all take a role, a way of asserting their identity in the pack. George was the bookish one, Harry was sporty, Simon’s always been the joker, and Will—” He pauses.

“What was Will?” I ask, taking an unexpected pleasure in hearing about him from his family.

“Will is the sensitive one, takes everything to heart,” Rory says. “That’s why he likes things to be just so. Disorder upsets him. You know he irons his boxer shorts?”

“That’s more than enough,” Will says, shoulders hunched in discomfort. “Anna doesn’t want to hear this.”

“Oh, I do,” I say, grinning as I turn back to Simon. “Come on, dish the dirt.”

“He had a soft toy he took to bed until he was thirteen,” Simon tells me conspiratorially. “Dodge the dog.”

“That is not true. I was ten.” Will looks genuinely irritated now.

“Thirteen,” Rory mouths to me.

“And you wonder why I never bring any friends home?” Will says. Simon has a monogrammed SH embroidered on his yellow T-shirt, I notice, then I see Rory’s T-shirt has an RH on his.

“I like your shirt,” I tell Simon. He glows with pride and claps his hands.

“Simon likes to sew,” Will explains. “I bought him a monogram kit for Christmas. Now if you leave anything around the house, you’ll find it monogrammed the next morning.” So that’s why Will has so many things monogrammed! My heart leaps at this precious detail.

“Do you want anything monogrammed, Anna?” Simon asks, his voice hopeful.

“I will let you know,” I promise him.

“We’re going to interview a few choir members before you start. Si, who should I start with?” Will asks.

Simon suggests the choir director, a woman called Janet; then Carly, a woman in her twenties with Down syndrome who has been with the choir since the beginning; then Todd, who at thirteen is the youngest member. Will tells me Todd has cerebral palsy, that he lives in foster care, and that he has been with the choir longer than he’s been with any one family.

Setting up the camera in a quiet corner of the abbey, Will leads the interviews. Janet tells us that she set up the choir for those with physical and neurological challenges, to help foster a sense of community and raise awareness, but also just to celebrate the power and joy of music. It’s clear she volunteers a huge amount of her time and expertise to the project. Hearing her talk makes me feel bad for spending so much time worrying about myself.

Will is a skilled interviewer. He knows just which questions to ask. When Todd tells us that the choir is his closest family, I feel myself on the verge of tears. Once we’ve interviewed five of the choir members, Will tells me, “We still have twenty minutes before they let the audience in. Is there anything else you think we should get?”

“How about we interview some of the carers, about the impact the choir has had on them,” I suggest. “What about your dad?”

Will pauses; I’m not sure if it’s because he doesn’t want to interview his father or because he hasn’t thought of it, but then he says, “Sure, good idea.”

Rory is happy to oblige, and I mic him up.

“So, as Simon’s dad, tell us what the choir means to you,” Will says.

“It means everything to us. When Simon had his accident, it was tough, on everyone. Once we got over the shock of it, it was Simon’s mental, rather than physical, health I found most challenging to deal with. He couldn’t see much to be positive about. He lashed out at the people who loved him.” He shares a look with Will, and I can only imagine what they’ve experienced together. “But over time he learned to adapt. He got movement back in his arms, which doctors never thought he would. He found things to be positive about, made new friends. This choir was a huge part of that. We plan our week around it. I honestly don’t know what we would do if we lost the rehearsal space.”

Will looks to me, wanting my input.

“Maybe just rephrase that end part into a more concise sound bite? Like ‘It’s played a huge part in my son’s recovery. I honestly don’t know what we would do without it.’ Something like that.” I look to Will, worried I’m overstepping, putting words in his father’s mouth, but he gives a nod of appreciation. “Let’s do one more take.”

As the audience starts to arrive and fill the pews, I move the camera to the back of the abbey and get some wide shots of the choir’s first song, Bill Withers’s “Lean on Me.” The sound is haunting as it fills the enormous space. The choir are all so expressive, I know it would help to get some close-ups, so I take the camera off the tripod and creep to the front with it, trying to be as unobtrusive as possible. As I slip back to stand beside Will, I see Loretta a few pews away and we wave to each other.

“Did you get what you need?” Will asks, and I nod. He is swaying to the music, fully engaged with the performance. “I can take the camera if you want to go?”

“I’d like to stay.”

“Don’t feel you have to,” he says, his eyes wide and hopeful.

“Will. I want to stay.”

And then the choir starts to sing “Build Me Up Buttercup” and Will starts quietly singing along. “Now I know why you’re always singing that song,” I whisper.

“I’ve been practicing with Simon over breakfast,” he tells me, and the image of them singing together over their cereal cracks something open inside of me. As we listen to the rest of the concert, Will reaches for my hand and squeezes it. Heart full, I squeeze back, reluctant to let go. But my pleasure is tempered by an uneasy feeling. Our boundaries are blurring. I had Colleague Will and Archive Will clear in my head as separate entities. But here is Will from the woods. This is the person he is around his family; here in this room is what matters to him.

“How was lunch with your ex?” he says, and I sense he’s trying to sound casual. “It looks like you’re on better terms now.”

“Yes, good,” I tell him. “He’s having another baby.”

Will turns to face me, while the choir belts out “This Is Me.”

“I’m sorry,” he says, trying to read from my expression how I feel about it.

“No, it’s fine,” I say, dropping his hand. “I’m happy for him. It’s made me realize I don’t want that. I don’t want any more children.”

“Really?” he asks, and there’s so much in that “really.” My heart swells with hope, because it makes me think perhaps it’s not just the archive for him either, but it also makes me want to cry because we are on such completely different paths.

“No, that part of my life is done,” I say, then look back toward the singers.

I stay through the encore, but Will doesn’t reach for my hand again. At the end, when Will goes to make an announcement about donations, I slip quietly away.

When I get home, I run straight to the bathroom to do a pregnancy test. I am being paranoid, I know I can’t be pregnant, but my heart pounds in my chest as I wait for the result, and when only one line appears, I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding.