You're Not the One (9781101558959) (2 page)

“It's better than your English one!” I protest.

“Awright, luv, let's 'ave a butcher's,” he replies in a jumble of Cockney and Lancashire, and I crack up laughing as he grabs hold of me and silences me with a kiss. “Bad?” He pretends to look hurt.

“Terrible,” I say with mock seriousness as he turns to pay for the mask.

Left standing in a patch of sunlight, I smile happily to myself. For a moment I watch him, puffing on his cigarette, trying to barter with the stallholder. Then, glancing away, I let my gaze drift absently over the market. I don't want to buy anything—I've already got all my souvenirs—but there's no harm in looking....

My eyes fall upon a stall. Tucked away in a shady corner, it's not really a stall—more a fold-up table—but it's the old man sitting behind it who attracts my attention. Wearing a battered fedora and thick, black-framed spectacles balanced on the end of his nose, he's peering at something under a small spotlight. Curious, I slip away from Nathaniel and wander over to see what he's doing.

“
Buon pomeriggio bello come sei oggi
.” He looks up at me.

I smile shyly. I'm useless at languages. Even after nearly three months in Venice studying Renaissance art, my Italian still only stretches to “please,” “thank you,” and “Leonardo da Vinci.”

“
Inglese
.”

“Yes.” I nod, meeting his eyes.

They flash mischievously. “What is a beautiful girl like you doing here alone?” He smiles, revealing teeth stained by a forty-year cigar habit. He reaches for one burning in a nearby ashtray, and takes a satisfied puff.

“Oh, I'm not.” I shake my head and gesture to Nate, who's having his mask wrapped. Putting it under his arm, he strolls over and slides his arm casually round my shoulders.

“Ah, to be young and in love.” The old man nods approvingly as Nate and I look at each other, our faces splitting into embarrassed grins. “I have just the thing for you.”

We turn back to see him holding out what appears to be an old coin.

I look at him in slight confusion. “Um . . . thanks.” I smile, wondering what he's doing, and then suddenly it registers. Oh God, he's trying to give us money. Do we look that broke? OK, so we're students, and Nate looks a bit scruffy in his ripped jeans, and my dress has seen better days, but even so. “Actually, we're fine,” I begin explaining hastily, and am about to tug on Nate's arm and drag him away when the old man places the coin on a small piece of machinery and breaks it in half.

I watch as he proceeds to punch a hole in each half, through which he threads a piece of leather. Then triumphantly he holds them up, letting them dangle like pendants. “For you.” He smiles. “Because you are like the coin,” he explains. “You are two halves of one whole.”

I gaze at the jagged edges of the half coins, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle. On their own they're each just half a broken coin, but together they make a seamless whole.

“Wow, how romantic,” I murmur, turning to Nathaniel, who's watching me and grinning in amusement. I feel a flash of embarrassment. “What? You don't think it is?” I yelp, poking him in the ribs.

“Of course it is,” he laughs. “Don't I always call you ‘my other half,' any way?”

“Only three thousand lire,” says the old man.

I turn to see his palm outstretched expectantly.

“Even romance has a price,” quips Nathaniel, digging out his wallet.

And there was me thinking the old man was being all romantic, when the whole time he was just trying to sell us something, I realize, feeling foolish. Honestly, I'm such a sucker. Before I can protest, though, Nathaniel has handed him a note and is looping one of the pendants over his own head.

“See, we can never be apart now,” he jokes, putting the other half round my neck. “Wherever you go, I go.”

Despite his attempt at humor, I can feel my mood immediately darkening. In just a few weeks we'll be leaving Italy and going back to our respective colleges, and I'm dreading it. Ever since we met I've been counting down the days until we have to part.

“Hey.” Seeing my expression, Nate gives me a hug. “We can do the whole long-distance thing,” he reassures me, guessing immediately what's going through my mind. “We'll write. I can call.”

I think back to my student digs in Manchester. I don't even have a landline, never mind a mobile, and letters might sound romantic in books, but in real life they aren't going to be a substitute for nuzzling my face into his neck, sharing a huge bowl of pistachio gelato with him on a Sunday afternoon, or laughing at that terrible English accent of his.

“I guess so.” I nod, trying to put a brave face on it. I don't want to spoil the present by brooding about the future, but it's like a big, black cloud is just sitting there, waiting to descend.

“If you want to be together, you can always be together.”

I turn to see the old Italian watching us thoughtfully.

“I'm afraid it's not that simple—” I begin, but he interrupts.

“No, it is very simple,” he says firmly. “Do you want to be together?”

Nathaniel cocks his head to one side as if thinking about it. “Um . . . what do you think?” he asks teasingly, and I punch him playfully. “Uh-huh, I think that's a yes, we do.” He grins, turning back to the stallholder.

“Well, then . . .” The old man gives a shrug of his shoulders and takes a puff of his cigar.

“We have to go back home,” I explain.

“Where's home?”

Nathaniel hugs me tighter. “Lucy lives in England—”

“And Nate's from America,” I finish.

“But you are in Venice,” he replies, seemingly unfazed. “Here, there is no need to say good-bye. You can be together forever.”

He is a sweet old guy after all, I decide. And a bit of an old-fashioned romantic.

“I wish.” I force a laugh and squeeze Nate's hand. “But it's impossible.”

Unexpectedly the Italian lets out a loud roar of laughter. “No! No! It is not
impossible
,” he cries, slapping the table with the flat of his hand. “Don't you know the legend of the Bridge of Sighs?”

Nathaniel frowns. “You mean the bridge right here in Venice?”

“Yes. That is it! The very one!” he exclaims excitedly.

“Why, what's the legend?” I ask, suddenly intrigued.

Like a magician waiting for a drum roll before producing a rabbit, the old man pauses for dramatic effect. Only when we are both quiet does he start to speak.

“The legend is very famous,” he says gravely. His voice has the kind of hushed, awestruck respect reserved for churches and museums, and I almost have to stifle a giggle. “It says that if you kiss underneath the bridge at sunset, on a gondola, when the bells of the church are ringing . . .”

“Wow, they don't make it easy for us,” whispers Nathaniel jokingly into my ear, but I swat him away.

“Yes?” I urge, turning back to the old man. “What happens?”

Dragging on his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke. It drifts upward in front of his face, like a smoke screen. As it clears, his dark eyes meet mine, and despite the oppressive heat, a shiver suddenly runs down my spine and I feel goose bumps spring up on my arms. He leans closer, his voice almost a whisper. “You will have everlasting and eternal love. You will be together forever and nothing”—his eyes flick to Nathaniel, then back to me—“
nothing
will ever break you apart.”

“Nothing?” I repeat, my voice barely audible.

“
Niente
.” He nods, his face filled with conviction. “You are bound together forever, for eternity.”

I laugh nervously and press the pendant to the heat of my chest.

“So you like?” He gestures to the necklace.

“Oh . . . um . . . yes.” I nod, snapping back.

He smiles and holds out our change, and as I take it from him, his sandpapery fingers brush against mine.

“
Grazie
,” I whisper, managing one of the few words I know in Italian.

“
Prego
.” He smiles genially, tipping his hat.

Then Nathaniel puts his arm round me and we turn and start walking away through the market, but we've gone just a few steps when I hear the old Italian call after us, “Remember,
niente
,” and I glance back. Only the funny thing is, he's not there anymore. He's gone. Almost like he simply vanished into thin air.

G
od, these things are so stupid.

I scan the quiz in the magazine. There's a photo of a couple looking into each other's eyes, all lovey-dovey, and it's decorated with cartoon drawings of cupids and love hearts. I mean,
please
. As if you can find out if he's “the One” by answering a few silly multiple-choice questions.

Like, for example:

 

My guy and I go together like . . .

 

Honestly, how ridiculous!

I'm jostled by someone squeezing into the tiny space next to me. Looking up, I realize we've pulled into a station. I cast my eyes around the crowded car. It's Friday afternoon rush hour and I'm sitting squashed up on the subway, flicking through the pages of a magazine I found on my seat. The doors close, and as the train moves off with a shudder, I turn back to the magazine. And that dumb quiz.

Dismissively I turn over the page. It's an article on cellulite. I frown. Then again, maybe a dumb quiz isn't
so
bad. After all, it has got to be more fun than reading about how to get rid of dimpled orange-peel thighs, I muse, glancing at the section on detoxing. Though, frankly, I don't think you
can
get rid of dimpled orange-peel thighs. Everyone has cellulite. Even supermodels!

Well, that's what I like to tell myself, anyway.

I peer closely at the grainy paparazzi photo of Kate Moss's bikini-clad bottom, which has been magnified a million times. To tell the truth, I can't actually see any dimples. Or much bottom. In fact, looking at this photo, I'm not sure Kate Moss even
has
a bottom.

Suddenly I'm struck by what I'm doing: I'm sitting. In public. On a New York subway train. With my nose pressed up against a photograph of a left bum cheek. Or is it a right? I grab hold of myself. For God's sake, Lucy. And you thought the quiz was ridiculous?

Quickly I turn back to it. I notice it hasn't been filled in. Oh, what the hell. I've got five more stops. Reaching into my bag, I pull out a pen.

OK, here we go . . .

Well, I wouldn't call them butterflies, exactly. In fact, it's been so long the butterflies have probably grown up and flown away. Now it's more of an ache. Not like the terrible toothache I got at the cinema when I pulled out my filling on a Milk Dud. I wince at the memory. No, this is more of a twinge, the occasional pang.

I choose “b) Sometimes
.”

My mind flicks back. We met in the summer of 1999. I was nineteen. Which makes it . . . As my mind does the calculation, I feel a thump of realization, quickly followed by a left jab of defensiveness. OK, so it's ten years. So what? Ten years is nothing. My mum's known my dad for thirty years.

Yes, but your mum's married to him
, pipes up a little voice inside me.

Ignoring it, I quickly circle option c. Right. Next question.

Well, that's easy. It's zero.

All right, so in the past I
might
have thought about it. And maybe for a moment I imagined myself in a white dress (actually, more of a calico, in antique lace, with full-length sleeves and a sweetheart neckline) and him in top hat and tails with his messy blond hair and tatty old Converses peeping out from underneath. Dancing our first dance under the stars to “No Woman, No Cry,” our favorite Bob Marley song. Leaving on our honeymoon in his old VW camper van . . .

Zoning back, I notice I've been absentmindedly doodling a love heart around “a) 100%.” Shit. What did I do that for? Flustered, I grab my pen and start scribbling over it furiously. It's not as if that means anything. It's not like it's in my subconscious.

I suddenly realize I'm pressing so hard I've torn the page.

My body stiffens.

I think about him from time to time, but I wouldn't say I'm
obsessed
. Not at all. I mean, I'm not stalking him or anything. Or hounding him with Facebook messages. Or Googling him relentlessly.

OK, I confess. I Googled him once.

Maybe twice.

Oh, all right, so I've lost count over the years. But so what? Who hasn't gone home and Googled a man they're in love with?

Hang on—did I just say the
L word
?

It takes me by surprise. I didn't mean that at all! It's this silly quiz—it's making me think all kinds of things.

I circle “b) No.”