The One That Got Away. Annabel KantariaЧитать онлайн книгу.
wait. Hellos and goodbyes play out; airport taxis pull up and leave; bellboys whisk luggage from car to reception and back again. Aware then that time is passing, I check my watch: 7.20 p.m. The table’s booked for 7.30 and George told me it was important we were on time. I message him but the message isn’t read. I can see that George hasn’t been online for thirty minutes. Is he on the Underground? It seems unlikely; he’s more of a taxi guy. I check my phone obsessively until 7.25, when I stand up and walk over to reception.
‘Hello. You have a restaurant reservation for Stella Simons tonight… can you tell me which restaurant it’s in?’ I love that the receptionist doesn’t raise an eyebrow about why I might have a reservation and not know where: she simply picks up the phone and finds out, then directs me down to the signature restaurant – the one that’s spearheaded by ‘that’ celebrity chef who’s currently generating much buzz and column inches for his unique style. Since I’d arrived at the hotel, I’d hoped it might be that one that George had booked, but I would never presume. Nice.
At the entrance to the restaurant, they’re expecting me.
‘Miss Simons?’ asks the maître d’, then escorts me to an anteroom, where I’m introduced to two well-dressed couples clutching glasses of champagne. Until this moment, I’ve held out hope that maybe George is waiting for me at the restaurant, perhaps with some sort of surprise lined up. The surprise, unfortunately, is that he’s not here. A waiter hands me a flute of champagne.
‘One more guest?’ the maître d’ asks the waiter quietly. He looks at his watch. ‘We wait a few more minutes, but…’
I smile vaguely at the other couples and give a little shrug. It’s not me who’s late.
The maître d’ moves to the front of the room.
‘Welcome to the Chef’s Table experience,’ he says reverentially. ‘Tonight we have for you a very special experience. A unique experience. You will start the evening with a tour of the kitchens, during which you can see and experience for yourselves the high-octane atmosphere of a Michelin-starred kitchen. Then we will take you to the chef’s table where you will be joined by our executive chef, who has prepared a special eight-course tasting menu for your enjoyment. We have, too, a dedicated sommelier for you tonight who has paired each dish with a wine from our cellars.’ The two couples make excited faces at each other and I check my phone one more time: George is still offline. The maître d’ rubs his hands together, then turns to me. ‘Madam… the other guest… your companion… will be here soon?’
I shrug. ‘I’m sorry. I hope so…’ I hold up my phone as if they all can see George is offline. ‘He’s not responding. But he’s never late, so…’
The maître d’ nods. ‘We will wait five minutes.’
The other couples turn to each other and start to make small talk. I put my phone to my ear and move away from the group with a smile, disinterested in where they work and how much they’re looking forward to this evening. While they chat, I pace. Honestly: it’s excruciating. I’m relieved when the maître d’ steps forward with a pained look on his face. He gives a little bow.
‘I hope you don’t mind if we begin. The kitchen is expecting us now and it’s important that we…’
‘It’s fine,’ I say. ‘Please. Let’s start. I’m sure my companion will be here any second.’
As we walk around the kitchen, looking into pots and listening to the executive chef detail a little about the history and conception of each dish, my mind’s not on cooking but on George; I’m half expecting his hand on my hip at any moment as he steps up behind me and joins the tour. A shiver runs through me as I picture him realising that I’m not wearing any underwear.
‘This is a recipe I initially learned from my grandmother,’ a chef is telling us as he hands around tiny saucers of rabbit. I throw the morsel in my mouth in one go, registering subconsciously how the meat’s so tender it practically dissolves on my tongue. I’m not a fan of game, but the taste is exquisite. Why isn’t George here? Has something happened to him? He wouldn’t miss an experience like this through choice. He must either be caught up in traffic or some sort of security alert, sick, or have had an accident. I balance my phone in my hand beneath the saucer, waiting to feel the buzz of a message come in, yet I’m surprised when it finally does. Even though the chef is speaking, I ditch the saucer on a countertop and pull up the message. Princess. I’m so sorry. I’m not going to make it. Will make it up to you. Promise. X
The group moves ahead as I type my reply.
What happened? Are you OK?
I’m fine. It’s Ness. She’s sick. I have to go. Will try to message later.
Ness.
My heart’s suddenly hammering and I see red. I know it’s a cliché but I really do. The room seems to recede as my vision clouds. I shove my phone back into my bag without gracing George’s text with a reply, and I go over to the group, a bright smile on my face. I should have been an actress.
‘I’m so sorry,’ I say loudly so everyone can hear me over the bustle and noise of the kitchen. ‘I’m going to have to leave. My partner isn’t able to make it after all. Have a lovely evening!’
‘Oh no!’ says one of the women. She turns away from the group and I can see she looks genuinely concerned. But the pity in her eyes hurts me more than George’s no-show. ‘Why don’t you stay?’ she says. ‘You’re here now and we won’t bite!’
‘Well, only the food!’ says the other woman. They giggle.
‘Thanks, but it’s fine. I’ll reschedule.’
‘Aww, come on!’ The first woman tries to grab my arm and pull me over but I shrug her off.
‘It’s fine. Really. All the more for you. Have a lovely evening.’
I spin on my heel and leave the kitchen. I stop briefly in the anteroom, where the waiter’s tidying up the champagne glasses.
‘Did my companion guarantee the booking with a credit card?’
‘Yes… yes, it’s policy.’
‘He can’t make it, so please charge whatever cancellation fee you need to his card, thank you.’
‘I’m afraid at such late notice, you will be charged the full price.’ The waiter shakes his head apologetically.
‘That’s fine,’ I say. ‘And, while you’re at it, please send the group a bottle of champagne. That one we had earlier? Just add it to the bill, thanks.’
I walk back through the hotel lobby and signal for a black cab, barely registering the activity going on around me. My mind’s racing: I’m remembering Ness’s phone call to me after the reunion; the warning tone in her voice: ‘Will you stay in touch, do you think?’
While the taxi weaves its way through Friday-night London traffic, I open Facebook on my mobile, and there, in among the notifications, I find Ness’s message: ‘Happy birthday, Stella! Hope you’re having a lovely evening! Xx’
Sick? She’s not sick: she’s clever. George! I think. How can you be so gullible? And then, as the taxi draws up outside my apartment block, I remember a simple fact that sends me to the wine bottle before I even take my shoes off: he’s not mine. Ness has every right to pull rank on my birthday because George is not mine.
When I put the key in the lock, I don’t know whether I’m worried about Ness or angry with her for making me miss Stell’s birthday dinner. I’d told her I had a very important ‘client dinner’.
‘Please can you come?’ she’d said. ‘I’ve