‘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.
Chapter Two
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 night …’
Bloody machine cuts him off again. So walloping sweaty fingers off the keys, I hit on the next voice message, hissing aloud, ‘What emergency? What the feck happened?’
‘Holly, me again,’ he says, over a whole load of background noise. Sirens? Ambulances?
‘I sure can’t begin to apologize for not getting to meet you tonight,’ he says, raising his voice to be heard over all the background fracas. ‘But here’s the thing. We were just about two hours out of Atlanta when we had a mid-air incident with a passenger who …’
Bloody well cut off again. A passenger who what? Caused a fight? An air-rage incident because they were pissed out of their head on duty-free? What?
I’m just about to turn on the telly, in case the story’s made it onto Sky News or BBC 24, but next thing there’s a ping down my phone and I realize there’s an email that’s been waiting for me all this time. And sure enough, it’s him again.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Holly. It’s me. I’ve been calling and calling you, but your phone just keeps clicking straight onto voicemail.
I totally get it if you never want to see or hear from me again after my letting you down so badly last night. But I also hope you know there’s just no way in hell I’d ever do a thing like that without real good cause. And boy, did I have good cause last night.
Trouble started when we were just under two hours out of Atlanta, headed north-east over the Atlantic. Next thing, my senior flight steward came into the cockpit to say a passenger had suddenly been taken ill. Course, I immediately asked if there was a doctor on board and not one, but two, came forward to examine this passenger.
So my co-pilot took over while I discussed what was happening with the medics. Both quickly agreed that the passenger, a middle-aged guy who was travelling alone, had most likely suffered a cardiac arrest and needed to be rushed to hospital ASAP.
Now we got all sorts of procedures in place for when incidents like this happen, so I got on the radio immediately and requested an emergency landing at the nearest international airport. Which given that we were headed east over the Atlantic happened to be right here at St John’s, Newfoundland. Anyway, we touched down within thirty minutes of my putting out the emergency call and they had ambulances already waiting right on the tarmac to rush our patient to hospital just as fast as they could.
It was dramatic; it sure as hell was traumatic and it genuinely killed me not to be able to make our date last night, but I hope this goes some small way towards explaining the downside of a life in the sky.
I’ll try calling you at a more respectable time and if you don’t want to speak with me, then I’ll totally get it.
I’m being rerouted back home now. Like I always say, gotta fly.
Andy.
I go online and do a quick Google of the international news in this morning’s online papers. I scroll down through countless pages and links and, lo and behold, there it is.
Buried up at the top of page seven in the Chronicle; a tiny breaking news feature about a Delta flight that had to be rerouted back to Newfoundland when a passenger unexpectedly took ill. Not only that, but it’s on both the Sky News app and the BBC app too.
Which means he was telling the truth then, the whole truth and nothing but.
So I climb back into bed, mind racing. And deep down, I think, almost a bit relieved. After all, as excuses go, this one’s a doozy.
Not long after, I fall into a fitful, troubled sleep and keep flashing back to when this all first began.
Chapter Three
Exactly three weeks ago.
Welcome to the Two’s Company Dating Website!
Username: lady_reporter
Never easy to describe yourself, but here goes. Tall, slim, blue-eyed brunette. Loves eating out and staying in and mountaineering and skydiving, and I know everyone says they’ve got the best job in the world on these sites, but I really, genuinely think I have.
I’m also a major foodie who adores cooking for friends/ baking/ all of the above. And with apologies in advance if I come over as a boasty boaster, but my friends do reckon my chocolate cherry cupcakes, something of a house speciality round here, are worthy of The Great British Bake Off.
So, anyone out there? Anyone at all?
I posted it out there and, as you do, resolved not to check back in again for at least a good hour or so. But it was a quiet night, with shag all to speak of on telly, so after exactly seventeen minutes I cracked. And there it was, just waiting for me.
8.07 p.m.
*New Message*
Hi, lady_reporter, you have 1 new response!
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Hey there Lady Reporter,
Like your profile. Mountaineering? Skydiving? Wow. And you’re a foodie too? Snap. Message me back soon – if you’re not halfway up Mount Kilimanjaro or about to do a parachute jump at two thousand feet, that is.
Now, as we all know in man-language, ‘message me back soon’ can mean anything from two hours to two weeks. However, all my time served at the online dating coalface had taught me that there’s almost an Alice in Wonderland/upside-down environment at play here, where the dating rules that apply in real life are totally inverted. On sites like this one, the longer you play games and wait to respond to a guy who shows initial interest, the higher the likelihood he’ll have moved onto someone else by then.
So I struck while the iron was hot.
Username: lady_reporter
Lovely to hear from you, but may I point out that’s only one personal fact about you whereas I told you loads.
Come on, fair is fair!
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Hi again, and please excuse me, I’m kinda new to this whole online dating thing. OK, so a few more nuggets about me.
Fact two is that I’m loving the fact that you’re tall. I’m on the six foot side myself as it happens, and way back in my college dating days, I inevitably found myself going for ladies who I at least could share eye contact with.
And another bit of personal info? Gotta say, I find this whole online dating thing pretty tough to get a handle on. Guess I’m old-fashioned, but if you ask me, personal contact trumps online messaging any day.
So what do you think, Lady Reporter?
Personal contact? I thought, re-reading it. Was this guy really hinting that we swap phone numbers at this early stage? Wow, unheard of! I decided to play it cautious though and left a dignified pause, the exact length of the first half of an episode of Modern Family, before replying.
Username: lady_reporter
Sorry, but this is just a quick message, as I can’t really chat right now. Long story, but I’m at a critical stage with my pear and almond tart. Thing is, baking is almost like a fundamental switch-off mechanism for me. In fact I don’t sleep right without knowing my chocolate biscuit
cake is in the fridge and setting right.
Anyway, we’ve swapped a few basic facts, which I reckon now means we get to ask each other slightly more personal questions.
1.So whereabouts are you based exactly?
2.And you never mentioned if you’re married/separated/divorced? Not to be overly nosey or anything, but I’m a great believer that directness – and of course total honesty online – really is the best way.
Pinger on the oven’s calling me, gotta dash.
Bye for now,
Lady_reporter.
Right. If nothing else, that was bound to fish him out, I reckoned. If this guy was married – and you’d be astonished how many of them there are out there openly masquerading as single – chances are he just wouldn’t respond and would skulk quietly off to go and hassle someone else. After all, you’ve got to protect yourself on these sites. Can’t be too careful, etc.
I finished watching Modern Family and was just about to go over to Netflix when curiosity got the better of me. And whaddya know, to my astonishment, he’d already replied.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Excuse my lousy manners, Ma’am.
OK, here goes. First up, I’m originally from Charleston, South Carolina, but right now I’m based here in Atlanta, Georgia, for work. You ever been to the Southern states? Best and most beautiful part of the US by a mile. And, just so you know, ladies like yourself who are into home-cooking are generally held to be a deeply treasured species down here.
Second thing is that I’ve actually been married before. Amy and I had a wonderful, joyous ten years together, and I cherish that time as just about the happiest in my whole life. We got a son who lives here with me and his grandma, and that little kid is the light of my life. Name of Logan. He’s six years old, cute as a button and smart as a whip. Yelling at me right now for spending too much time on my computer when he wants me to play Minecraft on his Xbox with him, so I guess that’s my cue to say over and out.
Meet Me In Manhattan Page 2
