Meet Me In Manhattan. Claudia Carroll
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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 slight-ish 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 short-ish, 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 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 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: 8.25pm. 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 so I’m 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