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 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 get 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.
User Name: 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 8.45pm 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 jetlagged, 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, jetlagged 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 now 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?’
