Promised (One Night 1)

The cherry and orange Bellini has champagne in it, a clear winner by a mile. I point and glance up at the waiting barman. ‘Thank you, but I’ll have the Bellini.’

‘A man can try.’ He winks and sets about making my drink, while I swivel on my stool and start searching the space below again. A quick scan produces no results, so I begin working my way over each and every table, studying the faces and the backs of heads. It’s silly. I’d spot Miller’s head in a flash mob of a thousand people in Trafalgar Square. He’s not here.

‘Madam?’ The barman pulls my attention back to the bar and hands me a flute, garnished with mint and a maraschino cherry.

‘Thank you.’ I take the glass delicately and take an equally delicate sip under the watchful eye of the barman. ‘Lovely.’ I smile my approval, and he winks again before going to tend to a couple at the other end of the bar.

Turning my back on the bar, I sip the delicious cocktail while considering what on earth I’m going to do. It’s nine-thirty. His meeting was at nine. He’d still be here, surely? And like my phone’s heard my thoughts, it starts ringing from my bag. I panic, quickly setting my drink down and rummaging through my little bag, cringing when I see his name flashing up on my screen. My shoulders meet my ears and every possible muscle in my body tenses as I answer. ‘Hello.’

‘I’m wrapping up shortly. I’ll be with you in an hour.’

I puddle at the bar in relief. I can get my overactive imagination and my overdressed body home within an hour. I’m safe and feeling rather silly. ‘Okay,’ I breathe, taking my drink and having a much-needed slurp. Was I looking at the wrong day in his organiser? In my frantic, rushed state, it’s possible.

‘It’s noisy. Where are you?’

‘Television,’ I blurt. ‘Nan’s going deaf.’

‘Evidently,’ he says drily. ‘Are you ready to de-stress me, my sweet girl?’

I smile. ‘So ready.’

‘I’m glad we’ve cleared that up. Be ready in an hour.’ He hangs up, and I sigh all dreamy and loved up at the bar, quickly necking the rest of my Bellini.

I wave the barman over. ‘Can I settle the bill, please?’

‘Only the one?’ he says, nodding at my empty.

‘I’m meeting someone.’

‘Shame,’ he muses, passing over a tiny black plate with my bill. I hand over a twenty on a smile. ‘Have a lovely evening, madam.’

‘Thank you.’ I drop elegantly to my feet and pivot, making my way to the exit, hoping I can flag a cab quickly.

But I barely make it two paces before I’m skidding to a halt. My stomach twists and my skin turns stone cold, sending every fine hair on my body standing upright. He is here. And he’s with her. She’s just settling back in her seat at the table, her back to me, but I can see Miller’s face just fine, and it’s straight, as usual, yet I can see the boredom plain and clear. Cassie is animated, chucking hand gestures everywhere, throwing her head back on continuous laughs and also throwing champagne down her throat. Her hair’s coiled into a tight bun on her nape and she’s wearing black satin, not your average business meeting attire. There are oysters on the table. And she keeps reaching over and touching him.

‘Decided to stay for another?’ the barman asks, but I don’t answer. I keep my eyes on Miller and back up until my bum meets the stool. Then I lift myself slowly.

‘Yes, please,’ I murmur, placing my bag back on the bar. I’m not sure how I missed him. His table is directly below, in perfect sight. Maybe I was looking too hard. I think carefully, trying to figure out my next move. Good God, I’m beginning to feel the rage burning in my gut.

I accept the Bellini that’s handed to me, then I find my phone, calling him and holding it calmly to my ear. It starts to ring. I watch as he shifts in his seat and holds his finger up to Cassie in a gesture to be excused, but when he glances down at his screen, he shows no emotion or shock at seeing my name. He slips it back in his pocket and shakes his head. It’s a motion to suggest that the caller is of no importance. His actions inflame the hurt, but worst of all, it inflames the anger.

I drop my phone back in my bag and turn to the barman. ‘I’m just going to use the bathroom.’

‘Down the stairs. I’ll watch your drink.’

‘Thank you.’ I take in a long, confidence-boosting lungful of air and start towards the stairs, taking a firm hold of the gold handrail when I reach it while praying to the stair gods that I don’t make a complete fool of myself and stumble to my arse. I’m shaking like a leaf, but I need to remain composed and poised. How the heck did I find myself amidst this hideousness?

Because I put myself here, that’s how.

My steps are precise and accurate, my body swaying seductively. I find it too easy. I’m being watched by numerous men. Coming down these stairs is like the parting of the waves. I’m alone, and I’m purposely drawing attention to myself. I’m not looking anywhere, though, except right at my heart’s nemesis, willing him to glance up and see me. He’s listening to Cassie, nodding and saying the odd word, but he’s taking slow sips of his Scotch more often than anything else. The resentment cripples me – resentment that another woman is getting a close-up of his perfect lips latching onto the glass.

I quickly divert my stare downward when he casts his eyes to the stairs. He’s seen me, I’m certain of it. I can feel glacial blues freezing my skin, but I refuse to stop, and as I reach the toilets, I glance over my shoulder. He’s coming after me. I said I’d make him choke, and I think I have. His face is cut with too many emotions – anger, shock . . . worry.