Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 32

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If I had to imagine a location where I might find love again, a setting that inspired hope, romance, and magic, it would not be the Drunk Prophet on Westgate Street. Doing something like speed dating with a friend could be a funny story; alone, it would feel mildly tragic. Having concluded that all my friends are married or live too far away, I then remembered Loretta’s offer to be my wingwoman. I left a message on her machine, and she called me back a few hours later saying, “Sign me up, chickie!”

Loretta meets me outside the Drunk Prophet. As soon as I see her, I’m so glad I invited her. She’s wearing a red dress, a sequined leather jacket, and a bright blue headscarf.

“So what are we doing exactly?” she asks as we walk down the dingy steps of the basement venue. “You know, don’t tell me. I like surprises.”

We are given name badges and clipboards by a woman wearing a purple beret, corduroy dungarees, smudged lipstick, and a badge that reads, “Betty.” She’s attractive, in that kooky way more admired by women than men.

“Hi, Betty,” says Loretta.

“First-timers?” she asks us.

“Yes,” I say, furnishing her with the most enthusiastic smile I can muster.

“You get a drinks voucher included,” she tells me. “Dutch courage.”

“Can I just say, I don’t know many people who can pull off a beret,” Loretta tells Betty. “Especially outside of France. But you, darling, you pull it off with aplomb.”

“Thank you!” Betty glows with pleasure, then hands us both two extra drinks tokens. “Here you go, have a great night.”

“Can I? You have a smudge,” Loretta asks, pulling a tissue from her bag. Betty nods in bemusement, and Loretta fixes her lips. Inside, there are a few people milling about, but we’re some of the first arrivals.

“Don’t be offended, Anna, but I think you’ve undercooked it outfit-wise,” Loretta says, looking down at my jeans, sweatshirt, and scraped-back hair. All the other women here are wearing dresses or sparkly tops with big earrings. “Come on, let me do a zhuzh.”

“A zhuzh?”

“A zhuzh!”

She guides me to the ladies’ and opens her enormous handbag, pulling out a selection of hair ties, clips, and scarves. “Can I?” she asks, eyes gleaming with excitement at the prospect of a makeover.

“Sure, why not.” I shrug. She gets me to take off my sweatshirt and fashions a halter top with a paisley blue silk headscarf. It looks pretty, but it reveals far more cleavage than I’m used to.

“I can’t go out there like this!” I protest, putting a hand over my chest and reaching to get my sweater back.

“When you’ve got the goods, you might as well flaunt them,” she says, then adds with a sigh, “I used to have fantastic breasts.” I let go of the sweatshirt, resigned. It’s impossible to argue with that.

She takes down my hair, brushes it into a side parting and adds a few clips, then gets out a red lipstick. I know I can’t pull off red lips, but I let her apply it. She’s enjoying herself, and I’m never going to see any of these people again.

When we emerge from the ladies’, the room has filled, and Betty is tapping her glass to make an announcement. “Welcome, everyone! Welcome to our thirteenth microdating event. So lovely to see so many of our regulars here and some new faces too.”

Taking in the gathering, I realize I’m on the younger end of the spectrum. The age range was thirty-five to fifty-five, but most people here look to be in their fifties. “Each microdate will last three minutes,” Betty continues. “Please don’t tell your date whether you rate them or not, just fill in your ticks afterward. When you hand in your card at the end, if you’ve ticked one another, we’ll e-mail you each other’s contact details. If you tick someone who doesn’t tick you, they’ll never know. Oh, and if you tick no one, then you get a free ticket to next month’s session. The bar is open. Any questions?” No one has any questions. “Fab. Then ready, steady, date!”

The back room has been arranged into twelve small tables, each with two chairs. I sit down at one and pull out my score chart. A balding man in his fifties sits down opposite and holds out a hand to introduce himself.

“Hello, I’m Roger,” he says. As I shake his hand, I feel calluses on his palm.

“Hi, Roger, I’m Anna,” I reply.

“You look too young to be at this session,” he says, and his toothy grin reminds me of my late grandfather. He glances at my ridiculous cleavage and then blushes, purposely raising his eyeline to a few inches above my head.

“I’m actually fifty-eight,” I tell him. “I just look good for my age.” He laughs. “What brings you to microdating then?” I ask. I know immediately Roger is not someone I’m going to be attracted to, but that doesn’t mean we can’t have an enjoyable conversation for two and a half minutes.

“My daughter put me up to it,” he says, his eyeline cautiously returning to my face.

“My son suggested it to me,” I say, giving Roger an encouraging smile because he looks nervous. “How old is your daughter?”

“Twenty-two. She thinks I don’t have enough hobbies. I’ve been to this event twice before, and it’s always a friendly bunch. Plus, you’re home in time for the nine o’clock news and a mug of Horlicks. I met an accordion player last time; she persuaded me to sign up for classes. Did you know the accordion is made from a hundred different parts? Fascinating.”

“I did not know that,” I say, with a genuine smile now.

Watching Roger’s warm, open face, I feel guilty for my lack of enthusiasm. This isn’t all desperate loners looking for love, it’s also people trying to connect, daring to try something new. I look across to the next table and see Loretta roaring with laughter. I promise myself I will try to be more open-minded, to be more like Loretta.

The bell rings and I say good-bye to Roger. I don’t tick him, because I don’t want to date someone who reminds me of my late grandfather, but I wish there was another way of communicating that I enjoyed our conversation and to wish him luck with the accordion playing. As I’m deliberating, a gaunt, olive-skinned man in his forties takes the seat Roger has vacated.

“Fabian,” he says with a heavy accent. He quickly tells me he is Italian, has recently moved to Bath, and doesn’t know many people. He mutters “ bellissime sfere ” while looking at my chest, which reminds me that I really do need to retrieve my sweatshirt. After Fabian I meet Greg, an electrician with a phobia of mice. He has distractingly hairy nostrils and tells me how difficult it is to find trousers to fit his body shape. “Most men don’t have hips, you see.” Next is Levi, a musician. He’s forty-two, still lives with his parents, but is at pains to explain that he has his own front door, so can come and go as he pleases. He tells me I’m “well fit,” and I end up ticking him because he’s vaguely attractive, he has no visible nostril hair, and I feel obliged to tick someone.

Next up is Ben, who must be in his seventies and is certainly at the wrong event because he is expecting us to be playing checkers. Mitch, a boxer with cauliflower ears, wants to know what my resting heart rate is. When I tell him I don’t know, he reaches for my wrist to find my pulse, then starts heavy breathing in a way that makes me uncomfortable. When the bell goes, I brace myself for who’s coming next, hoping for elderly and harmless rather than young and pervy. But when I look up, I see Will.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, shaking my head as he sits down, trying to hide my pleasure in seeing him.

“Research. I needed to see how this works,” he says. “Jesus, you’re going to give half the men in here a heart attack with that top.” He eyes me boldly, sitting back languorously in the chair.

“This is the wrong age category for you. Twenty-five to thirty-four is another night,” I say, moving both elbows onto the table to cover my chest.

“I lied about my age,” he says in a whisper, raising a finger to his lips. “Let’s see who you’ve ticked so far then.” He whisks the clipboard out of my hand before I can stop him, reading down the list. “Levi? You ticked Levi, which one is he?” He looks around the room, and I snatch back the clipboard.

“Shhh,” I say, embarrassed that someone might hear him.

“That guy? Really?” He grimaces. “Are you going to tick me?”

“I’m not ticking you.” Watching him in the low-lit bar, something seems different about him.

“Why not? I’m ticking you,” he says, putting a large tick next to my number. Then I realize what’s different—he’s drunk.

“Will, stop it, this isn’t a joke. I’m here for work,” I hiss across the table.

“Have you told people you’re an undercover journalist?” He says it playfully, but his words plant a seed of disquiet . Am I being disingenuous?

“No,” I say, looking from side to side to check no one is listening to our conversation, “and keep your voice down.” Now his face shifts, the playful mask dropping. His eyes are full of torment as he holds my gaze.

He reaches across the table to take my hand. “I need you.” He looks down at my hands now, clasping my fingers through his. “Come to mine after this, I want it to be like it was in the woods.”

I start to nod; I want that too, more than anything. But reason holds me back. That look in his eyes; there’s something he isn’t telling me.

“You got the job, didn’t you?” I ask on a hunch.

He nods, then looks away guiltily. “I did,” he says, then after a pause adds, “I don’t have to take it, though.”

“Yes, you do,” I say firmly. “You have to take it. This is exactly what we were trying to avoid.” Then the bell goes and we’re out of time; other people start getting to their feet.

“Last night you said you didn’t want me to go,” he says.

“I also said I didn’t want you to stay on my account.”

A man hovers in my peripheral vision, waiting to sit down. I nod toward him and Will reluctantly stands. “I’ll wait for you at the bar.”

My next date is blond and bearded; I don’t even catch his name. I try to focus on what he’s saying, but I can’t help glancing across at Will, my mind raking over his words. I can’t let him stay for me. He wants this job. He deserves it. Could we keep something going if he left? My mind runs through all the possibilities, doing the same calculations I did last night, trying to produce a different outcome. It would be unfair to keep him tied to Bath. It would be selfish; he would come to resent me. I can’t have another man resent me for holding him back.

When the last date finally ends, the host invites us to mingle and stay for drinks at the bar. Loretta is arm in arm with Roger and pulls him toward me, waving her bonus drink vouchers. “This place smells like a giant’s armpit,” she cries. “Did you meet Roger? Isn’t he a darling? We’re going to down these, then go for a tipple at Circo Cellar. Are you coming?”

“I’m afraid she has plans with me,” says Will, sweeping in beside me, his eyes now slightly bloodshot. How much has he had to drink?

“Hello, Will darling, I didn’t think this was your kind of thing,” Loretta says, leaning in to kiss him on the cheek. I forgot they know each other.

“It isn’t,” he says. “I’m only here for Anna.”

“I’ll get queuing at the bar,” says Roger, while Loretta looks back and forth between Will and me with undisguised delight.

“Will you excuse us a minute?” I say to Loretta, taking Will’s hand and pulling him toward a fire exit. “We’ll be right back.”

“I thought that would never end,” he says with a sigh, bending down to nuzzle into my neck, then reaching a hand around my waist. Once we’re in the quiet of the corridor I spin around and step back, creating space between us. “I’ve missed you.”

“When did you find out about the job?” I ask him.

“Today. It wasn’t until they offered it to me that I realized I don’t want to go anymore,” he says, reaching out to stroke my cheek with the back of his hand.

“Because of me?” I ask, feeling a wave of nausea.

“What other reason would there be?” he says archly.

“That’s a lot of pressure,” I say, drawing back from his hand, trying to put space between us, because his touch makes it so much harder to think straight.

“I know it’s crazy, and the worst timing, and maybe I’ll ruin my life and never escape this town,” he says, his lips loose with alcohol. “But when you’ve fallen in love with someone, you don’t have a choice. You choose them.”

He’s in love with me? That’s the booze talking. With curdling clarity, I realize I’m not going to be able to talk him out of this by being rational.

“That’s not what this is, Will,” I say, my voice firm and measured. “We’ve been caught up in the thrill of sneaking around. I’m flattered, but honestly, it’s just good sex, it isn’t something you change your life plans for.”

He flinches, drawing back, but after a brief pause, he says, “It isn’t ‘just’ anything, and don’t tell me how I feel.” His eyes flash with anger. “I know you feel it too. You felt it in the woods.”

I stare up at him, trying to hide the truth. My throat burns as I force out more words. “I’m sorry, but this was just a fun distraction for me. I’m not looking to be in a relationship, I was clear about that from the start.”

That does it. His face falls, and his eyes well with tears. “That’s not true, you just feel bad about me giving up the job, but that’s my decision to make,” he says, his voice a whisper. He presses a palm against the wall beside my head, leaning toward me, searching my face for the truth, and I try to drink him in, every inch of his face, knowing this will be the last time I see him like this.

“It’s too deep, too fast, Will.” I want to die saying it, playing on his biggest insecurity, on a confidence he shared. It feels unnecessarily cruel. But it works.

He drops my arm as though I’ve burned him. All the light in his eyes disappears. He backs away from me, then turns to leave, striding out through the half-empty bar.

Walking home, numb to the evening chill, I can’t help doubting myself. Can something that feels so awful have been the right thing to do? I could call him now, take it all back. But by the time I have walked home, I have convinced myself that it was my only option. Not just for Will’s sake, but for mine too.

I’ve been in a relationship where I’ve been loved reluctantly, stayed with reluctantly, and it doesn’t feel good; it doesn’t end well. I was a broken shell when Dan left. Piece by piece I’ve put myself back together, I’ve regained control of my life, of my heart. This last month with Will, I’ve felt that control slipping away. I refuse to make myself vulnerable to that kind of pain again.