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“Is that definitely all you saw?” he pushes.
I nod vigorously. “There’s nothing else. Only what I told you—the field, the hot air balloon, and that’s it.”
There’s a tense silence. Nick’s gaze never waivers, and I wonder where his thoughts have taken him. I bet he knows I’m lying.
Finally, he glances at his watch. “Right, that’s about it for today. You’ve done very well, Carly. I think we’re making real progress, and I feel privileged to be working with someone of your calibre. Your response to me has been phenomenal. ”
My blush deepens. “Thanks.”
Adjusting my collar, I stand, clasp my hands, and then drop them to my sides nervously. I’m starting to get heart palpitations.
It’s now or never.
“Listen, Nick …” I pause, picking words. “What are you doing tomorrow night?”
“Nothing. Why?”
“I just wondered …” I swallow hard and lick my lips. “Well, you see, it’s like this: my friend was supposed to come to the theatre, but she’s cancelled at the last minute, so I have this spare ticket going. I was wondering … I was wondering if you’d like to come?”
He doesn’t say anything; just stares at me with a half-smile on his lips.
I cast my eyes downward, my pulse booming in my ears. “Of c-course, if it’s against protocol, I understand. I-I know I’m your patient and that you might not want—”
“Carly, I’dloveto.”
I stop mid-sentence, stomach swirling with excitement. “What did you say?”
“I said yes. What time and where?”
“Oh, my gosh! Okay, well, the show starts at seven-thirty. It’s at the Arts Theatre near Leicester Square, and the show’s calledGhost Stories.I don’t know much about it, but the poster looks good.”
“Sounds great,” Nick enthuses. “Would you like us to meet beforehand, maybe go for a coffee or something?”
“That would be wonderful!” I stoop down. My hands are trembling so much I can barely lace up my shoes. “Shall we say six o’clock tomorrow at Leicester Square station, Cambridge Circus exit?”
“Perfect. I’ll be there.”
On shaky legs, I finish putting on my shoes, and then we say our goodbyes and I stagger out of the office before I do something really stupid. When I’m safely outside the building, I punch the air in triumph. “Yes, yes. yes!”
I feel like singing. I feel like dancing. I feel like telling the whole of Harley Street I’ve scored a date with the sexiest guy on the planet.
Life doesn’t get much better than this.
When I get home, first thing I do is search the Internet for tickets to tomorrow night’s performance ofGhost Stories. Thankfully, there’s still some available and I whack them on my credit card. I know I’m supposed to be cutting back on spending, but this is an absolute necessity.
Once I’ve received confirmation from the box office, I take a long, hot bath to get my head together. Tomorrow is going to be a big day for me. My whole future happiness depends on it, and I want everything to be perfect. My clothes, my hair, my demeanour; everything’s got to be just right.
When I’ve finished bathing, I ransack my wardrobe in search of something to wear. I need to be sexy and alluring without appearing to overt or desperate; the last thing I want is to scare him off. Eventually, I narrow my options down to two outfits: a jumpsuit made of green chiffon and a hot-pink dress with black tights. For a whole hour, I play around in front of the mirror, critiquing myself from different angles until finally I settle on the hot-pink number. Yes, it’s kind of short, but the tights balance it out, I think.
I go to bed with a huge smile on my face. I’m buzzing, excited. I haven’t felt this way since I was a child. My nerves are all jangled with that kind of excitement you get before Christmas or a birthday. My mind is swamped by a sea of different scenarios, trying to predict how things will play out tomorrow; what I’ll say, what I’ll do, where this could all lead. It’s like I’ve got my happily ever after all worked out in my head and it’s just a question of making it a reality.
The next day is grey and blustery, dismal weather that makes you want to stay at home and curl up under your duvet. But I fight the urge to stay in my bed. Come rain or shine, it makes no difference; I would brave a tsunami, walk over hot coals, go to the ends of the earth to keep my date with Nick tonight.
The day passes quickly. In the morning, I go to the shops, pick up a few bits and pieces, then I make myself a coffee and a light Caesar salad for lunch. I don’t want to eat anything too heavy so I don’t feel bloated later. Around two, I huddle under my blankets and watchThe Breakfast Clubfor the umpteenth time to soothe me and help keep my nerves in check.
At five o’clock, I slip on my leopard-print overcoat and head for the front door. “Bye, Dad. I’m going into town to meet a friend. I’ll be back in a few hours.”
“Okay, my dear. Have a good time.”
