The One That Got Away. Annabel Kantaria

me, her eyes searching mine.

      ‘Did you say love?’ she whispers.

      I kiss my finger and touch it to her lips. ‘Yes, princess,’ I whisper back. ‘I said love.’

      God, I’m good.

FIFTEEN

       Stella

      As far as my colleagues are concerned, there’s nothing unusual about me being the last one left in the office. At 6.15 p.m., my assistant pops her head around the door.

      ‘Don’t stay too late, birthday girl!’ she says. She hesitates a fraction in the doorway and, although I can see she wants to, she knows better than to ask if I have plans. I wonder if she’s thinking she should invite me out for a drink herself: again, she knows better. The remnants of the birthday cake the team made for me sit on the meeting table.

      I smile and shake my head. ‘I won’t. Just finishing up here.’

      ‘Good. ’Night then!’ she says.

      ‘’Night.’

      I wait for her to leave the building before snapping into action. All day I’ve had an overnight bag stashed under my desk. I take out my make-up bag and, in the bathroom, I go over my face, carefully touching up my foundation, darkening my eyeshadow and, finally, painting my lips siren red. I lock my office door on the way back in, and close all the blinds. My dress – bought specially for the occasion – hangs in a dust cover on the back of the door. Feeling not unlike a schoolgirl changing into her miniskirt in the school loos, I slip out of my suit and pants and into the dress, smoothing it over my bare hips as I step into the shoes I bought to match. Finally, I apply my signature scent to the pulse points on my wrists and throat, then I spray it liberally into the air above my head and let the cloud of fragrance envelop me, scenting my hair and clothes. George has, I know, an exceptional olfactory memory.

      Finally, I take a look at my reflection in the glass of the office door and give myself a little nod: I’ll do. It’s the first time I’ve made such an effort specifically for George. But then I’m impressed with the way he’s managed my birthday. First, he remembered. Had he forgotten, I wouldn’t have said a thing – I’m not one to make a fuss of these things – but he remembered. And he’s made all the arrangements for tonight himself.

      ‘Wear something nice, Stell,’ he said, ‘I’m taking you somewhere special.’

      That’s all I could extract from him, even in those vulnerable post-coital moments when his brain turns to mush. I wonder how far this is going. Is tonight to be the night we finally get to sleep a full night in each other’s arms? We’ve talked about it – dreamed about it – yet never done it. Will he manage to get away?

      My phone beeps and I see that the car George has arranged to take me to the mystery destination is waiting. I gather up my things and lock the office before slipping into the car.

      ‘Evening,’ I say to the driver. ‘Do you know where we’re going?’

      ‘Yep,’ he says, misunderstanding my meaning, and I realise I don’t want him to know that I don’t know where I’m going myself, so I sit silently, trying to second-guess my destination at every junction. The car finally pulls up outside a smart hotel adjacent to Hyde Park.

      ‘Here we are, miss,’ says the driver. I reach for my purse. ‘Don’t worry. It’s on account,’ he says and I feel a surge of gratitude to George. This is how dating should be. My heels click on the marble as I walk into the lobby and my hair – blow-dried at lunchtime – bounces with every step. I feel like a film star and I’m expecting George to appear stage left or right, beaming and ready to escort me to dinner, but I don’t see him so I wander towards a cluster of tables and perch on a seat, where I people-watch while I 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