‘Of course, madam. Please, this way.’ She gestures towards the bar and leads on, taking me around a corner where I have to refrain from letting out an audible gasp.
A marble staircase comes into view, with polished gold handrails and black Qs linking together to form a balustrade on either side, leading down to the huge restaurant, all light and airy, with a stunning glass vaulted ceiling running down the centre. It’s bustling, busy for a Monday night, with groups of people making happy chatter at every table. I’m relieved when I see the cocktail bar is on this level, the glass panels making it easy for me to see below into the restaurant. My eyes are darting around, scanning every corner, but I can’t see him. Have I made a colossal error?
‘May I recommend the cherry and orange Bellini?’ the maître d’ says, indicating a stool at the bar.
I decline her offer of a stool near the back of the bar and take one closer to the end so I can see down below. ‘Thank you. Maybe I’ll try.’ I smile, wondering if I could get away with drinking a glass of water when I’m in such a fancy place wearing a fancy dress.
She nods and leaves me with the barman, who hands me a cocktail menu on a smile. ‘The lavender and lychee martini is so much better.’
‘Thank you.’ I return his smile, feeling more comfortable and at ease now that my body is being supported by the stool.
I cross my legs, keeping my back straight as I peruse the menu, noting the barman’s suggestion has London Dry Gin in the mix, putting it right out of the contest. I smile as I remember my granddad constantly battling with my nan over her gin-drinking habits. He always said that if you wanted a woman to break down on you, feed her gin. Then my smile fades as I recall the last time I drank gin myself.
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.