Читать книгу Meet Me In Manhattan: A sparkling, feel-good romantic comedy to whisk you away ! - Claudia Carroll - Страница 8

Exactly 8 p.m. on a Saturday night and here I am. Sitting all alone at a table for two in Fade Street Social, only one of the swishiest restaurants in town, primped and preened to within an inch of my life.

Peppering with nervous tension of course, but we’ll come back to that.

It’s a perfect table too – if I’d planned it, I couldn’t have chosen any better. I’m right in the middle of the restaurant at a gorgeous table facing the door, so that every time it opens, I get a clear view of exactly who’s just arrived. And more importantly, so that when my date gets here, he can’t miss me.

Can he? I think, a tad anxiously.

No, course he can’t.

Now there’s the slightish concern that he hasn’t the first clue what I look like in the flesh, or I him. But then we did exchange photos via the Two’s Company website, and although mine is a slight bit of a cheat – taken ten years ago at twilight and with the light behind me so as to minimize the wrinkles, and come on, who of us hasn’t done it? Point is though, if his photo is even halfway accurate, then I’m seriously onto a winner here.

Every time the door opens, my neck automatically pings upwards as I look hopefully over, but so far, there’s no sign of him or anyone who remotely resembles him. At least, not yet. But then it’s barely turned eight, I remind myself, and I was here early. We won’t split hairs over a few minutes’ minor delay.

Deep, calm, soothing breaths. The waiting will all be over soon.

Just about every stitch I’m standing up in tonight is borrowed; I’m shoehorned into my flatmate Joy’s ‘serial result’ LBD – a lacy Pippa Middleton-esque clingy number in Joy’s customary black, sexy in that it’s shortish, yet still demure enough around the neckline to look like I’m not trying too hard.

Although ‘not trying too hard’ is a bit of a laugh considering a) I’ve spent the whole morning splashing out on a very spendy blow-dry, then b) I subsequently figured, sure, I’m going to all this bother anyway, why not go the whole hog and fork out for a new pair of high heels? (Which I’m wearing now; a pair of black wedges, an absolute steal from River Island.) Casual enough that this is just a regular, normal Saturday night out for me, and yet also giving me that crucial bit of height, because I’ve a vague memory of my date mentioning he was a six-footer, and the last thing I want is to end up looking like a little Munchkin beside him.

Thing is, I did sort of tweak the truth about my height and size a bit on the dating site. But then what’s a few inches when your online relationship has blossomed like ours has? And I don’t use the word blossomed lightly either.

By nature I’m cautious, wary and a bit mistrustful of people until I really get to know them properly. Yet ever since this whole online flirtation started up, he’s the one who’s been making all the running. And believe me, when you’ve been on your own for as long as I have, all of that full-on attentiveness can be powerfully seductive. Even tonight was at his insistence, not mine. He was the one who suggested it in the first place; he made the reservation and told me all I had to do was turn up.

So here I am. Waiting.

And waiting.

‘Something to drink from the bar, Ma’am?’ asks the waiter, a slightly over-solicitous guy who looks barely old enough to drink alcohol himself, never mind serve it.

I’m about to say no, figuring I don’t want to give off a boozy whiff when my date gets here, but then I decide feck it anyway. This is all just way too nerve-wracking to handle without a little glass of wine on hand. Isn’t it? Yeah, course it is. Nice glass of vino would just take the edge off. And get me into a lighter, brighter humour for that magical moment when he strolls through the door and we lock eyes for the very first time.

Which will, of course, be at any second now.

‘Ermm, a glass of house white would be lovely, thanks,’ I smile nervously at the waiter, who nods back at me.

‘Certainly, Madam. I’ll be right back. And you’ll be a party of two tonight?’ he adds, throwing a pointed glance towards the empty chair opposite me.

‘Yes. My friend will be here shortly,’ I smile, trying to sound a lot more confident than I actually feel.

Another peek down at my phone. No text message, which isn’t out of the ordinary; after all, this guy just isn’t much of a texter. If he wants to get in touch, he calls, simple as that. I also notice that it’s now ten past eight. But then that’s still OK, I reason. After all, he’s not from Dublin. He’s staying out at the Radisson hotel by the airport, a good forty minutes by taxi from here. So maybe he miscalculated the time it would take for him to get here? Or else he’s having difficulty finding the place?

Rubbish, says the sane inner voice inside me. He’s a grown adult. If he has the wherewithal to arrange all of this, then he can chart his way here from the shagging airport hotel. And remember the only reason he went to the bother of booking that hotel tonight was so he and I could meet up in the first place. So I should just be patient and stop all this useless stressing and fretting. End of.

My wine arrives.

‘Would you care to look at the menu, while you’re waiting, Ma’am?’ baby-faced waiter asks politely. I could be imagining it, but did he just linger a wee bit too long on the ‘while you’re waiting’? Like he’s already made up his mind that I’ve been stood up?

Oh God, I think, instantly dismissing the thought. My nerves have just shot into overdrive and are making me hyper-antsy now, that’s all. Sure enough, one lovely glug of calming Pinot Grigio later and I feel more confident and in control.

This is going to be an unforgettable night. A magical night. A night that my date and I will hopefully talk about for a long, long time to come.

The menu looks fabulous too. I manage to kill another good three minutes by deciding in advance what I’m going to have. Oysters to start with I instantly dismiss as a shite idea. After all, I don’t want him to think I’m only using them as an aphrodisiac and that I’ll just hop into bed with him on our very first date.

Mushroom risotto, I decide firmly. The perfect ‘non embarrass yourself by stinking of garlic with spaghetti sauce dribbling out of your mouth,’ date meal.

If my date ever turns up, that is. I glance down at my phone for about the hundredth time since I first got here: 8.25 p.m. Which means he’s almost half an hour late by now. But he must be on his way, I reason, because if anything had happened, then wouldn’t he just have called me to cancel and rearrange?

After all, this guy’s been calling my mobile day and night for weeks now. At this stage, his is literally the first voice I hear every morning, ringing to see how I am and to wish me luck with my day. Then last thing at night, when he’s still in the middle of his day, what with the time difference and everything, he’ll be sure to call me from an airport in some far-flung part of the globe just to hear my news, chat a bit about his and wish me goodnight.

It’s actually astonishing just how close we’ve grown and how intense things have got between us in a relatively short space of time; something that’s never happened to me before, but is completely wonderful when it does. Course I was ultra-wary at first; time and bitter experience having taught me never to jump two feet first into anything that starts off online. But what can I say? After a few weeks of full-on attentiveness, he eventually won me over. This, I remind myself, is what I’ve deep down been craving after years of dating eejits who did nothing but mess me around. All my life I’ve dreamt of being treated like a complete goddess and now, for once, I actually am. So why am I ruining on myself by fretting about a slight thirty … no … actually a thirty-two minute delay?

Of course he’s turning up!

The restaurant is really filling up fast and furious now, and there’s a queue of people at the bar, waiting on tables. Call me paranoid, but I’m starting to feel that there’s more than a few shifty looks in my direction, seeing as how I’m hogging a whole table for two right in the middle of the room, when I’m so clearly alone.

And waiting. Still waiting.

8.35 p.m.

‘May I get you a bread basket, Ma’am?’ the waiter asks politely, appearing right at my elbow from out of nowhere and making me jump.

‘Yes, thanks, that would be lovely,’ I smile, trying to sound a helluva lot brighter than I actually feel. Thing is, though, nerves have kept me from eating all day and I’m suddenly aware that I’m ravenous. And let’s face it, having a mouth full of half-masticated bread when he walks in is infinitely better than him having to listen to my rumbling stomach, followed by the sight of me eating like a jailbird on death row who’s just been granted her last meal.

I check the phone again. Nothing. And what’s even worse, I can’t call or text him because the thing is – I don’t actually have his number. He’s the one who rings me all the time, and whenever he does, the number always comes up on my phone as ‘blocked’. Ever since this whole thing first started, I’ve been priding myself on the fact that I’ve never had cause to ring him, and now I’m bloody well kicking myself for not having the foresight to at least have got a contact number for him before tonight.

But then, I decide, isn’t it far better to be proactive and just do something about this instead?

So I whip out my phone and email.

Username: lady_reporter

Member since August 2012

Hi, are you getting this? Just to say that I’m waiting in the restaurant, table right in the middle of the room … you can’t miss me! It’s just coming up to 8.45 p.m. now, and I’m wondering what’s happened to you?

Call if/when you get this and in the meantime, looking forward to seeing you very shortly.

Holly.

OK so now it’s 8.50 p.m. He’s almost a full hour late, which not only is starting to make me fear the worst but also making me very, very tetchy. Then a sudden thought: he’s staying out at the Radisson airport hotel, isn’t he?

Approximately two seconds later, I’m Googling their number and calling them. He’s jet-lagged, is my reasoning. After all, he only just flew in from the States this morning. Of course that’s it! He’s bone-tired from work, worn out with the time difference and more than likely crashed out on the bed. So it’s not that he forgot all about me, it’s just that he’s knackered and more than likely in a deep, jet-lagged coma right now. Doesn’t that sound probable?

Absolutely.

‘Good evening, the Radisson airport hotel, how may I direct your call?’

‘Ermm, hi there. I’d like to speak to a guest of yours,’ I say, giving his full name.

‘Do you have a room number, Ma’am?’ comes a polite receptionist’s voice down the phone.

‘I’m afraid not. Can you check it out for me?’

‘I’m so sorry, Ma’am. I’m afraid we can’t give out that sort of information about our guests. It’s for privacy protection. I’m sure you understand.’

Shit.

‘OK,’ I say, trying hard to keep the exasperation out of my tone and not succeeding very well. ‘Well, in that case, can I at least leave a message? Can you ask him to call Holly Johnson as soon as he gets this?’

‘Thank you, Ma’am, I’ll be sure to pass that on.’

‘If you wouldn’t mind, thanks. He’s booked in to stay with you till first thing tomorrow.’

‘Yes, Ma’am.’

I thank her – even though she was feck all use to me – and hang up. So now it’s coming up to 9 p.m. and I have to accept that I’m definitely in stood-up territory here. Plus, the queue of Saturday night diners has swollen practically out the door by now.

It’s also hard not to be aware that the pitying looks that were headed in my direction thirty minutes ago have now turned to full-on hostility; the fact that I’m hogging a prime table with nothing but a bread basket, a glass of wine and an empty chair in front of me is doing me absolutely no favours.

And then, thank you God! My phone rings.

Him, it’s him, it has to be!

But it’s not.

It’s my flatmate Joy, checking in on me and making sure that wonder man didn’t turn out to be some midget with two ex-wives in Utah and halitosis.

‘You OK, love?’ she asks me worriedly. ‘Can you talk?’

I fill her in, making sure to cover my mouth and hiss into the phone so no one at the tables either side of me can overhear.

‘Jesus, you mean he’s still not there yet?’ she splutters. ‘Almost a full hour late? Now you just listen to me, Holly. You’ve got to get the hell out of there. Right now. Hold your head high, don’t even think of making an excuse to the waiter, just ask for the bill and leave.’

‘But supposing …’

‘Suppose, my arse. I’m already here at the flat, so just hurry home. Now do as I say, hang up the phone and go!’

So here’s what I remember happening next.

My face flushing hot with mortification as I paid for the wine, gathered up my bag and finally did the walk of shame all the way to the door. Another couple just glaring, then stomping icily past me to get to my table. Then battling my way through the throng gathered at the restaurant’s main entrance, followed by the blessed relief of finally getting outside. The icy early December chill hitting me full in the face, as late-night Christmas shoppers trudged wearily past, all laden down with shopping bags. Smokers outside the restaurant all having a good gawp, practically with thought balloons coming out of their heads saying, ‘See her? That’s your woman whose date didn’t show. On a Saturday night.’

I remember a girl about my own age having a cigarette outside giving me a comforting pat on my shoulder as I passed her by. And oddly, that tiny gesture of solidarity went straight to my heart more than any words possibly could.

Then probably for the first time that whole shitty evening, the universe sent me a break. A taxi pulled up on the kerb and two minutes later I was zooming away, head pounding, heart walloping.

Completely and utterly crushed.

*

‘Bastard!’ Joy says, opening our hall door to me when I eventually do get home, giving me a warm, tight hug, bless her. Just a few quick things to know about Joy; she’s a glorious creature, six feet tall and stick-thin, in spite of the fact she eats about three times the amount I do. She’s got sharp, bobbed jet-black hair and won’t go out the front door without wearing the thickest black eyeliner you’ve ever seen; works in a call centre for Apple and dresses from head to toe in black. She even wears black opaque tights during heatwaves, which I find particularly worthy of note.

‘Bloody unforgivable thing to do,’ she snaps, banging the hall door behind me so firmly that it rattles. ‘Now come on in, sit down and tell me everything.’

Five minutes later, I’m plonked in front of a roaring fire, kicking off my too-tight shoes while Joy attempts to get me to knock back a good, stiff glass of Sauvignon Blanc; the only acceptable cure according to her for any disappointment in life: heartbreak, loss, you name it. And believe me, over the past few years, the four walls of our tiny flat have pretty much seen it all. I just sit there numbly, cradling the stem of the wine glass and desperately trying to formulate my thoughts.

‘There could be a perfectly plausible excuse, you know,’ I say dully, rubbing my temples and trying to convince myself more than anything else.

‘Like what exactly?’ she says, raising an elegant jet-black eyebrow suspiciously.

‘Well, loads of things. I mean, for starters, there might have been a flight delay. Or bad weather. Or awful turbulence that forced them to turn back to the States. For God’s sake, in his line of work, that kind of thing is an occupational hazard. There could even have been a terrorist attack on his flight for all we know!’

‘If there were either storms, flight delays or terrorists hijacking a transatlantic flight, then you can bet it would be plastered all over Sky News by now. And it most definitely isn’t. I checked the minute after I called you.’

I slump back against the sofa and take a big gulp of wine. But the old charm of drowning your sorrows just doesn’t seem to work this time. I know it and so does Joy.

‘You know what the worst part of this is?’ I say, thinking aloud. ‘That he’s made me feel like such a moron. After everything I’ve been through too; for God’s sake, I prided myself on being able to spot a messer online a mile off. That’s the killer here; I honestly thought this guy was genuine, that he was the real deal. But now he has me completely doubting my own judgement.’

‘He could have called you,’ Joy says a bit more gently. ‘No matter what happened, he could have picked up a bloody phone and got in touch. But did he even bother his arse? No. So I’m so sorry to burst your balloon, but this really is the end, and you know right well my reasons for saying so. We’ve been over this enough times already; you don’t need to be told where I stand.’

‘I know,’ I say as hot, bitter tears start to sting my eyes, ‘but the thing is … I really did grow to trust him, Joy. And you of all people know how long it takes me to trust anyone.’

‘I know, love,’ she nods, giving my hand a sympathetic squeeze. ‘But the fact is you’ve already wasted enough time and headspace, not to mention one precious Saturday night, on this eejit. Enough is enough. Time to cut your losses and move on. You’re a smart girl, Holly, you know you’ve no choice here.’

I nod mutely, knowing damn well she’s telling the truth. For God’s sake, this guy has only been calling me for the past few weeks, hasn’t he? Day and night, non-stop. There were at least five phone calls alone just to confirm this evening and to double-check he’d booked the right restaurant online.

Whether I like it or not, the sad fact is that no matter what happened to him this evening, one thing is for sure: wherever you are, I think numbly, and whatever happened to you, you’ve got a helluva long way to crawl back from this one.