twenty-seven. The doors swished closed, Mel and Victoria’s encouraging grins disappeared, and with a soft sigh the lift whisked her away from them…skywards.
And her stomach dropped. Oh, crumbs.
She made a last-minute check in the mirror at the back of the lift. No bra showing, no visible panty-line. Lipstick still holding. Hair okay.
Ping! Level twenty-seven.
Gulp.
This was it.
The lift doors swept apart and Annie looked out at an expanse of mega-trendy pale timber and stainless steel. So this was La Piastra. She felt a fleeting rush of nostalgia for Beryl’s friendly café in Mirrabrook with its gingham tablecloths, ruffled curtains and bright plastic flowers on every table.
How silly. She’d come to Brisbane to get away from all that. Somewhere in here Damien was waiting. Oh, please let him like me. Her legs shook. She was as nervous as she’d been on her first day at boarding school.
A tall, dark, very Italian-looking man in black was watching her from his post directly in front of the lift and as she approached him he bowed stiffly.
‘Good evening, madam.’
‘Good evening.’
‘Welcome to La Piastra.’ He looked down a very Roman nose at her.
‘Thanks.’ She smiled, but her smile faltered as the man waited for her to say something more. What was she supposed to say? She peered into the restaurant, searching for a streaked sandy head among the diners. ‘I’m—er—supposed to be meeting someone here.’
‘You have a reservation?’
‘No.’
He frowned and pursed his lips.
She hurried to explain. ‘I mean I don’t actually have a reservation, but I’ve come to meet someone—who made a reservation.’
Cringe! Was she a country hick making a complete fool of herself, or what?
He turned to a thick book on a timber and stainless steel lectern. ‘What name?’
‘You mean his name?’
Her question was met by a sigh that suggested the man in black was quite certain he was dealing with an airhead. ‘What name was given when the reservation was made?’
‘Grainger,’ she said with sudden dignity. ‘Mr Damien Grainger.’
Again he peered down his imperious Roman nose and slowly examined the list of names in his book. And Annie felt a moment’s panic. Could she have made a mistake? Was this the wrong restaurant…the wrong day, wrong time?
No, it couldn’t be. She’d checked and rechecked Damien’s email a thousand times.
She peered again into the restaurant. She’d been hoping that Damien would keep an eye out for her. She’d pictured him leaping to his feet when he saw her, hurrying through the restaurant to meet her, his face alight with a welcoming smile.
Perhaps his table was positioned behind a post?
‘Ah, yes,’ said the rich Italian voice at her side. ‘Table thirty-two.’
Phew.
‘But I’m afraid Mr Grainger hasn’t arrived yet.’
Oh.
Silly of her, but she’d been certain that Damien would be on time, even early.
‘Would you care to wait for him at the bar or at your table?’
She glanced at the bar. If she waited there, perched on a stool by herself, she would feel like a prize lemon. ‘At the table, please.’
‘Then come this way.’
Several heads turned as she followed him to a table set for two near a window. Back in Mirrabrook, people would have been smiling and calling out greetings. Here they merely stared without emotion. Was there something wrong with the way she looked? Were her jeans too pink?
A seat was drawn out for her.
Annie sat and looked at the bare, pale timber table top, set with two round black linen place mats and starched white napkins, solid shining cutlery, gleaming wineglasses and a single square black candle exactly in the middle of a square white saucer.
It was all very urban. Very minimalist.
If Damien had been here, she would have found it exciting.
‘Would you care for a drink while you’re waiting?’
She tried to remember the name of the trendy drink Mel had ordered for her at a bar the night before. Something with cranberry juice.
When she hesitated, the man in black asked, ‘Perhaps you would like to see our wine list?’
‘No, thank you. Um, would it be all right if I just have water for now?’
‘Certainly. Would you prefer still or sparkling?’
Good grief. At Beryl’s café in Mirrabrook, water was simple, uncomplicated H2O.
‘Still water, please.’
He left her then and Annie heaved a sigh of relief. But the relief was only momentary, because now she was very conscious of being alone. A swift glance around her showed that she was the only person in the restaurant sitting by herself.
Shoulders back, Annie. You can’t let a little thing like that throw you.
A handsome young waiter approached her, bearing a tray with a frosted bottle of iced water. ‘How are you this evening?’ he asked, smiling.
She smiled back and the simple act of sharing a smile made her feel a little better. ‘Very well, thank you.’
‘I’m Roberto and I’ll be looking after your table.’
Her smile held. ‘I’m Annie and I’ll be looking forward to your service.’
His mouth stretched into a broad grin as he poured water into her glass. ‘Would you like to see our menu?’
‘No, I’ll wait for my—’ She indicated the empty seat opposite her.
‘Girlfriend?’
‘Actually, no—it’s a guy.’
He managed to look charmingly disappointed before moving away to take orders from a nearby table.
Annie took a sip of water and wished she could press the cool glass against her hot cheeks. She told herself that it didn’t matter that Damien was late. He was probably battling his way though a traffic jam, cursing fate. Any minute now he’d come bursting out of the lift, full of apologies.
She counted to
