Meet Me In Manhattan: A sparkling, feel-good romantic comedy to whisk you away !. Claudia Carroll
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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.
Andy McCoy, that’s his name. Captain Andy McCoy if you don’t mind, a senior airline pilot with Delta, as it happens. Later on that night I fall into a troubled, broken sleep and at one point even have a nightmare that I’m a passenger on a flight he’s piloting that’s just about to crash. And of course, the last thing I hear is Andy’s panicky voice – that gorgeous, deep, resonant voice that I’ve come to know so well over the past few weeks –