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 – 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 and am just making for the bathroom when suddenly something lying innocently on my bedside table catches my eye.
My phone. I flung it there before I collapsed into bed last night; just switched it off and tossed it aside, figuring that if Andy thought all it would take was one of his late-night phone calls to set things to rights between us, then he could go and take a running jump with himself. But now I pick it up, twiddle around with it for a bit and am just about to shove it into a drawer and ignore it completely when a sharp curiosity gets the better of me.
So I switch the phone back on.
Dear Jesus, seven missed calls. Every single one of them from him.
This better be good, this better be good, this better be good, I think, frantically clicking on voicemail.
‘Received at one-oh-three a.m.… ’ says that annoying automated woman’s voice in a dull monotone.
‘Holly? Holly, are you there? It’s me, it’s Andy. I gotta explain what just happened. Don’t get a fright, but we just had a mid-air …’
I swear, just the very sound of his voice instantly raises my pulse rate. But the message is abruptly cut short just as I’m thinking a mid-air? A mid-air what exactly? But nothing more. So I stab impatiently at the phone’s voicemail button again.
‘Received at one-oh-four a.m.,’ drones the same automation’s voice down the phone again.
‘Holly,’ he goes on, sounding tensed and panicked now. ‘I hope you can hear me? I’m calling you from Newfoundland … I’m right here at St John’s Airport; don’t worry though, I’m OK and everything is absolutely fine … we just touched down here after an emergency landing …’
An emergency landing?
Shit! His phone cuts out again, so fingers trembling, I click straight onto the next voicemail.
‘Received at one-oh-five a.m.… ’ says the automatic voice and I find myself snarling, ‘oh will you shut up!’ back down the phone at her.
‘… Holly, are you even getting these messages? Look, I know it’s past one in the morning your time, but I had to get in touch as soon as we touched down to explain what happened. Because I can’t begin to apologize for leaving you high and dry like that. That’s just not who I am. I hope you know only something like a real, genuine emergency would keep me from being there to meet you last
