You're Not the One (9781101558959) (3 page)

As the train makes its way uptown, I progress to the last quiz question.

Suddenly I'm aware of the overhead announcement—“This is Forty-second Street, Grand Central”—and I realize I'm at my stop.

Stuffing the magazine into my bag, I start politely trying to excuse my way through the packed car. Of course, no one pays any attention.

It's not that New Yorkers are rude. On the contrary, I'm finding them to be some of the friendliest, warmest people I've ever met. It's just that our terribly British way of apologizing for everything has zero effect. They don't understand what we're apologizing for. To be honest, half the time
I
don't understand what I'm apologizing for; it's just something I do. A habit. Like logging on to Facebook every five minutes.

For example, yesterday I was crossing the street when this man bashed right into me and spilled coffee all over me. And get this—
I
was the one who said sorry! Yes, me! About a million times! Even though it was totally his fault. He was on his mobile and not looking where he was going.

Sorry, I mean
cell phone
—well, I am in New York now.

I moved here from London six weeks ago and still can't believe it's real. I almost expect to see Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte, and Samantha waltzing arm in arm toward me.

Exiting the subway station, I pause at the pedestrian crossing to study the little pop-up map of Manhattan I keep in my bag. Some people have this sort of built-in GPS, a bit like cats. You can drop them anywhere and they can find their way home. Not me. I get lost in IKEA. Once, I spent more than half an hour wandering around trying to find the checkout. Trust me, I've not been able to face a Swedish meatball since.

I turn the map upside down, then back again. As if it wasn't hard enough, here in New York you can have East Whatever Street, or West Whatever Street. Which is just completely confusing. I give up and do my directional little rhyme. You know the one: “Never Eat Shredded Wheat.”

“'Scuse me?”

I turn to see a fellow pedestrian standing next to me, waiting to cross. He's looking at me quizzically, his brow furrowed beneath his baseball cap.

Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?

“Er . . .” I fluster with embarrassment. “Never . . . um . . . cross the dreaded street,” I manage hastily, gesturing to the crossing sign, “until the little man says it's safe.”

He stares at me doubtfully. “Sure.”

He's got one of those really drawly
Noo
York accents and I notice he's carrying what looks like a large video camera and a furry microphone. Gosh, I wonder what he's doing? He's probably making a movie or something really cool.

Unlike me, who's reciting ridiculous rhymes trying to find the bar where I'm expected for drinks. My cheeks flushing, I feel totally
un
cool; I look away and pray for the lights to change. “Oh, look,
now
we can cross,” I announce with a beat of relief, and shooting him an awkward smile, I stride off purposefully into the crowd.

New York is a city of amazing energy. You never know what's going to happen. Sometimes, late at night, when I see the Empire State Building lit up in different colors, I get this buzz of excitement, anticipation,
magic
. I almost have to pinch myself. For a girl who hails from deepest Manchester, it's the stuff of fairy tales.

Only this particular fairy tale is missing one thing.

Walking past a row of restaurants, I glance at the couples cozying up together over a romantic meal. With the warm summer's evening, restaurants have flung open their doors, spilling their tables out onto the street. I feel one of those occasional pangs.

I brush it quickly away.

Once upon a time there was a prince of sorts, but we didn't end up living happily ever after. It was a long time ago. I've moved on. In fact, since then I've dated loads of different guys.

Well, perhaps not
loads
, but a few. And some of them have been really nice. Like, for example, my last boyfriend, Sean. We met at a party and dated for a couple of months, but it was never that serious. I mean, he was good fun, and the sex wasn't bad. It's just . . .

OK, I have this theory. Everyone dreams of finding their soul mate. It's a universal quest. All over the world millions of people are looking for their true love, their
amore
, their
âme soeur
, that one special person with whom they will spend the rest of their life.

And I'm no different.

Except it doesn't happen for everyone. Some people spend their whole life looking and never find that person. It's the luck of the draw.

If, by some miracle, you're lucky enough to meet the One, whatever you do, don't let him go. Because you won't get another shot at it. Soul mates aren't like buses; there's not going to be another one along in a minute. That's why they're called “the One.” I mean, if there were loads of them, they'd be called “the Five,” or “the Hundred,” or “the Never-Ending Supply.”

So I think maybe that's it for me. Because, you see, I
was
lucky. I did find the One, but then I lost him. I blew it, or he blew it. At the end of the day it doesn't really matter. The details aren't important.

Besides, it's not like I'm
un
happy. What's that saying? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. To tell the truth, I rarely think about it anymore.

And yet . . .

Sometimes, when I least expect it, something will remind me. Of him. Of us. Of long ago. It can be as random as a quiz in a magazine, or as inconsequential as a restaurant table on the street. And sometimes I can't help wondering, what if we were still together? What if we had lived happily ever after? What if, what if,
what if
. . . ?

Sometimes I even try to imagine what it would be like to see him again. I could probably walk past him on the street and not even know it was him.

Oh, who am I kidding? I'd recognize him in an instant.

You want to know something else? Deep down inside, I know if I saw him again, I would still feel exactly the same.

Anyway, that's hardly likely, is it? I think, catching myself. It's been ten years since I last saw him. A whole decade. A brand-new millennium. Who knows where he is or what he's doing?

Up ahead, a neon sign interrupts my thoughts:
Scott's
. That's it! That's the bar! Feeling a beat of relief, I start hurrying toward it.

Like I said, you get one shot and I had mine.

And dismissing the thought from my mind, I push open the door.

T
he place is dimly lit and busy with the after-work crowd. I pause at the doorway to admire the filmic touches. Stretching the full length of the room is the bar itself, gleaming with polished dark wood, fitted with shiny brass, and stacked with hundreds of different bottles of spirits.

Sitting ramrod straight on her barstool is a girl in a pinstripe suit. She's jabbing away at her BlackBerry. With her hair cut into a sharp blonde bob and an imposing black leather briefcase sitting beside her, she cuts a rather formidable figure.

That's my big sister, Kate. She's older by five years, but it might as well be twenty the way she bosses me about as if I'm a child. She's used to bossing people about, though. She has not one but
two
assistants working for her.

She's an associate at a major law firm here in Manhattan that specializes in intellectual property. Personally, I haven't got a clue what intellectual property is, let alone the ability to compile hundred-page reports on them and win cases worth millions of dollars.

But then my sister has always been the super-brainy one in the family. She spent seven years training to be a doctor, then as soon as she qualified, changed her mind and retrained as a lawyer. As if it was no biggie. I swear I've agonized more over what sandwich to have for lunch at Pret A Manger.

Kate got all the brains and I got all the creativity. At least, that's what my mum likes to tell me, though sometimes I wonder if she used to say it just to make me feel better after flunking yet another math test. While logarithms baffled me (and still do—could someone please tell me exactly
what
a logarithm is?), drawing and painting were like second nature and I ended up at art college.

Three glorious paint-splattered years later I graduated and moved to London. I had all these big dreams: I was going to have this amazing career as an artist. I was going to have exhibitions in galleries across the country. I was going to have my own studio in this super-cool loft in Shoreditch. . . .

Er, actually, no, I wasn't. For starters, have you any clue how expensive lofts in Shoreditch are? No, neither did I. Well, let me tell you. They're an absolute
fortune
.

That wouldn't have been so bad if I'd been selling my artwork. I mean, at least then I could have saved up. For about eighty years, but still, it's
possible
.

But the truth is, I never actually sold one of my paintings. Well, OK, I sold one, but that was to my dad for fifty quid, and only then because he insisted on giving me my first commission.

As it turned out, it was also my last. After six months of sliding further and further into debt, I had to give up painting and look for a job. Consequently, my dreams of being an artist ended up just that, dreams.

Still, it's probably for the best. I was young and naïve and unrealistic. I probably would never have made it anyway.

Excusing my way through the crowd, I head toward the bar.

After that I temped for a while, but I was pretty terrible. I can't type, and my filing is useless, but finally I got lucky and landed a job in an art gallery in the East End. At first I was only the receptionist, but over the years I clawed my way up from answering the phone to working with new artists, organizing exhibitions, and helping buyers with their collections. Then a few months ago I was offered the chance to work in a gallery in New York. Of course I jumped at it. Who wouldn't? New York is where the art world is right now, and careerwise it's an amazing opportunity.

Except, if I'm entirely truthful, that's not the only reason I decided to pack up my stuff, move out of my flat-share, and fly three thousand miles across the Atlantic. It was partly to get over my latest breakup, partly to escape the prospect of another terrible British summer, but mostly to get my life out of a bit of a rut.

Don't get me wrong—I loved my job, my friends, my life in London. It's just . . . well, recently I've had this feeling. As if there's something missing. As if I'm waiting for my life to begin. Waiting for something to happen.

Only problem is, I'm not sure exactly what.

My sister's still focused on her BlackBerry and hasn't seen me walking over to her yet. Since I arrived, I've been staying with her and Jeff, her husband. They have a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side and it's been great. It's also been, shall we say,
challenging
. Put it this way: I've never stayed in army barracks, but I have a feeling they might be similar. Only without the polished wenge floors and flat-screen TV.

As soon as I told her I was moving here, she sent me a list of house rules. My sister's very organized like that. She draws up regimented lists and ticks things off, one by one, with special highlighter pens. Not that I'd call her anal . . .

Well, not to her face, anyway.

We're total opposites in everything, really. She's blonde; I'm brunette. She likes to save; I like to spend. She's super tidy; I'm horribly messy. It's not that I don't try to keep things neat and tidy—in fact, I'm
forever
tidying, but for some strange reason that just seems to make things more untidy.

Kate's also a stickler for timekeeping, whereas I'm never on time. I don't know why. I really try to be punctual. I've tried all the tricks—setting off fifteen minutes early, putting my clocks forward, wearing two watches—but I still seem to end up running late.

Like now, for example.

Right on cue I hear my phone beep to signal I've got a text. Hastily I dig it out of my pocket. I'll let you in on a secret: I'm a teeny bit scared of my big sister.

I click the little yellow envelope on the screen.

 

Five more minutes then you're dead.

 

Make that a lot scared.

“You're late.”

As I plop myself down next to her on the barstool, she doesn't even look up from her BlackBerry. A sharp crease is etched down the middle of her forehead, like the ones down the front of her trouser legs.

Kate always wears trousers. In fact, I think the only time I've ever
not
seen her wearing them was on her wedding day, five years ago. And that was only because Mum got all upset when she found out she was going to be wearing a trouser suit (“But it's from Donna Karan,” my sister protested) and said the neighbors would think her daughter is a lesbian. Which seems a bit ridiculous, considering she was marrying Jeff.

“I know, I'm sorry,” I apologize briskly, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You know me—I'm useless with directions.”

“And timekeeping,” she reminds, hitting Send with her thumb, then turning to me.

She looks pale, despite the fact that it's sunny and seventy-five degrees outside. Kate rarely gets outside. During the week she's always at her desk in her air-conditioned office, and at weekends—