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 heat waves, which I find particularly worthy of note.
‘Bloody unforgiveable 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 judgment.’
‘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 – coming over the aircraft tannoy saying: ‘Ladies and gentlemen, we’re about to attempt an emergency landing; please assume crash positions. Oh and if you’re the praying type, then right about now would sure be a heck of a good time to start.’
I wake just after 5 a.m. with a sharp jolt, then realize it was only an anxiety dream and that I’m actually safely tucked up in bed with the electric blanket turned up full. But after the usual thirty-second time lag before my conscious mind kicks into gear, reality sets in. And as regards last night in Fade Street Social, yup, that particular nightmare was fairly real alright.
Shock and crushing disappointment kept me numb for most of last night, but in the cold light of day the God-awful, humiliating reality slowly starts to set in.
Then the one thought there’s just no running away from, no matter how hard I try. I thought this could actually go somewhere. I thought this one had legs. I really, genuinely felt that for once I might just be able to have the first happy Christmas I’ve had since – well, since. Clearly not to be, though, and the disappointment is crushing.
Groggily coming to, I’m suddenly aware that my head is pounding. So stumbling like an aul one on a zimmer frame, I kick the duvet off
