You're Not the One (9781101558959) (13 page)

“Sorry, I don't have any coffee.” He pulls an apologetic face.

“Oh, right, of course.” I nod, remembering he's just moved in. He probably needs tons of stuff. “Well, no worries, I'll just run out and get some from—” I begin, but he cuts me off.

“Actually, I don't drink coffee.”

For a moment I just stare at him in disbelief, as memories of us wandering around the backstreets of Venice and drinking endless espressos come flooding back. I think we lived on the stuff for the entire summer.

“You don't drink coffee?” I finally manage hoarsely.

“No, I gave it up,” he says matter-of-factly. “Caffeine is really bad for you. You know it's more addictive than nicotine?”

“Um . . . no . . . really?”

“Totally.” He nods, his face serious. “You should give it up, Lucy. You'll feel so much better for it.”

And with that he's disappearing out of the bedroom, leaving me lying in bed.
Nate's bed
. A blissful smile splits my face. I still can't quite believe it. That we're here, together, after all this time. It's amazing. Nothing's changed between us, and yet . . .

As I think about the coffee, I feel a slight niggle. Not everything is the same about Nate. Rolling over onto my stomach, I bury my head in the pillow. I wonder what else has changed?

“Are you sure you don't want me to ask my driver to give you a ride downtown?”

Less than an hour later Nate and I are riding down in the elevator together, along with the same uniformed doorman I encountered yesterday. I feel a flash of embarrassment. It's like the walk of shame, only in a lift. But if he recognizes me, he doesn't let on. Instead he stares discreetly at his highly polished shoes.

“No, honestly I'm fine. I'll catch the subway.”

“Are you sure you'll be OK?” Nate looks at me, his face etched with concern. He's swapped his glasses for contact lenses, and his pale blue eyes search mine.

“Yes, I'm sure,” I say, and can't help laughing. “I'm going to go straight to the gallery, start work early. I've got masses to do. We're having an exhibition on Friday.”

“Am I invited?”

“Of course.” I smile. “If you want to come.”

“Try stopping me.” He smiles back, and wrapping his arm round my waist, he pulls me toward him. I feel a warm glow inside. I can't remember feeling this happy. It's like someone just dipped me in melted bliss.

The elevator door pings open, and as we walk out into the lobby, Nate's arm stays firmly round my waist. As does the smile that's plastered to my face. All the way through the revolving doors, out onto the pavement, and into the bright, early-morning sunshine.

“Wow, the city looks so beautiful.” I exhale, feeling a wave of euphoria. Looking out across the park, I get a sudden urge to get up this early every morning. “From now on I'm going to get up at six every day,” I declare firmly.

“Really?” Nate regards me with amusement. “Six a.m.?”

“Yes, absolutely.” I nod, trying to stifle a yawn.

“So I guess this means you'll be wanting an early night tonight?”

I turn to see Nate looking at me expectantly and feel a stab of dismay. He's using this as an excuse. He obviously doesn't want to see me tonight, I suddenly realize. Which, of course, is OK, I tell myself quickly. I mean, I'm with him right now and I was with him the whole of last night, so it's fine if he doesn't want to see me tonight as well. I'm not disappointed or anything.

“Because, you see, I was kind of hoping we could have dinner tonight.” Unlooping his arm, he turns to me. “But I'm in the studio all day recording shows, so it might not be until fairly late.”

Like a kite caught on a blast of wind that sends it soaring upward, I feel a rush of joy.

“Well, maybe not
every
day,” I say. “In fact, I was thinking of giving tomorrow a miss.”

“Cool.” He breaks into a grin. “I'll see you tonight, then.” And giving me a kiss full on the mouth, he strides briskly across the pavement and disappears into the waiting black Lincoln Town Car.

I float downtown in a bubble of happiness, smiling at complete strangers, giving away my last ten dollars to a man spray-painted silver and dressed like the Statue of Liberty, and thinking about last night.

Snippets of our conversation provide the backing track as I glide through the turnstiles and into the subway station. I don't hear the rumble of the train, the screeching of the brakes, or the thud of the sliding doors as I climb on board. Everything fades away, like in a movie with the sound turned down, and all I can hear is Nate's voice.
I made the biggest mistake of my life when I lost you and I've never stopped regretting it
.

As the train rumbles downtown, I gaze into the darkness of the tunnel, my mind floating backward.
I've thought about you for years. Wondered where you are, what you're doing, if I'd ever see you again
. Until finally I reach my stop and I get off and climb up the steps, into the cacophony of city noise.
Sometimes I even used to imagine seeing you again, bumping into you on the street
.

I walk through the busy streets, dodging traffic, pedestrians, sidewalk cafés, and now I'm here at the gallery and I'm pushing open the door.
Do you believe in soul mates?

“Loozy!”

Suddenly the sound comes back on, at full volume, and I hear Magda's voice blasting at me.

“What are you doing here? It's so early!”

Dressed in her usual immaculate ensemble of black Chanel, diamonds, and gravity-defying hairdo, she's sitting frozen behind the reception desk, a half-eaten bagel in one hand, an iced Frappuccino topped with swirls of whipped cream in the other. She looks like a thief caught in the act.

Hastily dabbing away the smears of cream cheese from around her mouth with a scarlet fingernail, she drops the bagel and Frappuccino like contraband goods and comes clattering over on her vertiginous heels. Valentino scampers along beside her, perfectly coordinated in a diamond collar and matching black jacket.

“I thought I'd start work on Friday's exhibition,” I say, my voice muffled as she grabs hold of me and gives me my usual greeting of two lipstick kisses. “Make an early start.”

OK, so that's not
strictly
true, but I can't tell her about Nate, can I?

“You're wearing the same clothes!”

“Er, excuse me?” On second thought, I might not have a choice.

“The same clothes as yesterday!” Her eyes are running over me like scanners. “Did you stay out last night?” she persists. “Were you with the client?”

“Well, actually,” I begin, my cheeks reddening. Oh shit, I've been busted. She knows I spent the night with Nate and it looks really unprofessional. I feel a stab of panic. How am I going to explain this?

“Aha! I knew it!”

But if I thought she was going to be angry with me, I couldn't be more wrong. Clapping her bony hands together with glee, she beams delightedly. “Are you seeing him again?”

“Tonight. He's taking me out for dinner,” I blurt before I can stop myself. I can't keep it inside. I just want to tell someone. Correction: I want to tell
everyone
.

Magda's face lights up like a hundred-watt bulb. “What did I tell you?” She throws me a triumphant smile. Then her expression falls serious. “Did you look at his shoes?”

For a moment I regard her in confusion. Then it registers. Of course. The checklist.

“Made in Italy,” I say, suddenly remembering my earlier snooping and feeling a faint flash of embarrassment.

Magda, however, has no such reservations. She couldn't look more thrilled if I'd handed her a winning lottery ticket. “Loozy, this is
unbelievable
,” she gasps in a hushed voice.

Which is somewhat of an exaggeration. I mean, shoes do have a habit of being Italian—even mine are, and they're only from Nine West—but still, I feel a ridiculous thrill that Nate is measuring up to her checklist.

“And his watch?” She leans closer, her eyes wide.

“Um . . .”

I can't remember if he was even wearing a watch, but then it wasn't his wrist I was looking at, I muse, my mind darting off to a
totally
different body part.

“I'm not sure,” I say vaguely, but if I'm expecting it to put Magda off, I'm wrong.

“Don't worry,” she's saying determinedly. “It will be fine. It will be more than fine! Trust me, I am never wrong when it comes to matchmaking. I even managed to fix up Belinda, my sister's daughter, once we'd addressed the waxing issue.”

Now I know why she's been so successful as a matchmaker: This woman is like Jason Bourne on a mission.

“Well, that's the thing, you see, you don't need to matchmake.” I need to explain about me and Nate, about how we've already met, about everything.

But Magda's not listening. She's waving her skinny arms around like propellers and gushing, “Oh, this is wonderful! Wonderful!” before putting them on her tiny hips and fixing me with an accusatory look. “Is this not wonderful?”

“Well, yes, but . . .” I try again, then pause. Oh, what the hell. Why explain? I've met Nate again and it's fantastic—no explanation needed.

Breaking into a huge, delighted, over-the-moon grin, I nod happily. “Yes, it's pretty bloody wonderful.”

T
he grin never leaves my face. I wear it all day, like a clown's painted smile, as I waft dreamily around the gallery. Nothing can pierce my good mood. Not the jammed printer that decides to chew up my guest list and get ink all over my skirt. Not the couple with the little boy who misreads the sign saying,
Please don't touch
so that it says,
Please touch everything with your grubby, sticky fingers
. Not even the sullen man behind the counter at Katz's when I go to pick up our usual lunch. Everything and everyone is wonderful. Life is wonderful. Even my hair looks wonderful.

Well, OK, maybe not
wonderful
, but less fluffy and definitely shinier.

All through the day my phone beeps like a heart monitor as Nate sends me texts. Funny texts, flirty texts, romantic texts—plus quite a few suggestive texts that send me blushing to the bathroom to respond in secret. Magda might be the most broad-minded boss I've ever worked for, but there are still some things I can't do in front of her, and typing “Naked with whipped cream” is one of them.

I float all the way home from work. I'm oblivious to the wail of police sirens and crazy rush-hour traffic, and when someone stomps on my foot, I barely notice. Neither do I notice the three flights of stairs that I usually pant up, cursing my lack of fitness. Instead, cocooned in my own little world called Planet Nathaniel, I glide up them effortlessly, until here I am, unlocking the door of my apartment.

I discover the TV on and Robyn lying on the sofa with Simon and Jenny. A braceleted arm waves from over the back of the cushions. “You're just in time. Oprah's about to interview a man who had a baby.”

“Oh my God, I can't believe it!” I blurt, plonking myself down on the sofa.

“Well, it's not really a man, but she's got a beard and everything.”

“It's unbelievable.” I shake my head.

“No, don't you see? It's actually a woman who's been taking male hormones. I imagine she's doing it for the publicity.” She waggles the remote at the TV accusingly.

“I still can't believe it,” I murmur dazedly.

“No, Lucy, you're not getting it.” Turning from the screen to look at me, Robyn suddenly stops. Her brow furrows. “Lucy, are you OK? You look funny.”

Hugging my knees to my chest, I'm staring into space, a dippy expression on my face. “I had sex. It was amazing. I think I'm in love.”

Robyn looks like someone just hit her over the head. She stabs the Pause button on the remote, freezing Oprah in mid-sentence. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” she cries, holding out both hands like one of the Su-premes in a dance routine. “Not so fast. Let's back up here a moment.” Tucking her curls behind her ears, she fixes me with her flashing green eyes. “Sex? Love?
With whom?
” she demands.

“Nathaniel.” I smile dreamily.

Her eyes grow wide as dinner plates. “You mean
the One
,” she gasps in a sort of hushed awe.

I nod, feeling a leap of joy. “The One,” I repeat, happiness swelling inside me.

There's a sharp intake of breath and Robyn shoots bolt upright, like something out of
The Exorcist
, arms flailing, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring. Simon and Jenny jump off the sofa, whimpering.