Is She Really Going Out with Him?

Chapter 1

"Only me," Lottie calls as she bustles through the front door, then presents me with an armful of sunflowers.

"Thank you, but you really don't need to keep bringing me flowers," I say, lifting them out of her arms.

"They're only from my garden," she says, waving me away with a hand. "Sunflowers are so cheering, don't you think?"

While I live in a three-bedroom semidetached in the suburbs of Bath, my sister and her husband, Seb, have moved into a country house with sprawling gardens and an apple orchard. Lottie makes her own jam, which she gifts people for Christmas. I'm embarrassed to admit what I gave most people for Christmas last year, but it starts with "Amazon" and ends with "vouchers."

"Are Jess and Ethan still awake?" she asks, following me through to the kitchen.

"In bed, but not asleep. Don't go up there or they'll want to come down and play cards with you."

"So, I met this new client yesterday," she tells me, climbing onto one of the barstools beside the kitchen island. "Fergus. He's South African, owns a pecan farm. Recently divorced." She opens her eyes wide.

"Right," I say, refusing to fall for the bait. Lottie runs her own business designing high-end treehouses, so she's always meeting interesting clients. I wouldn't have believed there was a market for forty-grand treehouses, but apparently, there is.

"I think you should meet him," she says.

"But I don't even like pecans," I say, being purposely obtuse. "If he were a walnut farmer, or even almonds, then maybe, but pecans? Not for me."

"Anna, seriously. You're just his type; I showed him a photo of you, and he wolf whistled."

"Yuck."

"Well, it wasn't a wolf whistle exactly, more of a whistling exhale, like 'Phewough!'"

"You are not selling this guy," I say, laughing now.

"It doesn't need to be a big deal, just a casual drink." She pauses, watching my face. "Any night you want, I will come over and babysit. I'm only twenty minutes away."

As I transfer the sunflowers to a vase, Lottie takes them from me and starts rearranging them herself. Watching her, I can't help smiling.

"I appreciate the thought, Lots, but honestly, I don't want to date. I am very happy on my own."

"You're very happy, are you?" Lottie asks, narrowing her eyes at me, then blowing a blond wisp of hair away from her face.

"I am perfectly content. Work is going well, the kids need me more than ever. I don't see a hole in my life that needs filling." Lottie raises an eyebrow at me, and I reach across the kitchen island to slap her shoulder. "Filthy woman."

"Even if it's not dating, I think you should get out more, take an art class, join a book club, something just for you. Your life can't be all about work and the children, then sitting on your sofa scrolling Instagram while watching Netflix."

"But there's so much TV I haven't seen yet," I say, pulling a goofy face as I open the fridge and take out a bottle of wine. "And I know no one will believe I've moved on until I'm seeing someone, but that is society's expectation, it has nothing to do with what I need. I am in my hibernation era."

I know there are plenty of women on Instagram who got divorced and took up running or weight lifting or started their own aromatherapy candle business. They look and feel better than ever, phoenixes risen from the ashes, embracing their "new chapter." I am not a phoenix. I am a dazed pigeon, looking for crumbs. But I am fine with that; being a phoenix looks exhausting.

Dan has moved on. Everyone knows Dan has moved on. Bath is a small place, and friends have seen him out on the town with various women. My colleague Kelly swiped past him online two weeks after he moved out, which was awkward. He's now dating some twenty-five-year-old called Sylvie, though I doubt it will last. I imagine he's having too much fun playing the field, after sitting on the bench with me for so long.

"Surely you miss"-Lottie smacks her lips-"you know . . ."

"What, sex?" I ask, pouring us both a glass of white wine, then I remember Lottie isn't drinking because she's four months pregnant, so I tip the contents of her glass into mine and start making her an elderflower spritzer with crushed ice and a wedge of lime, just the way she likes it.

"Yes. You don't need to be looking for a boyfriend or a husband. You could just join the apps, have some fun."

"Having sex with some random man I met on the internet is not my idea of fun," I tell her. "And weirdly, no, I don't miss it as much as you might think."

"My friend Tasha didn't have sex for five years and she got vaginal atrophy. Use it or lose it, sister."

"'Use it or lose it'? Who are you?" I say, laughing at her as we carry our drinks and a bowl of crisps through to the living room.

I take the too-low armchair and offer Lottie the couch. Looking around the room, I feel a tinge of embarrassment. Lottie is family, she wouldn't judge or care, but she must notice how differently we live these days. It's not that her house is bigger or more expensive than mine (though it is both those things), but Lottie's home feels loved, cared for, full of complementary color schemes, while mine feels a little like my bikini line: neglected.

When Dan left, he took some lamps and two side tables that I haven't replaced. The furniture I do have is inoffensive and neutral, mainly chosen for its durability or price tag rather than any coordinated vision. The bookshelves are overloaded with jigsaws and board games that the children have outgrown, and the foot of this L-shaped room still holds Jess's old play kitchen and a dresser full of long-forgotten toys. Everything is tidy enough, but also cluttered and chaotic.

"Sorry about the mess," I say to Lottie, pushing a box of Lego beneath the sofa with my foot.

"Don't be silly, I love your house, it feels so lived-in," she says, but then, looking around, adds, "Though if you did ever want to redecorate, I could help you do a spring clean. We could make a weekend of it."

"Thanks, but it's not really a priority right now," I say, wondering, somewhat meanly, how long Lottie's beautifully curated aesthetic will last when she has a toddler roaming the house. Lottie only shrugs, undeterred by my rejection of every one of her suggestions.

"This is the client I told you about, Fergus," she says, opening her phone and leaning over to show me a picture of a man with gray hair and designer stubble. "He's fifty-four but looks younger. What do you think?"

"I think he looks fifty-four and like he would tell me a lot of information about pecans," I say as my cat, Katniss, jumps onto my lap and starts purring appreciatively as I stroke her head.

"Fifty-four isn't that old. What's your cutoff?" Lottie asks.

"I don't have a cutoff, because I'm not looking to meet someone. What is it with married people and their assumption that all single people must be just yearning to get back into a coupled state? People are not chopsticks; they do work alone."

"Okay, I know, but humor me. Who else is there? What about your hot neighbor? He's your age, that would be so convenient," Lottie says, tucking her legs beneath her like a dainty doll. "I know it's tragic and everything, but there is something so romantic about a young widower."

"Noah? Ha! Noah has the social skills of a spoon."

"Okay, what about at work?" Lottie asks. "Who's that tall, sexy guy with the glasses? The one I met when I took you for lunch that time?"

"Will Havers? Um, no," I say, pulling my lips into a grimace.

"Yes, him! What's wrong with him?"

"Where do I start? He's arrogant and entitled, way too young-"

"What is he? Late twenties? People wouldn't think twice about a thirty-eight-year-old man dating a twenty-eight-year-old woman," Lottie says, sloshing her drink into her lap as she gesticulates.

"I know, but regardless of age, he's not my type."

"You don't have a type, you had a Dan."

She might right, but my patience with this conversation has expired.

"Will Havers is a serial dater who objectifies women. I know for a fact he only dates girls under thirty-three and over five foot eight. He wears shirts monogrammed with his initials, thinks he's God's gift to journalism, can't pass a mirror without checking himself out, and he mansplains in meetings." I finish my rant, exhale loudly, then take a large swig of wine. Lottie grins. "What?"

"For someone you have zero interest in, you seem to know quite a lot about this man," she says, raising an eyebrow at me. "At least we're narrowing down your age bracket: younger than fifty-four, older than twenty-eight." Lottie taps her nose and gives me a sly grin. "I'm just happy to hear you sound so passionate."

"I am not passionate about Will Havers," I say, throwing a cushion at her. She bites back a smile as she hands me the bowl of crisps. Just as I think the Spanish Inquisition might be over and I might be allowed to enjoy a peaceful evening, we hear the sound of two baby elephants thundering down the stairs.

"Auntie Lottie! I told you I heard her," Ethan yells as he dives onto the sofa beside her. "Can we play poker?" Ethan is only seven, but Lottie has been teaching him all the card games she knows. She is one of those fun aunts who loves board games and knows how to make papier-mâché.

"Not poker. Maybe a quick game of Uno, then straight back to bed. It is a school night," I tell him.

"I'm brilliant at Uno," Ethan tells us.

"Mum always cheats at Uno," says Jess, who, at twelve, has taken up a new hobby-criticizing everything I do.

"I do not," I say, giving up my chair and moving to sit on the floor.

"Uno, Uno, Uno!" Lottie chants, and I see I am outnumbered.

"Ooh, crisps," says Ethan, taking the bowl from my lap.

Google searches:

Health benefits of pecans

In Uno can you stack Draw 2 cards on top of one another?

What is vaginal atrophy?

Chapter 2

The next morning, after walking Ethan to school, I get the bus into town, then I need to speed-walk up the high street if I'm going to get to my desk by nine o'clock. Bath Living has offices in the historic center, on the ground floor of a Georgian town house. I've been at the magazine for five years, and my job has provided much-needed stability while the rest of my life was falling apart. Jonathan, the managing director, is a sweetheart. He lets me work flexible hours, and while I started out as freelance, I'm now a staff writer with my own column. I know lots of people hate their job, so I count myself lucky that I have nothing to complain about on that front.

As I'm hurrying up Monmouth Street toward the office, someone falls into step beside me. "Morning." I turn to see the looming figure of Will Havers smiling down at me. Scrap that, I do have one complaint. While I've thrown on whatever clothes I could find in my rush to leave the house, Will is always perfectly styled. Today he is modeling "spring work wear" from his catalog of looks: blue suit trousers, a crisp white shirt, and a perfectly tailored beige trench coat. He's also sporting his trademark dark-rimmed glasses, which I suspect he wears more for fashion than for vision.

"Morning, Will," I reply. It's a five-minute walk to the office. I can be civil for five minutes. Though I'm power walking as fast as I can, Will has such long legs, he need only saunter to keep pace with me.

"Good weekend?" he asks.

"Yes. You?"

"Wonderful.

"I saw the layout for your piece on the art exhibition at the Pump Room," he says.

"Right," I say, unable to hide my suspicion. Will has only been at the magazine for six months. He's the same level as I am but acts as though he's more senior and has a habit of giving unsolicited feedback.

"I liked your interview with the graphic artist, it's smart, funny," Will tells me.

"Thank you," I say, turning to look at him. I can't believe he brought it up just to give me a compliment.

"If it were me, I would include a few more photos of guests at the opening," he says, swinging his leather document wallet, which has WH embossed in gold on the side. "People like seeing the fashionable faces invited to these events as much as they like seeing the art." And there it is, the feedback I didn't ask for.

"It's about the exhibition though, the artist, it's not a who's who," I say tightly, trying to increase my pace.

"Sure," he says, nodding just once. "I don't mean to criticize." Except he does. "Jonathan has asked me to look at how we can skew toward a younger demographic. With events like this, the social angle always helps. We need people to tag us on their socials, make the exhibition look like it was the place to be. The art is secondary."

"Secondary?" I say while exhaling a burst of angry air. "This isn't Hello magazine. It was a serious piece about a serious artist."

"Which is why it was seriously dull," Will says, and I can hear him smiling before I stop on the street and turn to glower at him, one hand planted on my hip. "Sorry," he says, with a smile that says he's not sorry at all. "I'm only winding you up, it wasn't dull. I just think you should review the photos before it goes to print, make it look like people were actually there."

"Will, I have been working as a journalist for longer than you've had facial hair, so I don't think I need your input, but thank you," I say through gritted teeth.

"Five typos says otherwise, but sure," Will says under his breath.

"There were not five typos in that article." I feel my rage building now, while Will remains infuriatingly cheerful.

"If we're counting grammatical errors, yes, there were five."

Glaring up at him, I take in the strong jaw, the green brooding eyes, the mouth that looks as though it's permanently trying to conceal some private amusement. He reminds me of a cartoon villain or the man on the cover of a romance novel. His good looks are so boringly predictable, it's all 2D perfection, there's no nuance to his face at all.