Meet Me In Manhattan: A sparkling, feel-good romantic comedy to whisk you away !
Meet Me In Manhattan: A sparkling, feel-good romantic comedy to whisk you away !
Claudia Carroll
What if THE ONE isn’t who you think he is?You don’t mess with aspiring journalist Holly Johnson! The man she fell for is not all that he seems – because sometimes dating online doesn’t quite go to plan. She’s decided to fly to the Big Apple to surprise him and to get some answers. And if her plan works she’ll also get the scoop of her career …But as she steps out of her yellow taxi and the first snowflakes start to fall, it’s Holly who has the surprise of her life.What should be a dream come true is looking a little like a nightmare. But Holly is determined to get her New York happy ending!
Copyright (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2015
Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007520909
Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008151201
Version: 2018–07-24
Praise for the novels of Claudia Carroll (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
‘An original, funny and poignant story … A very modern fairytale, full of Claudia’s trademark wit and humour’
Sheila O’Flanagan
‘Full of warmth, humour and emotion, this is a wonderfully written, unconventional love story that charms from the very first page. I adored it and didn’t want it to end. Read it – I guarantee you’ll love it’
Melissa Hill
‘It bubbles and sparkles like pink champagne. A hugely entertaining read’
Patricia Scanlan
‘An emotional roller-coaster ride … keeps the reader wondering until the very end’
Irish Independent
Readers adore the novels of Claudia Carroll – here is a glimpse of just how much! (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
‘I was holding my breath … the story really touched my heart’
‘Fun, breezy, and kept me guessing and oohing and aaahhhing until the end!’
‘Truly captivating’
‘Will lift your spirits’
‘If you love page-turning women’s fiction with depth then this book is for you!’
‘I so enjoyed this unusual story of friendships and love’
‘Very fresh and brilliantly plotted’
‘A total page-turner with companionship, fear, laughter, and a whole bunch of other emotions that will take you on a journey like no other’
‘Officially one of my favourite books of the year!’
‘Some sobs, but lots of laughter and joy’
Dedication (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
This book is warmly dedicated to Susan McHugh, Sean Murphy, Luke and of course my gorgeous godson, Oscar.
With love and thanks, always.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u23b12e37-fd68-5e3d-b54b-d138ebac7ed6)
Title Page (#u3cf4221f-f4d5-5737-8ef5-600772904e02)
Copyright (#ub8c5990f-2b1f-50e9-84e6-ebda732c4eeb)
Praise for the novels of Claudia Carroll (#u692fec85-1725-5fb0-9dff-ee5ac728d7c2)
Dedication (#u7144dffa-2719-5759-b9d2-f886049adbd1)
Chapter One (#u626f9a31-8075-56c8-8222-e214cbdcfc6a)
Chapter Two (#u8afd5251-7ef6-513f-af74-c6364e001f76)
Chapter Three (#u8427a02c-c0c5-5ca7-8e10-f9918bfa848a)
Chapter Four (#u37a68609-df85-5fb2-b621-7f96c4c7e01b)
Chapter Five (#u79808507-3ca4-5e59-8326-f195215a3cb6)
Chapter Six (#uec09841c-cea1-589f-ab7f-1d6e4a1083b2)
Chapter Seven (#udb090e6e-e84d-5e57-b34f-e31e103fb32a)
Chapter Eight (#u2009d31c-42be-5b87-b3c9-9b104d7c8ce0)
Chapter Nine (#ufbcb80a0-0df1-5656-9e91-e348a91227ff)
Chapter Ten (#u9d03b21f-a8f4-506e-bf50-a86320b60293)
Chapter Eleven (#u56d996ce-10c0-5c48-8f9b-e1503a95ab45)
Chapter Twelve (#ud5b7ac1a-e239-57d5-a236-0370b122c5b2)
Chapter Thirteen (#u07ae0925-9d38-5e1e-bd6b-eb2e5dd693a6)
Chapter Fourteen (#uc542f29f-802a-596c-9ecd-bc6d14f10789)
Chapter Fifteen (#ue13b9509-0594-5428-b608-fb8dd5686e28)
Chapter Sixteen (#u9a99a19b-ddbb-515f-b985-35875d7b0375)
Chapter Seventeen (#uf7b20ebc-7786-5729-8010-2b92888cf875)
Chapter Eighteen (#u5068535d-c8e4-5b6d-85c1-d6e5690f04c0)
Chapter Nineteen (#u42522df0-418d-54bd-9ccf-685ebc631f45)
Chapter Twenty (#ud923b04d-ec4e-5025-9865-57c2711d78f2)
Chapter Twenty-One (#ufabfc15c-e1d5-550c-9239-7119f4363bac)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#ucaf9b986-d633-5dcf-a9d3-ae6cc368b747)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#uf6f1c1a8-4b19-5180-81bc-837623dee0ef)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#u522eea74-9e4b-58b6-9a05-4bf676badeca)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#uab5b848a-3cba-5b02-bbd7-94303e033925)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#u3225a51d-fbf2-548f-9ab4-4b953baf9abe)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u937d04d9-b5f1-50a9-bffd-8105ae4254af)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#uee367525-03ba-50e1-bc0b-2c5b5507b474)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u471f98b9-991d-5194-8da3-eea08ee97939)
Chapter Thirty (#uc3c5df6c-f3ab-5743-b9b2-cf401b4800bd)
Chapter Thirty-One (#u17b76eea-5fde-5d80-9ca9-5e4cac59ce60)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#ue6f519ae-3667-5ffd-9774-9a3a5cada21f)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u0d438f74-895f-5cb1-a944-2a90d3f35383)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u9dda45b1-a337-507c-b370-c4c55e41f651)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#u8526f778-cd57-5db4-93e3-2b1d204ff365)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#uf7fbee6c-04a0-509e-8858-119c3699016f)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#ue1b41697-6b34-5256-90f5-7321da1a80a7)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#u50a42424-4e56-5738-80df-df520176fa00)
Epilogue (#ub0cbced6-44b8-5894-85cf-131479602573)
Acknowledgements (#u40b4959c-5a2f-5a0d-9b63-548f3dc67f99)
About the Author (#ua102d8d1-0c0f-551e-a3cc-047ff7109313)
By the Same Author (#u57dbdeac-13b9-500b-9ded-40c252babf21)
About the Publisher (#uc3aef44a-3a86-5372-b8d5-c32fe12d9aed)
Chapter One (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
Exactly 8 p.m. on a Saturday night and here I am. Sitting all alone at a table for two in Fade Street Social, only one of the swishiest restaurants in town, primped and preened to within an inch of my life.
Peppering with nervous tension of course, but we’ll come back to that.
It’s a perfect table too – if I’d planned it, I couldn’t have chosen any better. I’m right in the middle of the restaurant at a gorgeous table facing the door, so that every time it opens, I get a clear view of exactly who’s just arrived. And more importantly, so that when my date gets here, he can’t miss me.
Can he? I think, a tad anxiously.
No, course he can’t.
Now there’s the slightish concern that he hasn’t the first clue what I look like in the flesh, or I him. But then we did exchange photos via the Two’s Company website, and although mine is a slight bit of a cheat – taken ten years ago at twilight and with the light behind me so as to minimize the wrinkles, and come on, who of us hasn’t done it? Point is though, if his photo is even halfway accurate, then I’m seriously onto a winner here.
Every time the door opens, my neck automatically pings upwards as I look hopefully over, but so far, there’s no sign of him or anyone who remotely resembles him. At least, not yet. But then it’s barely turned eight, I remind myself, and I was here early. We won’t split hairs over a few minutes’ minor delay.
Deep, calm, soothing breaths. The waiting will all be over soon.
Just about every stitch I’m standing up in tonight is borrowed; I’m shoehorned into my flatmate Joy’s ‘serial result’ LBD – a lacy Pippa Middleton-esque clingy number in Joy’s customary black, sexy in that it’s shortish, yet still demure enough around the neckline to look like I’m not trying too hard.
Although ‘not trying too hard’ is a bit of a laugh considering a) I’ve spent the whole morning splashing out on a very spendy blow-dry, then b) I subsequently figured, sure, I’m going to all this bother anyway, why not go the whole hog and fork out for a new pair of high heels? (Which I’m wearing now; a pair of black wedges, an absolute steal from River Island.) Casual enough that this is just a regular, normal Saturday night out for me, and yet also giving me that crucial bit of height, because I’ve a vague memory of my date mentioning he was a six-footer, and the last thing I want is to end up looking like a little Munchkin beside him.
Thing is, I did sort of tweak the truth about my height and size a bit on the dating site. But then what’s a few inches when your online relationship has blossomed like ours has? And I don’t use the word blossomed lightly either.
By nature I’m cautious, wary and a bit mistrustful of people until I really get to know them properly. Yet ever since this whole online flirtation started up, he’s the one who’s been making all the running. And believe me, when you’ve been on your own for as long as I have, all of that full-on attentiveness can be powerfully seductive. Even tonight was at his insistence, not mine. He was the one who suggested it in the first place; he made the reservation and told me all I had to do was turn up.
So here I am. Waiting.
And waiting.
‘Something to drink from the bar, Ma’am?’ asks the waiter, a slightly over-solicitous guy who looks barely old enough to drink alcohol himself, never mind serve it.
I’m about to say no, figuring I don’t want to give off a boozy whiff when my date gets here, but then I decide feck it anyway. This is all just way too nerve-wracking to handle without a little glass of wine on hand. Isn’t it? Yeah, course it is. Nice glass of vino would just take the edge off. And get me into a lighter, brighter humour for that magical moment when he strolls through the door and we lock eyes for the very first time.
Which will, of course, be at any second now.
‘Ermm, a glass of house white would be lovely, thanks,’ I smile nervously at the waiter, who nods back at me.
‘Certainly, Madam. I’ll be right back. And you’ll be a party of two tonight?’ he adds, throwing a pointed glance towards the empty chair opposite me.
‘Yes. My friend will be here shortly,’ I smile, trying to sound a lot more confident than I actually feel.
Another peek down at my phone. No text message, which isn’t out of the ordinary; after all, this guy just isn’t much of a texter. If he wants to get in touch, he calls, simple as that. I also notice that it’s now ten past eight. But then that’s still OK, I reason. After all, he’s not from Dublin. He’s staying out at the Radisson hotel by the airport, a good forty minutes by taxi from here. So maybe he miscalculated the time it would take for him to get here? Or else he’s having difficulty finding the place?
Rubbish, says the sane inner voice inside me. He’s a grown adult. If he has the wherewithal to arrange all of this, then he can chart his way here from the shagging airport hotel. And remember the only reason he went to the bother of booking that hotel tonight was so he and I could meet up in the first place. So I should just be patient and stop all this useless stressing and fretting. End of.
My wine arrives.
‘Would you care to look at the menu, while you’re waiting, Ma’am?’ baby-faced waiter asks politely. I could be imagining it, but did he just linger a wee bit too long on the ‘while you’re waiting’? Like he’s already made up his mind that I’ve been stood up?
Oh God, I think, instantly dismissing the thought. My nerves have just shot into overdrive and are making me hyper-antsy now, that’s all. Sure enough, 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 time 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: 8.25 p.m. 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 I’m so 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 have got 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.
Username: 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 8.45 p.m. 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 jet-lagged, 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, jet-lagged 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 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?’
I fill her in, making sure to cover my mouth and hiss into the phone so no one at the tables either side of me 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 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 (#ulink_0a3b97d6-4d98-5647-9fc1-0b903de2eff5)
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 (#ulink_218cf7b3-f7b1-56e6-858c-799c6179202c)
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.
For now, at least.
You want to exchange photos and emails? Or maybe even real names? Seems kinda funny to keep referring to you as ‘Lady Reporter’.
Message me back real soon. Xxx
Photos and emails? Already? I blinked a bit in disbelief, on account of how normally it can take days or even longer to get to this stage online. OK, so this was clearly a ‘jump in two feet first’ kind of guy. So this time I left it a good hour before messaging him back, thinking safety first. Because you just never know online, do you?
Username: lady_reporter
Me again.
So … you’re divorced? Separated? With shared custody of Logan?
With apologies if I come across as being a bit nosey. It’s just you really can’t be too careful these days, can you?
PS And just so you know, the entire screen of my iPad is now covered in flour, baking soda and apricot jam. And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.
PPS Logan sounds so adorable.
I hit the send key and waited. Six minutes this time, that’s exactly how long it took for him to get back to me.
A Very Good Sign.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Please excuse me. Guess being single for so long kind of makes me forget my manners. Fact is, I’m a widower. My beautiful wife Amy passed away when Logan was just eighteen months old. Most painful thing of all is that even though I try my best to keep her memory alive for him, truth is he barely remembers her. But right now, he keeps on badgering me for a new Mom and ‘younger brothers and sisters, that he can boss around’.
Gotta tell you, the whole dating landscape has changed a lot since before I got married. This is my very first foray into the whole online dating thing so please bear with me if I come on a bit too strong. Just not used to the whole scene, that’s all. Be patient with me, Lady Reporter.
By the way, you still haven’t told me what you do for a living? You said you love your job, but you never told me what exactly that is? Though I’m guessing the clue is probably in your username.
OK. So it was at this point I started to sit up and really pay attention. He was a widower, which proved he wasn’t commitment-phobic or afraid of marriage, plus he had a kid, which clearly said ‘family man’. Exactly the type statistically proven that goes on to remarry and live happily ever after. We once did a story on it at the radio station where I work and now I was thinking … could it be possible? On a lonely, ordinary, nothing-special Friday night, had I accidentally stumbled on the holy grail of online dating?
This time, I was back to him after just half an hour spent watching House of Cards.
Username: lady_reporter
Oops! Sorry, serves me right for emailing and getting distracted by my salted caramel sauce at the same time.
To answer your question, I’m an investigative journalist on a current affairs show here in Dublin. It’s a very full schedule and it’s demanding, but even on the bad days, when it’s 5 a.m. and I’m shivering in sub-zero temperatures outside Mountjoy Prison, covering some convicted drug baron’s release, I still wouldn’t swap it for anything.
Got to dash, need my two hands to use the Magimix.
I winced a bit at the sheer barefacedness of the lie, because basically all the above is just a teeny bit of an exaggeration. An investigative reporter on a current affairs show? I only bleeding wish. In actual fact I’m a lowly researcher and while my dream is one day to work on TV news, the sad reality is that the only gig I can get these days is on an afternoon phone-in show; one of those caller-dependent programmes where listeners ring in to give out about their social welfare being cut or else the price of the bin charges. And my job is to trawl through the papers and the Internet in the hope that some good, juicy, contentious news item will jump out at me, which our presenter then invites callers to ring in on and pitch their two cents’ worth about.
But then I glanced back at my last post and thought shag it anyway. Besides, it wasn’t an out and out porker, just a tweaking and a slight embellishment of the truth, that was all. Huge difference. And everyone cheats the small stuff a wee bit online, don’t they? It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if a guy says he’s ‘chubby’, it means ‘morbidly obese’. Similarly, ‘fond of fun times’ means ‘swinger.’ Oh, and ‘enjoys a few drinks’ means ‘would gladly suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’.
Online it’s acceptable, I told myself. Everyone does it, and the way I look on it, this is just how you level out the playing field. And I’m sure this guy is no different. So maybe he’s a little older than I’m assuming, or maybe he’s not six feet tall, like he claims. But when it comes down to it, these are all relatively minor concerns, aren’t they?
Yet again, he was back to me almost instantly.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Wow. Sure didn’t realize I was messaging a bona fide celebrity! What a fascinating job; sure as hell is more interesting than mine, I can tell you.
PS I’m guessing you got a real pretty first name.
And I’d sure love to know what it is.
Username: lady_reporter
Holly. It’s Holly.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
A real pleasure to meet you, Holly from Ireland, even if it is only virtually. I’m Andy McCoy, at your service.
Really gotta go; Logan’s throwing a football into my face right now. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I’m a commercial pilot for the good people over at Delta Airlines. I fly the transatlantic route mostly and travel over and back to Ireland regularly. Shannon mostly, but Dublin too. Friendliest people in the world, and boy, are the girls pretty.
Over and out, Ma’am, for the moment at least.
At your service,
(Captain) Andy McCoy.
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Claudia Carroll
What if THE ONE isn’t who you think he is?You don’t mess with aspiring journalist Holly Johnson! The man she fell for is not all that he seems – because sometimes dating online doesn’t quite go to plan. She’s decided to fly to the Big Apple to surprise him and to get some answers. And if her plan works she’ll also get the scoop of her career …But as she steps out of her yellow taxi and the first snowflakes start to fall, it’s Holly who has the surprise of her life.What should be a dream come true is looking a little like a nightmare. But Holly is determined to get her New York happy ending!
Copyright (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
Published by Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk (http://www.harpercollins.co.uk)
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Claudia Carroll 2015
Claudia Carroll asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
HarperCollinsPublishers has made every reasonable effort to ensure that any picture content and written content in this ebook has been included or removed in accordance with the contractual and technological constraints in operation at the time of publication
Source ISBN: 9780007520909
Ebook Edition © November 2015 ISBN: 9780008151201
Version: 2018–07-24
Praise for the novels of Claudia Carroll (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
‘An original, funny and poignant story … A very modern fairytale, full of Claudia’s trademark wit and humour’
Sheila O’Flanagan
‘Full of warmth, humour and emotion, this is a wonderfully written, unconventional love story that charms from the very first page. I adored it and didn’t want it to end. Read it – I guarantee you’ll love it’
Melissa Hill
‘It bubbles and sparkles like pink champagne. A hugely entertaining read’
Patricia Scanlan
‘An emotional roller-coaster ride … keeps the reader wondering until the very end’
Irish Independent
Readers adore the novels of Claudia Carroll – here is a glimpse of just how much! (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
‘I was holding my breath … the story really touched my heart’
‘Fun, breezy, and kept me guessing and oohing and aaahhhing until the end!’
‘Truly captivating’
‘Will lift your spirits’
‘If you love page-turning women’s fiction with depth then this book is for you!’
‘I so enjoyed this unusual story of friendships and love’
‘Very fresh and brilliantly plotted’
‘A total page-turner with companionship, fear, laughter, and a whole bunch of other emotions that will take you on a journey like no other’
‘Officially one of my favourite books of the year!’
‘Some sobs, but lots of laughter and joy’
Dedication (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
This book is warmly dedicated to Susan McHugh, Sean Murphy, Luke and of course my gorgeous godson, Oscar.
With love and thanks, always.
Table of Contents
Cover (#u23b12e37-fd68-5e3d-b54b-d138ebac7ed6)
Title Page (#u3cf4221f-f4d5-5737-8ef5-600772904e02)
Copyright (#ub8c5990f-2b1f-50e9-84e6-ebda732c4eeb)
Praise for the novels of Claudia Carroll (#u692fec85-1725-5fb0-9dff-ee5ac728d7c2)
Dedication (#u7144dffa-2719-5759-b9d2-f886049adbd1)
Chapter One (#u626f9a31-8075-56c8-8222-e214cbdcfc6a)
Chapter Two (#u8afd5251-7ef6-513f-af74-c6364e001f76)
Chapter Three (#u8427a02c-c0c5-5ca7-8e10-f9918bfa848a)
Chapter Four (#u37a68609-df85-5fb2-b621-7f96c4c7e01b)
Chapter Five (#u79808507-3ca4-5e59-8326-f195215a3cb6)
Chapter Six (#uec09841c-cea1-589f-ab7f-1d6e4a1083b2)
Chapter Seven (#udb090e6e-e84d-5e57-b34f-e31e103fb32a)
Chapter Eight (#u2009d31c-42be-5b87-b3c9-9b104d7c8ce0)
Chapter Nine (#ufbcb80a0-0df1-5656-9e91-e348a91227ff)
Chapter Ten (#u9d03b21f-a8f4-506e-bf50-a86320b60293)
Chapter Eleven (#u56d996ce-10c0-5c48-8f9b-e1503a95ab45)
Chapter Twelve (#ud5b7ac1a-e239-57d5-a236-0370b122c5b2)
Chapter Thirteen (#u07ae0925-9d38-5e1e-bd6b-eb2e5dd693a6)
Chapter Fourteen (#uc542f29f-802a-596c-9ecd-bc6d14f10789)
Chapter Fifteen (#ue13b9509-0594-5428-b608-fb8dd5686e28)
Chapter Sixteen (#u9a99a19b-ddbb-515f-b985-35875d7b0375)
Chapter Seventeen (#uf7b20ebc-7786-5729-8010-2b92888cf875)
Chapter Eighteen (#u5068535d-c8e4-5b6d-85c1-d6e5690f04c0)
Chapter Nineteen (#u42522df0-418d-54bd-9ccf-685ebc631f45)
Chapter Twenty (#ud923b04d-ec4e-5025-9865-57c2711d78f2)
Chapter Twenty-One (#ufabfc15c-e1d5-550c-9239-7119f4363bac)
Chapter Twenty-Two (#ucaf9b986-d633-5dcf-a9d3-ae6cc368b747)
Chapter Twenty-Three (#uf6f1c1a8-4b19-5180-81bc-837623dee0ef)
Chapter Twenty-Four (#u522eea74-9e4b-58b6-9a05-4bf676badeca)
Chapter Twenty-Five (#uab5b848a-3cba-5b02-bbd7-94303e033925)
Chapter Twenty-Six (#u3225a51d-fbf2-548f-9ab4-4b953baf9abe)
Chapter Twenty-Seven (#u937d04d9-b5f1-50a9-bffd-8105ae4254af)
Chapter Twenty-Eight (#uee367525-03ba-50e1-bc0b-2c5b5507b474)
Chapter Twenty-Nine (#u471f98b9-991d-5194-8da3-eea08ee97939)
Chapter Thirty (#uc3c5df6c-f3ab-5743-b9b2-cf401b4800bd)
Chapter Thirty-One (#u17b76eea-5fde-5d80-9ca9-5e4cac59ce60)
Chapter Thirty-Two (#ue6f519ae-3667-5ffd-9774-9a3a5cada21f)
Chapter Thirty-Three (#u0d438f74-895f-5cb1-a944-2a90d3f35383)
Chapter Thirty-Four (#u9dda45b1-a337-507c-b370-c4c55e41f651)
Chapter Thirty-Five (#u8526f778-cd57-5db4-93e3-2b1d204ff365)
Chapter Thirty-Six (#uf7fbee6c-04a0-509e-8858-119c3699016f)
Chapter Thirty-Seven (#ue1b41697-6b34-5256-90f5-7321da1a80a7)
Chapter Thirty-Eight (#u50a42424-4e56-5738-80df-df520176fa00)
Epilogue (#ub0cbced6-44b8-5894-85cf-131479602573)
Acknowledgements (#u40b4959c-5a2f-5a0d-9b63-548f3dc67f99)
About the Author (#ua102d8d1-0c0f-551e-a3cc-047ff7109313)
By the Same Author (#u57dbdeac-13b9-500b-9ded-40c252babf21)
About the Publisher (#uc3aef44a-3a86-5372-b8d5-c32fe12d9aed)
Chapter One (#u0efcab2e-9356-5e9c-b6ee-4ef8ff934147)
Exactly 8 p.m. on a Saturday night and here I am. Sitting all alone at a table for two in Fade Street Social, only one of the swishiest restaurants in town, primped and preened to within an inch of my life.
Peppering with nervous tension of course, but we’ll come back to that.
It’s a perfect table too – if I’d planned it, I couldn’t have chosen any better. I’m right in the middle of the restaurant at a gorgeous table facing the door, so that every time it opens, I get a clear view of exactly who’s just arrived. And more importantly, so that when my date gets here, he can’t miss me.
Can he? I think, a tad anxiously.
No, course he can’t.
Now there’s the slightish concern that he hasn’t the first clue what I look like in the flesh, or I him. But then we did exchange photos via the Two’s Company website, and although mine is a slight bit of a cheat – taken ten years ago at twilight and with the light behind me so as to minimize the wrinkles, and come on, who of us hasn’t done it? Point is though, if his photo is even halfway accurate, then I’m seriously onto a winner here.
Every time the door opens, my neck automatically pings upwards as I look hopefully over, but so far, there’s no sign of him or anyone who remotely resembles him. At least, not yet. But then it’s barely turned eight, I remind myself, and I was here early. We won’t split hairs over a few minutes’ minor delay.
Deep, calm, soothing breaths. The waiting will all be over soon.
Just about every stitch I’m standing up in tonight is borrowed; I’m shoehorned into my flatmate Joy’s ‘serial result’ LBD – a lacy Pippa Middleton-esque clingy number in Joy’s customary black, sexy in that it’s shortish, yet still demure enough around the neckline to look like I’m not trying too hard.
Although ‘not trying too hard’ is a bit of a laugh considering a) I’ve spent the whole morning splashing out on a very spendy blow-dry, then b) I subsequently figured, sure, I’m going to all this bother anyway, why not go the whole hog and fork out for a new pair of high heels? (Which I’m wearing now; a pair of black wedges, an absolute steal from River Island.) Casual enough that this is just a regular, normal Saturday night out for me, and yet also giving me that crucial bit of height, because I’ve a vague memory of my date mentioning he was a six-footer, and the last thing I want is to end up looking like a little Munchkin beside him.
Thing is, I did sort of tweak the truth about my height and size a bit on the dating site. But then what’s a few inches when your online relationship has blossomed like ours has? And I don’t use the word blossomed lightly either.
By nature I’m cautious, wary and a bit mistrustful of people until I really get to know them properly. Yet ever since this whole online flirtation started up, he’s the one who’s been making all the running. And believe me, when you’ve been on your own for as long as I have, all of that full-on attentiveness can be powerfully seductive. Even tonight was at his insistence, not mine. He was the one who suggested it in the first place; he made the reservation and told me all I had to do was turn up.
So here I am. Waiting.
And waiting.
‘Something to drink from the bar, Ma’am?’ asks the waiter, a slightly over-solicitous guy who looks barely old enough to drink alcohol himself, never mind serve it.
I’m about to say no, figuring I don’t want to give off a boozy whiff when my date gets here, but then I decide feck it anyway. This is all just way too nerve-wracking to handle without a little glass of wine on hand. Isn’t it? Yeah, course it is. Nice glass of vino would just take the edge off. And get me into a lighter, brighter humour for that magical moment when he strolls through the door and we lock eyes for the very first time.
Which will, of course, be at any second now.
‘Ermm, a glass of house white would be lovely, thanks,’ I smile nervously at the waiter, who nods back at me.
‘Certainly, Madam. I’ll be right back. And you’ll be a party of two tonight?’ he adds, throwing a pointed glance towards the empty chair opposite me.
‘Yes. My friend will be here shortly,’ I smile, trying to sound a lot more confident than I actually feel.
Another peek down at my phone. No text message, which isn’t out of the ordinary; after all, this guy just isn’t much of a texter. If he wants to get in touch, he calls, simple as that. I also notice that it’s now ten past eight. But then that’s still OK, I reason. After all, he’s not from Dublin. He’s staying out at the Radisson hotel by the airport, a good forty minutes by taxi from here. So maybe he miscalculated the time it would take for him to get here? Or else he’s having difficulty finding the place?
Rubbish, says the sane inner voice inside me. He’s a grown adult. If he has the wherewithal to arrange all of this, then he can chart his way here from the shagging airport hotel. And remember the only reason he went to the bother of booking that hotel tonight was so he and I could meet up in the first place. So I should just be patient and stop all this useless stressing and fretting. End of.
My wine arrives.
‘Would you care to look at the menu, while you’re waiting, Ma’am?’ baby-faced waiter asks politely. I could be imagining it, but did he just linger a wee bit too long on the ‘while you’re waiting’? Like he’s already made up his mind that I’ve been stood up?
Oh God, I think, instantly dismissing the thought. My nerves have just shot into overdrive and are making me hyper-antsy now, that’s all. Sure enough, 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 time 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: 8.25 p.m. 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 I’m so 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 have got 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.
Username: 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 8.45 p.m. 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 jet-lagged, 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, jet-lagged 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 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?’
I fill her in, making sure to cover my mouth and hiss into the phone so no one at the tables either side of me 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 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 (#ulink_0a3b97d6-4d98-5647-9fc1-0b903de2eff5)
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 (#ulink_218cf7b3-f7b1-56e6-858c-799c6179202c)
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.
For now, at least.
You want to exchange photos and emails? Or maybe even real names? Seems kinda funny to keep referring to you as ‘Lady Reporter’.
Message me back real soon. Xxx
Photos and emails? Already? I blinked a bit in disbelief, on account of how normally it can take days or even longer to get to this stage online. OK, so this was clearly a ‘jump in two feet first’ kind of guy. So this time I left it a good hour before messaging him back, thinking safety first. Because you just never know online, do you?
Username: lady_reporter
Me again.
So … you’re divorced? Separated? With shared custody of Logan?
With apologies if I come across as being a bit nosey. It’s just you really can’t be too careful these days, can you?
PS And just so you know, the entire screen of my iPad is now covered in flour, baking soda and apricot jam. And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT.
PPS Logan sounds so adorable.
I hit the send key and waited. Six minutes this time, that’s exactly how long it took for him to get back to me.
A Very Good Sign.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Please excuse me. Guess being single for so long kind of makes me forget my manners. Fact is, I’m a widower. My beautiful wife Amy passed away when Logan was just eighteen months old. Most painful thing of all is that even though I try my best to keep her memory alive for him, truth is he barely remembers her. But right now, he keeps on badgering me for a new Mom and ‘younger brothers and sisters, that he can boss around’.
Gotta tell you, the whole dating landscape has changed a lot since before I got married. This is my very first foray into the whole online dating thing so please bear with me if I come on a bit too strong. Just not used to the whole scene, that’s all. Be patient with me, Lady Reporter.
By the way, you still haven’t told me what you do for a living? You said you love your job, but you never told me what exactly that is? Though I’m guessing the clue is probably in your username.
OK. So it was at this point I started to sit up and really pay attention. He was a widower, which proved he wasn’t commitment-phobic or afraid of marriage, plus he had a kid, which clearly said ‘family man’. Exactly the type statistically proven that goes on to remarry and live happily ever after. We once did a story on it at the radio station where I work and now I was thinking … could it be possible? On a lonely, ordinary, nothing-special Friday night, had I accidentally stumbled on the holy grail of online dating?
This time, I was back to him after just half an hour spent watching House of Cards.
Username: lady_reporter
Oops! Sorry, serves me right for emailing and getting distracted by my salted caramel sauce at the same time.
To answer your question, I’m an investigative journalist on a current affairs show here in Dublin. It’s a very full schedule and it’s demanding, but even on the bad days, when it’s 5 a.m. and I’m shivering in sub-zero temperatures outside Mountjoy Prison, covering some convicted drug baron’s release, I still wouldn’t swap it for anything.
Got to dash, need my two hands to use the Magimix.
I winced a bit at the sheer barefacedness of the lie, because basically all the above is just a teeny bit of an exaggeration. An investigative reporter on a current affairs show? I only bleeding wish. In actual fact I’m a lowly researcher and while my dream is one day to work on TV news, the sad reality is that the only gig I can get these days is on an afternoon phone-in show; one of those caller-dependent programmes where listeners ring in to give out about their social welfare being cut or else the price of the bin charges. And my job is to trawl through the papers and the Internet in the hope that some good, juicy, contentious news item will jump out at me, which our presenter then invites callers to ring in on and pitch their two cents’ worth about.
But then I glanced back at my last post and thought shag it anyway. Besides, it wasn’t an out and out porker, just a tweaking and a slight embellishment of the truth, that was all. Huge difference. And everyone cheats the small stuff a wee bit online, don’t they? It’s a truth universally acknowledged that if a guy says he’s ‘chubby’, it means ‘morbidly obese’. Similarly, ‘fond of fun times’ means ‘swinger.’ Oh, and ‘enjoys a few drinks’ means ‘would gladly suck the alcohol out of a deodorant bottle’.
Online it’s acceptable, I told myself. Everyone does it, and the way I look on it, this is just how you level out the playing field. And I’m sure this guy is no different. So maybe he’s a little older than I’m assuming, or maybe he’s not six feet tall, like he claims. But when it comes down to it, these are all relatively minor concerns, aren’t they?
Yet again, he was back to me almost instantly.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
Wow. Sure didn’t realize I was messaging a bona fide celebrity! What a fascinating job; sure as hell is more interesting than mine, I can tell you.
PS I’m guessing you got a real pretty first name.
And I’d sure love to know what it is.
Username: lady_reporter
Holly. It’s Holly.
From: Guy_in_the_Sky
A real pleasure to meet you, Holly from Ireland, even if it is only virtually. I’m Andy McCoy, at your service.
Really gotta go; Logan’s throwing a football into my face right now. Oh, and I forgot to mention, I’m a commercial pilot for the good people over at Delta Airlines. I fly the transatlantic route mostly and travel over and back to Ireland regularly. Shannon mostly, but Dublin too. Friendliest people in the world, and boy, are the girls pretty.
Over and out, Ma’am, for the moment at least.
At your service,
(Captain) Andy McCoy.
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Claudia Carroll
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 16.04.2024
Отзывы: Пока нет Добавить отзыв
О книге: What if THE ONE isn’t who you think he is?You don’t mess with aspiring journalist Holly Johnson! The man she fell for is not all that he seems – because sometimes dating online doesn’t quite go to plan. She’s decided to fly to the Big Apple to surprise him and to get some answers. And if her plan works she’ll also get the scoop of her career …But as she steps out of her yellow taxi and the first snowflakes start to fall, it’s Holly who has the surprise of her life.What should be a dream come true is looking a little like a nightmare. But Holly is determined to get her New York happy ending!