Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 33

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Crispin has called everyone in for a meeting. I have to go in. I can’t invent any more reasons to work from home. He’s going to announce his plans for the restructuring, and we’ll find out who’s being made redundant. I’ve been so distracted, I’ve hardly had time to worry about the prospect of losing my job. Jonathan sits with the rest of us, while Crispin has taken the large armchair in the middle of the living room. It denotes an unnerving power shift—Jonathan is no longer in charge.

As I walk in, Crispin beckons me over. “Anna, I loved the column about the widower,” he says. “The stuff where you compare divorce to the death of a future, lovely stuff, very moving.”

I feel myself swell with pride. I have been trying to put more of myself into the column, and I’m pleased he noticed. Then he waves for me to sit down with the others and addresses the whole room.

“When I came on board just a few months ago, Bath Living felt like a publication from a different era. It was stale, out of touch, sales were dwindling,” Crispin tells us, pressing his fingers into a spire. “With our shift toward online and a change in focus, we’ve already seen a marked upswing.” Phew! The business is saved. “Unfortunately, it’s just not going to be enough to make the magazine profitable in its current format. The only way to keep the publication going is to scrap the print magazine entirely, close the Bath office, and run the online edition from our digital hub in London.”

There’s a collective intake of breath. I glance around the room. Jonathan looks devastated, but everyone else looks as though they knew this was coming. Was I the only one caught off-guard?

“We’ll still employ a small team of freelance journalists to create local content. There will be work for many of you, though in a slightly different capacity.” Crispin looks to Jonathan, who wrings his hands, then addresses us.

“I can only apologize to you all. I do hope you won’t blame Crispin here. We were already up a gum tree without a paddle when he came on board. We would have had to close entirely if it weren’t for him. This way, the publication will continue, the name will live on.”

“I don’t want anyone to panic,” Crispin says. “There’ll be a transition period, generous redundancy packages, new opportunities. This is an evolution, not an ending.”

But from the looks on everyone’s faces, it feels like an ending.

As the meeting disperses, I listen to people chatting. It sounds like Kelly already has another job lined up; others have been interviewing, putting out feelers. Am I the only one who doesn’t have a backup plan? I’ve been so preoccupied with the dating column, competing with Will, sleeping with Will, I’ve failed to see the writing on the wall. In the open-plan office, people discuss their options, while along the corridor Jonathan sits in the living room drinking scotch, staring out of the window. He looks like an emperor overseeing the fall of Rome, his life’s work crumbling around him.

Crispin has scheduled meetings with departments and individuals to discuss how their role will be “transitioned.” Will and I are called in together. I avoid his eyes as we make our way to Jonathan’s office, which Crispin has requisitioned.

“It’s good news for you two,” Crispin says, slapping a hand on the desk. “The dating column has been a hit. It gets a high volume of click-through and has been the most shared link these last three weeks. You’re recognizable faces for the brand now. We’d like to keep you both on, though in a freelance capacity.” He pauses, waiting for us to look delighted, which neither of us is. “Though there might be less job security, there will still be plenty of work.”

“I won’t be staying,” says Will. “I’ve taken another job.”

“Oh, that’s a shame,” Crispin says, his face falling. “Where are you off to?”

Will fiddles with his glasses. I glance across at him, but he won’t look at me.

“An international news station in Paris,” Will says. “I’ll be presenting their arts and culture segment.”

While my heart feels like it’s imploding, I am also thrilled for him. He will be so good at that job and I know it’s what he wanted. What he really wanted.

“Congratulations,” I tell him.

“I was holding off accepting,” he says, finally looking across at me. “But since the situation here is now clear, I have no reason not to go.”

“Damn shame. Can we tempt you to keep writing a column from Paris?” Crispin offers. “An Englishman dating abroad?”

“I won’t be able to in my new role, I’m afraid,” Will says. His manner is so stiff and professional, I can’t believe this is the same man who kissed me so passionately. “I’ll be sure to deliver the last few columns before I go.”

“You’ll have time to fit in that final date up the Eiffel Tower, I hope?” Crispin asks. “We’ve already trailed it as the column finale alongside Anna’s Regency ball.”

“Yes, of course,” Will says, eyes now firmly on Crispin.

“Well, I can’t say I’m not disappointed to be losing you. You’ve been attuned to my vision from the start.” Crispin turns his gaze to me. “I hope you aren’t going anywhere, Anna?”

“Nope,” I say with a pang of regret. My opportunity to move to Paris and go on exciting adventures has long passed. My chance with Will, gone too. My life is here.

“And you’ll be happy to stay on the same day rate? You won’t have the same holiday or pension entitlement, but that’s a standard way of contracting journalists these days.” Crispin shoots me a tight smile. “The amount of people Jonathan had on staff payroll was totally untenable, I’m afraid.” He turns to start tapping away at his computer, as though my agreement is merely a formality. He shifts his eyes from his screen, straight to Will. “Put a lunch in my diary before you go, Will. I’ll share my contacts in Paris.”

“No,” I hear myself say.

“No?” Crispin asks, turning to me, then laughing. “You don’t want me and Will to have lunch?”

“No to the question before, about accepting those terms.” I look Crispin in the eye.

“What do you mean?” Crispin asks, screwing up his face in confusion.

“If you want me to go freelance, I want a higher day rate.” I feel sick saying it, when all this is about the magazine not having enough money, but he just said they need me and I’ve been underpaid for years.

“A raise?” says Crispin, as though I’ve asked for the crown jewels. “Anna, do you understand what’s happening here?”

“Yes,” I say, keeping my cool. “I’ve been here a long time. I know the magazine inside out. You asked me to step up with this column, to deliver something different; I have done that. I’m writing the most-read page in the online publication. With Jonathan stepping down and Will leaving, you’re going to need continuity, my connections and standing within the local community. You’re offering less security and you’re slashing your overhead; it stands to reason my day rate should increase.” I can’t believe I’m saying this.

“Fine, we can discuss a small raise,” Crispin says with a frown. “Just—”

“I think ten,” I say, cutting him off, about to suggest a 10 percent raise, but now Will is shaking his head and subtly raising two fingers. “A two percent—” He shakes his head again and mouths “twenty.” “A twenty-five percent raise,” I blurt out. What made me say twenty-five? That’s a ludicrous amount. He’s never going to pay me that.

“Twenty-five percent?” Crispin asks, balking. “Somewhere closer to four or five might be attainable.”

“Twenty percent would take her up to what I’m on,” Will says. “Anna has more experience than me. She’ll be invaluable for a smooth transition.”

“Fifteen,” says Crispin, his jaw tensing. He tugs at his collar, then pulls his shirtsleeves down beneath his jacket.

“Twenty. If that’s what Jonathan was paying Will, that’s what I’m worth.” I hold firm, my hands clasped in my lap, my gaze unwavering.

“That’s a little ambitious, Anna,” Crispin says, looking ruffled.

“And when was ambition ever a bad thing?” I say, and now I see Will smile from the corner of my eye.

“Fine,” Crispin says. He shakes his head, but there is admiration in his eye. “Welcome to Arch Media, Ms. Appleby.”

I leave his office feeling exhilarated. Did that really happen? Today has been a pinball of emotions.

“Thank you,” I say, turning to Will, then hold out my arms to see if he will let me hug him. He does, though his body feels tense.

“I didn’t do anything. That was all you,” he says, his voice soft.

“You’re really moving to Paris then?” I ask, my eyes drawn to his lips.

“I am.” He pushes his hair out of his eyes.

“You aren’t wearing your glasses.”

“Someone told me I didn’t need to hide behind them.” He gives me a wry smile. “That I didn’t need them to look smart.”

“Will, I’m so sorry—” I start to say.

“ I’m sorry,” he says, cutting me off. “For reading things so wrong, for turning up in that state on Friday. I was way out of line.”

I want to scream that he wasn’t, that he didn’t. “Will you stay in touch? Let me know how you get on?” I ask hopefully.

“I’m sorry, I don’t think I can,” he says, and I know I deserve that. “They’re not going to make me work my notice. Any loose ends with the column or submitting the Times article, you can ping me via e-mail.” He pauses. “And I think we’ve been over everything else.” The cold finality in his voice makes me want to cry. He is hurting. I hurt him, despite my best intentions. “I’m having a few leaving drinks on Saturday, inviting everyone from work. I’d appreciate it if…”

“If I didn’t come.” I finish his sentence, and he nods. “I understand. Well, good-bye then. You’ll be brilliant, I know you will.”

“Good-bye.” He gives me one final nod, then turns to go. My shoes feel like lead weights, and I blink back tears. I don’t want to follow him into the office while I’m feeling emotional, so I turn and walk the other way, toward the living room, where I find Jonathan still sitting alone.

“How’s the end of days?” he asks mournfully when he sees me come in.

“Not too bad,” I reassure him.

“My grandfather would be turning in his grave. I have let everyone down,” he says, closing his eyes, leaning back in his leather armchair.

“No, you haven’t,” I say, crossing the room to put an arm around him. “Times change, tastes change. It’s happening to a lot of print magazines; you can’t blame yourself.”

“You’re to be kept on? I told Crispin he needs you and Will to stay.”

“Will’s going, I’m staying.”

“Oh, I thought you two…” He gives me a long look, but I shake my head. He pats the arm of his chair. “Drink?”

I nod. “What will you do?” I ask him.

“Retire. My house in Italy needs refurbishing. I’ve been wanting to spend more time out there.”

“That sounds lovely,” I say, then pause, noting his forlorn expression. “You don’t look happy about it.”

“I am heartbroken, darling. I love this place as one might love a spouse, and you are all family to me. But no one can say I didn’t try. If my family blame me, I will be able to look them in the eye. I will grab them by the lapels with both hands and cry, ‘I tried, by God, I tried!’?”

“You did,” I say, surprised to see Jonathan so animated. He hands me a tumbler of whiskey.

“I shall be sad to leave this spot especially,” he says, turning to me with a sly smile. “My father always told me the upstairs floor was haunted. Some poor soul with unfinished business, roaming the halls. I didn’t think I believed in such things, but of late, I’ll swear I’ve heard some poltergeist haunting the archive, having a rather lovely time by the sound of things.” I must flush scarlet, because he pats me on the hand. “I wouldn’t let that slip away if I were you.”

“Some things are too difficult,” I say, quietly mortified.

“Can you honestly tell me you tried, you tried with everything you had?” He regards me over the lip of his whiskey, then swigs it down. “Don’t let life make you hard, Anna. It’s the soft, gooey middle that makes it all so delightful.”

“I will drink to that,” I say, raising my glass again.

“Though you’d better not have gotten any gooey middle all over my archive magazines.”

“Jonathan, please, I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I say, suppressing a smile. “Maybe you’ll find your gooey middle in Italy?”

“I’m sure I shall. Italian men can’t resist me.”

—

At home, all I want to do is get into my pajamas, hole up with the children, and forget all about Will Havers. It’s done now, he’s going. I was infatuated with him, that is all. It was ridiculous of him to use the L word. I might have liked him a lot, but I don’t believe in instalove. It was only a few weeks; getting over him will be easy compared to getting over a marriage. I just need to focus on the children, on work. I should put more energy into socializing, try to nurture meaningful friendships rather than looking for romantic love.

When Jess gets home from school, she grunts hello and goes straight up to her room. I hear her bedroom door shut and “Believer” by Imagine Dragons start to play. I know something is up with her, more than just Penny, but she’s chosen not to tell me. Then I remember what Lottie said about making time, giving her enough space to unload. So I go upstairs and knock gently on her door, then peer around it.

“Will you come into the garden with me?” I ask.

“Why?” she asks, rolling over on her bed.

“It’s a warm evening, the sky is this amazing pink color, I want you to see it.”

“Mum,” she groans, but I wait, and she sighs, then rolls off her bed.

Outside, the sun is low in the sky, the dying light of the day, red and pink bleeding into dusk—a beautiful, calming scene. It would be even more beautiful if this huge fucking hedge weren’t in the way.

“Isn’t it pretty?” I say to Jess, handing her a cup of milk, then cradling my own mug of tea.

“Yes, very sky-ey,” she says, indulging me, and we grin at each other.

“I’m sorry life is so busy, that we don’t get a lot of time to hang out, just the two of us,” I say tentatively. Jess shrugs. “I want you to be able to talk to me, about anything.”

“Can I get a nose piercing?” she asks hopefully.

“Hmm, no. Ask again when you’re sixteen,” I say, and she sinks down further in the wicker garden chair. “Are you really ready to say good-bye to your Sylvanian Families?” I ask gently.

“I’m not a little kid anymore, Mum.”

“I know, but I thought you loved making those little stop-motion animations.” Jess shrugs again, and I force myself to sit in the silence. Come on, Jess, talk to me .

“They’re lame,” she says, rocking her head back. We sit in silence again, for what feels like an eternity, then finally she says, “Penny found one of my videos online. She wrote mean comments underneath.” Jess tugs at her hair.

Usually I would react, ask what the hell Penny’s problem is, but I don’t, I just take a beat. “That sounds really hard, Jess, I’m sorry,” I say. I see her soften, then she pulls her phone from her pocket and turns it around in her hand.

“It’s not just the video,” she says quietly. Then she unlocks her screen and shows me her class WhatsApp group. She covers her face as I scroll through the messages. Among all the unintelligible communications, I find references to Jess, some written by Penny and a girl called Cleo, some from unknown numbers that aren’t saved in Jess’s phone.

Jess Humphries is so fugly.

Jess H plays with baby toys.

Then there’s a link to one of her YouTube videos.

Who wants to go to Burger King after school? JH, SK, TT NOT INVITED.

Would you rather have Jess H’s ugly nose or Tiffany’s massive butt?

Then someone has created a poll.

Reams and reams of abuse; the messages go on and on. I cover my mouth in horror. How can twelve-year-olds be so cruel?

“Jess, this is, wow, this is not okay,” I say as calmly as I can. “How long has this been going on?” She doesn’t answer, but I scroll back and see it started over a month ago.

“It’s not that bad at school,” she says quietly. “It’s mainly Penny and I just avoid her. They take me off the chat sometimes, then add me back. I can’t escape it, Mum.”

My heart breaks for her. I want to tell her she can leave, we’ll find a new school, I’ll quit my job and homeschool her, but I bite back all my solutions, pull her into a hug, and let her sob into my shoulder.

“I’m so sorry, I didn’t realize this was happening. Why didn’t you tell me, honey?” I whisper into her hair, and she shrugs.

“I didn’t want you to worry. I didn’t want you to be sad again.”

That hits me like a truck. “I’m sorry, Jess, but we have to tell the school.” She holds on to me, nodding into my neck. “I need to screenshot some of these messages, okay? Then I think you should come off this group. It’s important, for your sanity and your safety.”

She pulls away from me, and I look down at her tearstained cheek. It feels like only yesterday she was learning how to walk, how to talk, and now she has to deal with all this.

“Whatever Penny’s problem is, you know it’s not you, right? It’s not babyish to have an imagination, it’s wonderful.”

“Did you give them away, my Sylvanian Families?” she asks.

“No, they’re still in the kitchen cupboard.”

She gives me a grateful smile, and I wipe the tears from her face with my thumb. When we walk back into the kitchen, I hand Jess the plastic bag. She pulls me into a tight hug. “Thanks, Mum.” I know I haven’t solved anything, but something feels mended.