Читать книгу The Blind Date Surprise - Barbara Hannay - Страница 8

CRIKEY, pink jeans!

Annie McKinnon hated to guess what her brothers would say if they could see her. Come to think of it, what would anyone from her outback home town, Mirrabrook, say? She’d lived in blue denim jeans since she was three years old—ever since her brother, Kane, first lifted her on to the back of a stock horse.

Never pink. And never teamed with stilettos.

And yet here she was in the heart of the city, sashaying into the foyer of one of Brisbane’s swankiest hotels in killer heels, the sweetest little white silk camisole top, and low-rise jeans so baby-pink and slim she felt like a pop-star wannabe.

So this was where following your friends’ advice got you.

‘You’d better listen to Victoria,’ Melissa had said. ‘She’s our in-house fashionista and everyone at work takes her word as gospel.’

Victoria had been definite. ‘Annie, when it’s an e-date, you have to be super careful. You need to hit exactly the right note.’

And because Annie had known Melissa since boarding school, and because Victoria was Mel’s flatmate, and because both the girls were city born and bred, Annie had deferred to their finely honed understanding of ‘How Things Work in the City’.

The trio had hit the shops with Victoria leading the fray, and Annie had quickly discovered how exceedingly lucky she was to have clued-up friends to advise her about clothes. On her own, she would have made so totally all the wrong choices.

She’d wanted to head straight for the stunning racks of sparkly after-five wear, but Victoria had dismissed them with a disdainful toss of the corkscrew curls she’d created that morning.

‘No way, Annie. You don’t want to look as if you’re trying too hard to impress Damien. If you look too dressed up or trendy you might scare him off.’

Oh.

After one last wistful glance towards the shimmering, ultra-feminine dresses, Annie allowed herself to be steered towards racks of jeans.

‘Never underestimate jeans,’ Victoria explained with impressive patience. ‘You can dress them up or down and they always look fab.’

‘But—um—I live in jeans. And Damien knows I’m a country girl. Don’t you think these might make me look a little too Annie Get Your Gun?’

Victoria blinked, then eyed Annie with just a tad more respect. ‘Point taken.’

But, seconds later, she was struck by her light bulb idea. ‘I’ve got it! Pink jeans would be perfect. Team them with a little camisole top.’ Grabbing a coat-hanger from a rack, she flourished something white and silky. ‘How heaven is this?’

Annie squashed the thought that a pink and white outfit would make her look like an ice cream. She tried the clothes on and decided that they were comfortable and rather gorgeous, actually.

But she put up a stronger fight over the high heels.

‘What if Damien’s really short?’

This time Mel chipped in. ‘He didn’t look short in the photo he sent you.’

‘Photos can be deceptive.’ Annie had spent many sleepless nights worrying about that possibility.

‘Annie, if Damien’s short, you’re going to be taller than him no matter what kind of shoes you wear.’

She tried another tack. ‘I can’t afford two hundred and fifty dollars for a couple of strips of sequinned leather.’

Victoria grinned. ‘Don’t worry, that’s why God invented credit cards.’

And so here she was in the foyer of the Pinnacle Hotel, dressed by Victoria and getting last-minute advice from both the girls before she took the lift to La Piastra on the twenty-seventh floor. To meet Damien.

Damien. Eeeeeee! Just thinking about him made her stomach play leap-frog with her heart. She knew it was foolish to have high hopes for this guy, but she couldn’t help it. She’d travelled over a thousand kilometres from her outback cattle station in Southern Cross, North Queensland, just to meet him and she really, really wanted their date to work out.

It was going to be fine. It was.

Everything she and Damien had chatted about over the Internet during the past six weeks indicated that they meshed. They both loved dogs, world music, books and thinking about deeper things—like destiny and fate, whether life was a wager, and the possibility that animals were happier than humans. Talking to him had been comfortable and inspiring, fun and—and well, to be honest—sexy.

To cap it off, she and Damien both adored everything Italian, especially linguini.

That was why they’d settled on La Piastra.

And when Damien had emailed her a photo of himself, she’d completely flipped. Head over heels. He looked so-o-o yummy—with sleepy blue eyes, sun-streaked surfer-boy hair, pash-me-now lips and a cute, crooked smile. She hoped to high heaven that he’d been as impressed with her photo as he’d claimed to be, because she could feel in her bones that he was her perfect match.

And now she was about to meet him.

She was six minutes late, which, according to Mel and Victoria, was perfect timing. Her heart thumped as the trio waited for the lift, and she drew several deep breaths while the girls pumped her with last-minute advice.

‘Remember, don’t be too serious. Try to relax and have fun.’

‘But don’t drink too much.’

‘You have to watch your date’s body language. If he’s mirroring your gestures, you’re on the right track.’

‘The danger sign is when he crosses his arms while you’re talking.’

‘Or if he starts to come on too heavy. He might just want sex.’

Annie shook her head to shush them. The girls meant well, but she wasn’t as clueless about men as they feared. Besides, there was a rather conservative, bespectacled fellow a few feet behind Victoria, who must have overheard them. He was looking rather stunned by their conversation and he—crikey—he almost walked smack into a marble pillar.

Annie was about to send him a sympathetic smile when the bell above the lift pinged.

The doors were about to open.

‘Remember there’s always the escape plan,’ Mel urged. ‘You’ve got your mobile phone handy, haven’t you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Right. You look gorgeous, Annie.’

‘Stunning!’

‘Thanks.’

‘So break a leg!’

‘Have a ball!’

‘Go get Damien, kiddo!’

Amidst a flurry of air kisses Annie stepped into the lift, sent the girls a quick wave, and pressed the button for Level twenty-seven. The doors swished closed, Mel and Victoria’s encouraging grins disappeared, and with a soft sigh the lift whisked her away from them…skywards.

And her stomach dropped. Oh, crumbs.

She made a last-minute check in the mirror at the back of the lift. No bra showing, no visible panty-line. Lipstick still holding. Hair okay.

Ping! Level twenty-seven.

Gulp.

This was it.

The lift doors swept apart and Annie looked out at an expanse of mega-trendy pale timber and stainless steel. So this was La Piastra. She felt a fleeting rush of nostalgia for Beryl’s friendly café in Mirrabrook with its gingham tablecloths, ruffled curtains and bright plastic flowers on every table.

How silly. She’d come to Brisbane to get away from all that. Somewhere in here Damien was waiting. Oh, please let him like me. Her legs shook. She was as nervous as she’d been on her first day at boarding school.

A tall, dark, very Italian-looking man in black was watching her from his post directly in front of the lift and as she approached him he bowed stiffly.

‘Good evening, madam.’

‘Good evening.’

‘Welcome to La Piastra.’ He looked down a very Roman nose at her.

‘Thanks.’ She smiled, but her smile faltered as the man waited for her to say something more. What was she supposed to say? She peered into the restaurant, searching for a streaked sandy head among the diners. ‘I’m—er—supposed to be meeting someone here.’

‘You have a reservation?’

‘No.’

He frowned and pursed his lips.

She hurried to explain. ‘I mean I don’t actually have a reservation, but I’ve come to meet someone—who made a reservation.’

Cringe! Was she a country hick making a complete fool of herself, or what?

He turned to a thick book on a timber and stainless steel lectern. ‘What name?’

‘You mean his name?’

Her question was met by a sigh that suggested the man in black was quite certain he was dealing with an airhead. ‘What name was given when the reservation was made?’

‘Grainger,’ she said with sudden dignity. ‘Mr Damien Grainger.’

Again he peered down his imperious Roman nose and slowly examined the list of names in his book. And Annie felt a moment’s panic. Could she have made a mistake? Was this the wrong restaurant…the wrong day, wrong time?

No, it couldn’t be. She’d checked and rechecked Damien’s email a thousand times.

She peered again into the restaurant. She’d been hoping that Damien would keep an eye out for her. She’d pictured him leaping to his feet when he saw her, hurrying through the restaurant to meet her, his face alight with a welcoming smile.

Perhaps his table was positioned behind a post?

‘Ah, yes,’ said the rich Italian voice at her side. ‘Table thirty-two.’

Phew.

‘But I’m afraid Mr Grainger hasn’t arrived yet.’

Oh.

Silly of her, but she’d been certain that Damien would be on time, even early.

‘Would you care to wait for him at the bar or at your table?’

She glanced at the bar. If she waited there, perched on a stool by herself, she would feel like a prize lemon. ‘At the table, please.’

‘Then come this way.’

Several heads turned as she followed him to a table set for two near a window. Back in Mirrabrook, people would have been smiling and calling out greetings. Here they merely stared without emotion. Was there something wrong with the way she looked? Were her jeans too pink?

A seat was drawn out for her.

Annie sat and looked at the bare, pale timber table top, set with two round black linen place mats and starched white napkins, solid shining cutlery, gleaming wineglasses and a single square black candle exactly in the middle of a square white saucer.

It was all very urban. Very minimalist.

If Damien had been here, she would have found it exciting.

‘Would you care for a drink while you’re waiting?’

She tried to remember the name of the trendy drink Mel had ordered for her at a bar the night before. Something with cranberry juice.

When she hesitated, the man in black asked, ‘Perhaps you would like to see our wine list?’

‘No, thank you. Um, would it be all right if I just have water for now?’

‘Certainly. Would you prefer still or sparkling?’

Good grief. At Beryl’s café in Mirrabrook, water was simple, uncomplicated H2O.

‘Still water, please.’

He left her then and Annie heaved a sigh of relief. But the relief was only momentary, because now she was very conscious of being alone. A swift glance around her showed that she was the only person in the restaurant sitting by herself.

Shoulders back, Annie. You can’t let a little thing like that throw you.

A handsome young waiter approached her, bearing a tray with a frosted bottle of iced water. ‘How are you this evening?’ he asked, smiling.

She smiled back and the simple act of sharing a smile made her feel a little better. ‘Very well, thank you.’

‘I’m Roberto and I’ll be looking after your table.’

Her smile held. ‘I’m Annie and I’ll be looking forward to your service.’

His mouth stretched into a broad grin as he poured water into her glass. ‘Would you like to see our menu?’

‘No, I’ll wait for my—’ She indicated the empty seat opposite her.

‘Girlfriend?’

‘Actually, no—it’s a guy.’

He managed to look charmingly disappointed before moving away to take orders from a nearby table.

Annie took a sip of water and wished she could press the cool glass against her hot cheeks. She told herself that it didn’t matter that Damien was late. He was probably battling his way though a traffic jam, cursing fate. Any minute now he’d come bursting out of the lift, full of apologies.

She counted to a hundred and then took another sip. After reaching three hundred and taking more sips, she watched a couple on the other side of the room reach across their table to hold hands then gaze romantically into each other’s eyes.

Somewhere in the background a guitar was playing Beautiful Dreamer.

Sigh. How many hours had she spent dreaming about this date in the city? About what Damien would think of her, what she’d think of him.

She’d worried about saying the wrong things, or discovering that he had some terrible off-putting habit. She’d considered endless ways to suss out whether he was married. That was her biggest fear. But she’d never once imagined that she would be sitting here alone. Without him.

The worst thing was that on her own in the city, surrounded by people, she felt even lonelier than she did in the outback, when she was surrounded by nothing but gumtrees and wild mountains.

She turned to look out of the window at the lights in the tall buildings around her, at the flickering neon signs in the distance, at the street lights way below and the headlights and tail-lights of the traffic—red and white rivers flowing in opposite directions…

Where was Damien?

Perhaps she should have given him her mobile phone number, but she’d been playing it cautious until she met him. Now she was tempted to ring Mel and Victoria just for a little friendly reassurance, but she resisted the urge.

She didn’t want to look at her watch. Oh, well, perhaps a quick glimpse. Oh, God. Damien was twenty-five minutes late.

Maybe this was a guy thing. Damien was establishing the upper hand, making her wait. And wait…

Around her, people’s meals were arriving. The food was served on enormous white plates. Someone was having linguini drizzled with a pale green sauce and it looked divine.

Roberto came back and asked her if there was anything else he could bring her. Some bruschetta, perhaps? She shook her head, but she realised that other diners were casting curious glances her way. Again.

Oh, Damien. I know you probably can’t help it, but this is so disappointing.

How much longer would she have to wait?

When the waiter left, Annie fingered her cute new clutch handbag and reconsidered using her phone to have a quick chat with the girls. But as she flicked the clasp she saw the man who guarded the front of the restaurant walking towards her. What now? Was he going to ask her to order some food or leave?

‘Miss McKinnon?’ he said as he approached.

‘Yes?’ Her stomach lurched. How did he know her name?

‘We’ve received a phone call—a message from Mr Grainger.’

‘Yes?’ she said again and her heart jolted painfully.

‘He’s had to cancel this evening’s engagement.’

Cancel?

Whoosh! Slam! Annie felt as if she’d been tipped through the window and was falling to the pavement twenty-seven floors below.

Damien couldn’t cancel. Not like this. ‘No,’ she squeaked. ‘That’s not possible. There must be a mistake.’

The man in black’s jaw clenched.

Wrong thing to say.

She tried again. ‘Did—did Mr Grainger say why he has cancelled?’

She must have looked totally stricken because his face softened a fraction. ‘I’m afraid the person who rang didn’t offer an explanation. He asked me to apologise, Miss McKinnon. Apparently he’s been trying to ring for some time, but our line has been busy. He hopes you will understand.’

Understand? Of course she didn’t understand. She couldn’t possibly understand. Annie felt so suddenly awful she wondered if she was going to be sick right there in front of everyone. ‘Didn’t he tell you anything? Are you sure he didn’t—explain—?’

The man sighed and shook his head as if he found this situation tiresome.

‘What should I do?’ she asked. ‘Do—do I owe you any money?’

‘No. And you are still very welcome to dine here. The caller is happy to pay for your meal.’

The caller? Nothing made sense. ‘Damien Grainger called, didn’t he?’

‘No, it was Mr Grainger’s uncle.’

His uncle? This was really crazy. Where was Damien? Why hadn’t he rung? Was he sick? Oh, goodness, yes. That had to be the problem. Damien was suddenly, horribly, unavoidably, violently ill. From his sickbed he’d begged this uncle to phone her.

‘Shall I send for a menu?’ the man asked her.

Annie shook her head. Her throat was so choked she couldn’t speak and there was no way she could possibly think about eating. Not in the midst of tragedy. This was the single worst moment in her life.

Grabbing her bag, she managed to stand and then she took a deep breath and began to walk…past the other tables…conscious of the unbearable curiosity of the diners. Holding her head high and her shoulders back, she stared straight ahead, not wanting to catch anyone’s eye.

It wasn’t until she was safely out of the restaurant and behind the closed doors of the lift that she collapsed against the wall and covered her mouth with her hand and tried to hold back the horrible sobs that swelled in her throat and burned her. Was it possible to bear this disappointment, this horrible humiliation?

As the lift cruised downwards, she fumbled in her purse for her phone.

‘Mel,’ she sobbed as soon as there was an answer.

‘Annie, where are you?’

‘I’m in the lift at the Pinnacle.’

‘Why? Are you running away?’

‘Yes.’

‘Oh, my God, what happened?’

‘Nothing! Where are you?’

‘Just up the road,’ Mel shouted above a blast of loud background music. ‘At The Cactus Flower. It’s in the next block from where you are—on the left.’

‘Stay there, please. I’m coming.’

‘Honey, we won’t move.’

Theo Grainger waited in the foyer of the Pinnacle Hotel and watched the blinking lights in the panel beside the lift indicating its journey downward from the twenty-seventh floor. All too soon, those shiny lift doors would slide open and Annie McKinnon would burst out.

A kind of dread tightened his throat muscles as he anticipated the tears streaming down her face. The kid would be a mess. A heartbroken, disillusioned mess.

He cursed himself for handling the whole situation so badly. His cowardly, fickle nephew had caused enough trouble, but Theo had bungled his part in the evening too.

He wasn’t sure how he’d managed to make such a hash of things. He’d come to the hotel this evening with the best of intentions. He’d planned to meet the young Internet hopeful and to apologise to her on his nephew’s behalf and to explain that the date had been cancelled. To apologise in person—before she headed up to La Piastra.

Theo could pile on the charm when necessary and he’d been confident he could appease Damien’s date and send her on her way with her dignity intact, even if her tender young heart was broken. It wasn’t the first time he’d had to move into damage control after one of his nephew’s pranks.

But somehow Theo hadn’t been prepared for Annie McKinnon.

He hadn’t anticipated the blinding excitement shining in her face. She’d arrived at the Pinnacle looking so incredibly young and innocent, so unspeakably hopeful. So thrilled!

And he certainly hadn’t anticipated her cheer squad of friends.

The girlfriends had been his final stumbling block. One mere male couldn’t be expected to confront three overexcited, chattering females with the bad news that the big deal date was off.

In future, he would make sure that Damien was forced to face up to the consequences of his thoughtless pranks, even if he had to drag the wretch to the scene of his crime by the scruff of his neck.

But tonight the result of Theo’s bungling was that he’d felt a compunction to hang around for the aftermath—to make sure Annie McKinnon wasn’t too terribly heartbroken.

The light beside the lift indicated that it had reached the ground floor and he stood to one side of the foyer with his hands plunged deep in his trouser pockets. There was a clean handkerchief in his right pocket and it would come in handy if he needed to mop her tears before he called a taxi to send her safely homewards.

The doors opened and he held his breath and steeled himself for the sight of Annie’s flushed, tear-ravaged face.

But no.

Annie swept out of the lift with her golden head high, looking pale but dignified, almost haughty. No sign of tears. Her pretty blue eyes were dry and glass-clear and her mouth was composed, almost smiling.

Almost. If Theo hadn’t been watching her very closely, he might have missed the tremor of her chin and the exceedingly careful way she walked, as if she needed all her strength to hold herself together.

Her unexpected courage shook him. He felt a sudden lump in his throat and an absurd urge to applaud her.

And he remained stock-still as she sailed across the foyer. Even as the huge glass doors at the hotel’s entrance parted, he didn’t move. It made absolutely no sense but this devastated young woman seemed more composed than he felt.

She disappeared into the night before he came to his senses. By the time he dashed outside she was already hurrying along the footpath, ducking her way past pedestrians with athletic grace.

He called, ‘Annie!’

But she didn’t hear him and when people turned and stared at him he felt several versions of foolish. What on earth had he thought he was going to do if she’d heard him? Offer her coffee and consolation?

Clearly she needed neither.

He came to a halt in the middle of the footpath. Ahead of him, he saw a flash of pink jeans and white top as Annie turned to her left. Then she hurried up a short flight of steps and vanished inside a bar.

Theo Grainger couldn’t remember the last time he’d felt so inadequate.

‘The guy’s a jerk!’

‘An A-grade jerk.’

Mel and Victoria were vehement in their anger.

And never had Annie been happier to see friends.

As the three girls drowned their sorrows in strawberry daiquiris, she found it comforting to listen to their united rant.

‘Annie, your Damien has reached an entirely new, utterly despicable level of jerkdom.’

‘How dare he behave so jerkily to such a lovely, trusting country mouse?’

But the horrible part was that in between moments of righteous anger Annie still wanted to love Damien. She couldn’t let go of her fantasy man in the blink of an eye. She needed to believe he was helpless and guiltless.

Perhaps he really couldn’t have helped missing the date. There was still a chance that he was sick, in pain and feeling as bitterly disappointed as she was.

‘He might be sick,’ she said wistfully.

Victoria sniffed. ‘Yeah, that’s about as likely as he’s fallen under a bus.’

‘Or he’s found an urgent need to flee the country,’ added Mel, rolling her eyes. ‘Face it, Annie. If Damien was halfway decent and he had a genuine excuse, he would have gone out of his way to make sure you understood what had kept him.’

Annie sighed. ‘I suppose you’re right…I guess I just don’t want to believe it.’

It was so hard to let go of her happy dreams. She wanted to crawl away and cry for a month.

‘The thing is,’ said Mel, stirring her icy daiquiri with a slim black straw. ‘He’s not just a base-level jerk, he’s a cowardly jerk. He had to pretend to be someone else.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘I bet you any cocktail on this menu that the so-called uncle who relayed the message doesn’t exist.’

The thought that it might have actually been Damien on the phone, pretending to be someone else, made Annie feel ten times worse.

Victoria patted her shoulder. ‘I reckon you should forget about blind dates and concentrate on raising the cocktail drinking statistics for the Greater Brisbane Area.’

Annie nodded miserably. It wasn’t her style, but losing herself in an alcoholic fuzz had definite appeal. The problem was that it would only take the edge off her pain momentarily. There would still be tomorrow. And the rest of the week in Brisbane. A whole week in the city. Without Damien.

‘I’d rather go back to your place and borrow your computer to send The Jerk a blistering email,’ she said.

‘Yeah,’ agreed Mel. ‘Great idea. Besides, Victoria and I still have to go to work tomorrow morning. Let’s go home and send Damien a message he won’t forget. Let’s make sure he absolutely understands just how totally bottom-of-the-pits he’s been.’

‘If he’s a true jerk, it’ll be like water off a duck’s back,’ suggested Victoria gloomily.

But Mel’s mind was made up. ‘It doesn’t matter. Annie will feel a lot better once we’ve told him off.’