“Mimi, you have to help me! You know about fashion.”
“Hmmm. So this was Mr. Hedge Fund, I take it? Does he have a name now?”
“John.” Anna spoke the name as if it were that of a god, in a rapturous whisper that caressed the phone receiver.
“You aren’t going to throw yourself at him, are you?” Mimi’s voice was sharp-edged. “You’ll never see him again if you do. Just enjoy yourself and take it easy, for God’s sake. The statistical likelihood of him being a knight on a white charger is 0.00000001 percent. The statistical likelihood of him being a pervy old sleaze who wants to get you into bed is 99.9999999999 percent. Keep those figures in mind.”
“Mimi! Haven’t you ever felt the, whatsit, the coup de foudre?”
“No, I bloody haven’t. And who wants to be struck by lightning anyway?”
“I do,” gushed Anna.
“You need therapy. Okay, I’ll meet you at the back exit at one. And don’t forget your credit card. Ciao.”
Nerves were such stupid things, Anna thought, applying a third coat of lipstick then tutting and wiping it off. What did John like? What sort of makeup did he like? Subtle or full-on? Low-key bronze eye shadow or the NARS glittery stuff? Would he be offended if she did not look as if she had made an effort? Would he think she looked like a pantomime dame if she did? It was all too difficult. In the end she settled for bronze eye shadow, clear mascara, tinted moisturiser, a slick of pale pink lip gloss. She did not think she would need blusher, if the furious pink of her cheeks at this moment was any guide.
She spritzed on her purse spray—too light for evening, really, but it couldn’t be helped—and stood back to assess the full effect.
“Gorgeous!” Mimi exclaimed, entering the ladies’ behind her. “That dress is stunning. So simple and fresh, but so pretty. Like you.” If there was any envy intended in the remark, it wasn’t detectable. “You’re one of those girls who doesn’t know what they have. As opposed to me—I’m one of those girls who knows how to make the most of what they’ve been given. And the shoes!”
“I shouldn’t have bought them, really.” Anna pointed a toe and watched the sparkly straps glint in the overhead striplight. “But they were so… Oh. You know.”
“They will pay you back. You can wear them to every occasion for the next five years. Don’t fall over though. I’ve never seen you in heels before. It takes practice.”
Anna grabbed Mimi’s hand, breathing in a huge breath.
“Will you come down the stairs with me? I don’t think I can go down in the lift. I can’t just have the lift doors open and that’s it and he’s there. I need a little bit of preparation.”
“You aren’t going to drop dead with the magnitude of his gorgeousness, surely?”
“Well…no. I can’t even remember what he looks like, properly. Nothing like George Clooney, or anything like that. I don’t know.” She screwed up her face, looking to Mimi for some understanding or reassurance. “Just…he has something, you know. Something about him. Like a vibe. It’s quite powerful.”
“Confidence?”
“Oh. Probably.”
“You could always get some of your own. It helps. And it’s all a trick, you know. Inside, he could be just as nervous as you.”
“Oh, yeah, right.”
“Yeah! Right!”
Mimi tugged Anna out just as the long hand on the clock above the lifts fixed on the twelve.
“Okay, stairs to the first floor. Then we take a peek down from the balcony, the bit where they can’t see from below. Then we take the lift to the lobby.”
“It’s a plan,” Mimi agreed with a nod, commencing the two-flight descent to the first floor, her gaze set firmly on Anna’s tottering feet.
They tiptoed to the balcony, ignoring the curious eyes of the departing office workers, until the bank of seating where people waited in reception became visible. Anna saw his shoes first, highly polished and black, then his legs, crossed, then his shirt and tie, jacket on the seat next to him, then his face, abstracted, gazing ahead.
In these short bursts, the awareness of his presence was more easily manageable, even though a quick, thin flame burnt from her belly to her throat all the same. Him.
“Him?” Mimi whispered. Anna nodded. “Nice suit. Not bad-looking, I suppose. What is he? Thirty-five? Thirty-six?”
“I don’t know.”
“Are you ready?”