Page 55 of Resisting Mr Black

George’s forehead wrinkles at her defensive tone. “No, no. I know. Everyone’s entitled to a break. Some more than others, it seems. Are you feeling better, Sophie?” He regards me with a smile, and I catch the smirk from my friend across the table. I doubt George has put two and two together.

“Yes, I’m feeling much better. Thanks, George,” I smile sweetly.

“Good, good.” He glances absentmindedly around the dead bar and fiddles with the edge of his claret and blue striped tie. “It’s beginning to feel like old times with all this absent management,” he mutters to himself hurrying in the direction of reception.

Lucy rolls her eyes, as we watch him scuttle away. “Old Georgie’s on the war path.” She throws her crumpled napkin down onto the table. “You’ll have to warn Art. Speaking of which, where’s he taking you to dinner tonight?”

At the mention of his name, I glance at my phone again to see I’ve had no messages and the uneasy feeling resumes gnawing away at me. I pick up my mobile and stare at the screen, wrestling with myself. To text him or not to text him.

I put my mobile back down on the table. “I’ve got no idea.”

Lucy rests her chin on her hand and stares off somewhere into the ether daydreaming. “I bet he’s taking you somewhere really classy and expensive.”

If the gift is anything to go by, then most likely. I curl my fingers around my cup. “I hope it’s not anywhere too posh, I’ll just feel out of place.”

“Either way, you’ll have to wear a dress and look absolutely stunning,” she tells me. “And wear your hair down, it’s sexier.”

I roll my eyes at the advice. “Geez, thanks Mum. I don’t need any advice on the clothes front. I know exactly what I’m wearing.”

A short, tight little black dress, which I’ve never dared wear until now. Partly because I’ve never been anywhere nice enough to wear it, and partly because I didn’t feel confident enough to carry it off before as a result of years and years of snarky comments from Theo about my appearance and my clothes making me look fat. Art makes me feel beautiful inside and out. An untouchable goddess on a pedestal.

I’m lost in my own little world and don’t even realise I’m smiling until I glance up to find Lucy watching me from across the table. She narrows her eyes slightly. “You’re falling for him, aren’t you?

“Yes,” I finally admit it to myself. Hook, line, and sinker. “Yes, I am.”

Sixteen

Itweak my hair so that it falls in soft curls over my shoulders and smooth my hands down the satin material of my black dress. I’ve kept my eye make-up minimal and applied a red lip because I know it suits my dark features.

My high black stiletto heels click across the shiny white hall floor as I cross into the kitchen and glance at my phone, which sits on top of the black kitchen counter. Still no new messages from Art and I’ve refrained from texting him.He’s obviously been busy,I tell myself. I take a deep breath and I peer at my watch. It’s six forty-five. He’s still got fifteen minutes.

He’ll be here.

By quarter past seven I’ve poured a glass of rosé to help ease my nerves and perched myself on one of the black kitchen stools, glaring at my phone and willing it to spring into life. Fifteen minutes later, I’m on my second glass of wine and my nerves areshredded. I can’t take it anymore. Where the fuck is he? That’s what I want to ask. Instead, I text the far less angry:

Where are you?

By seven forty-five, I’m halfway down the bottle of wine and I’ve already gone over the various possibilities that could prevent him from replying. Maybe he’s ill or been in an accident or lost track of time but each thought lands flat and doesn’t push the very real fear I have that maybe he’s ignoring me.

I send him another text.

Is everything okay?

By eight o’clock, I’ve taken off my make-up, torn off my dress, and changed into my grey pyjama shorts and white t-shirt, deciding even if he did turn up now, I wouldn’t go out of principle.

I text Lucy:

He’s stood me up!

She replies in an instant.

It must be something serious for him to be a no-show. Maybe he’s not well or had an accident. Have you texted him?

I angrily type my response:

Yes. Twice. And I doubt it.

I carry the nearly empty bottle of rosé and my glass into the bedroom, crawl under the covers, and switch on the TV.

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