The waiter gestured towards a bevy of satin gowns. 'We have an open bar tonight. Please help yourself and, as I said, we're expecting our host presently.'
Of course you are, I thought. I immediately weighed and discarded the option of running the diamond gauntlet to the bar. To make matters worse, the jazz quartet took a break - as if my arrival had been a signal. Resigning myself to a dry, painful wait, I looked around the glittering crowd. I recognised a councillor, a sax player, a local record producer, and a respected African-American author. I didn't know any of them to talk to, unfortunately, and no one talked to me - though I suspected some of them were talking about me.
Twenty minutes of standing out like a sore thumb changed my mind about assailing the bar. Forty minutes - and two vodka tonics - later, my capacity for martyrdom was completely exhausted.
Joe wasn't the Joe I'd known if he could play a rotten trick like this, luring me here only to stand me up. He made sure I'd feel as uncomfortable as possible while I waited, too. But I had too much self-respect to tolerate it any longer. Besides, the liquor was making me maudlin. I'd be crying in my tonic before long, and God knew I didn't want to give Joe that satisfaction.
Giving up, I threw my napkin beside my plate, donned my jacket, and went in search of someone to call a cab.
I was trying to find a waiter among the sea of black jackets when I heard a familiar voice. Its rich, brandied tones sent heat prickling across my scalp. "There you are,'it said.
I turned slowly, girding myself. Despite the warning, the sight of my former lover made my stomach do the foxtrot. He was tucking a wafer-thin cell phone inside his dinner jacket. A slim gold watch flashed at his wrist. He seemed taller than I remembered, and broader. He'd put on the kind of flesh you get from working out, and his skin - always fine - had the smooth, buffed look that comes from regular facials.
The sheer force of his beauty intimidated me. I could hardly believe I'd once been intimate with such a creature. Cheryl was right. He was better-looking in person.
He met my gaze calmly, seemingly unmoved by our reunion. Of course, I didn't look as if I'd just stepped off Mount Olympus - or the pages of a fashion magazine.
'Yes, here I am,' I said, praying my face didn't betray the wild palpitation of my heart, 'right where I've been for the last forty minutes.'
His face winced in apology. 'I am sorry, Kate. The limo broke down and had to be towed. It'll take days to fix, according to the garage. I caught a cab here as soon as I could.'
The two vodkas combined with six months of hurt to make me lose all self-control. 'Liar,' I said.
'Kate.' His hands lifted, palm out, in the age-old gesture of innocence.
'Liar,' I repeated. This time I smacked his chest and, when that failed to satisfy, stomped on the toe of his thin Italian shoe.
'Ow,’ he complained, jumping back. He held me off with both hands. 'Jesus, Kate, get a grip on yourself.'
The supreme rationality of his voice pulled me back from making a scene - even if I did doubt his veracity. I wanted to doubt it, really, because if he was telling the truth, I'd just made an even bigger fool of myself.
'Look, Kate.' He pulled a folded yellow paper from his pocket. 'I've got the garage receipt to prove it.'
I snatched it from his hand and read it. 'Well, it looks real,’1 grudged, and handed it back.
He laughed. 'Of course, it's real. Now can we have a nice dinner and talk?'
Seeing I'd calmed down, he tucked my arm through his and led me back into the dining room. Before he could guide me to the Table of Doom, however, I dug in my heels.
'No way. I am not sitting centre stage in my trousers and trainers while people stare at me as if I'm a circus freak.'
He lifted one dark brow. I expected him to tell me I should have worn the dress he sent, but after a brief silence he switched direction and escorted me through the crush towards a table in the back. People hailed him as we passed, slapping his shoulder, lifting their glasses in salutation. Two of the women winked. I might have been invisible for all the notice anyone took of me.
'Later,’ he said, when his guests tried to ask him questions. 'After everyone's had time to enjoy the food.'
He held my chair for me, leaning so close a whiff of Aramis tickled my nose, not to mention my hormones. I felt his hand gather up my curls for an instant before he withdrew, as if touching them was a temptation he couldn't resist. I tried to hide my shiver of response.
'Your hair is longer,’ he said. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. 'I like it.'
'It grew,’ I said brusquely, sensing danger in his flattery. A waiter whisked two covered silver platters to our table. Amazing. I'd waited forty minutes and no one asked me if I wanted to eat. Limo breakdown or no, I suspected that wasn't an accident.