You're Not the One (9781101558959) (15 page)

Robyn was right—the restaurant is super swanky.

The uniformed maître d' leads me through the intimate dining room, with its subdued lighting and murmur of chinking cutlery, to a candlelit table tucked away in the corner. And Nathaniel, looking immaculate in his dark gray suit. He's chatting to someone on his iPhone. He sees me and smiles. My stomach flips right over like a pancake.

“Sorry, Joe, can I call you back?” Then without missing a beat he says approvingly to me, “Wow, you look amazing.”

“Thanks.” I smile, my anxiety about my outfit melting away. I don't know why I was so nervous. Nate's seen me in his boxer shorts and a sweatshirt, my hair scraped back and without a scrap of makeup. Admittedly it was ten years ago, but still. “Sorry I'm late.”

“I'm glad to see nothing's changed,” he says, standing up and giving me a kiss.

I feel a tug of longing. Yup, he's right. Nothing's changed.

“So how was your day?”

Broken from my lustful reverie, I see the waiter pulling out my chair for me. “Oh, you know,” I say, sitting down.

“Busy? Me too.” Nate nods consolingly, though that's not exactly what I meant. To be truthful, it all passed in a blur of butterflies and anticipation of this evening. “We were filming all day in the studio. It was pretty exhausting.”

“What were you filming?” Knowing Nate, it's most likely some drama or documentary about history or politics, which is what he majored in at Harvard.

“A game show.”

“
A game show?”
I feel a snap of surprise, followed by something that feels like a tiny flicker of disappointment. Which is ridiculous. I mean, there's nothing wrong with game shows. My parents watch them all the time.

“I know what you're thinking. What is Nate doing producing game shows? But in terms of viewing figures—”

“No, not at all,” I protest quickly. “I love game shows!” So OK, that's a bit of a fib. I can't remember the last time I watched a game show. I think it was probably last Christmas at Mum and Dad's, when we watched
Who Wants to Be a Millionaire
. Kate was there too and she did her usual trick of answering all the questions before the contestant and getting them all correct. Me? I needed to phone a friend on the first one.

“Really?” Nate looks pleased. “Which one is your favorite?”

Shit.

“Um . . . gosh, there are so many,” I say vaguely. “It's hard to choose.”

“You never could make a decision,” he says with a smile, and reaches for my hand across the table. “Remember Italy and the ice cream?” His warm fingers wrap around mine and I feel a tender fuzziness.

“Well, there were so many flavors and they were all so delicious,” I protest, thinking about how I used to make him wait for me as I tasted a scoop of every single flavor. Meanwhile he chose vanilla every time. “Saying that, the best ice cream I've ever tasted wasn't in Italy. It was in Paris, at this tiny little café up by the Sacré Coeur.”

“When were you in Paris?”

“Last New Year's Eve.”

“Hey, so was I!”

“No way!”

We look at each other.

“Oh my God, what a coincidence,” I gasp. “Did you watch the fireworks?”

“Over the Eiffel Tower, yeah.” He's nodding, his face breaking into a smile. “They were pretty incredible, weren't they?”

“The bit where all the rockets shot out from the sides . . .”

“And then the whole tower exploded at the stroke of midnight,” he finishes, and then we just stare at each other in disbelief.

“You were there,” he says after a moment.

“So were you,” I murmur.

My stomach flutters as my mind flicks back. To think that we were so close, that we were in the same city at the same time, watching the same fireworks burst into the same patch of sky—we just didn't know it.

“Wow, that's insane,” says Nate, grinning. “You and me, both in Paris last year for New Year's Eve. What a total fluke.” He laughs at the absurdity.

“I know,” I agree, and ignoring my fluttering stomach, I laugh too. “What a total fluke.”

After a few moments the waiter comes to take our order. Everything on the menu sounds delicious, though there are a couple of things that I've never heard of and I have to get the waiter to explain. I'm not used to eating in this kind of restaurant. Compared with my local Italian back home in London, with its red-and-white-checked tablecloths and waltzy background music, this is a different world. I try hard not to be fazed and choose the wild mushroom pasta, whereas Nate opts for the fish and a green salad.

“And a bottle of champagne,” he says, shooting me a smile across the table.

My insides do a loop-the-loop.

“What are we celebrating?” I whisper, as the waiter disappears.

“My decision to walk into a gallery.” He smiles and then looks at me thoughtfully, as if there's a lot of stuff going on inside his head. “I wasn't going to, but if I hadn't . . .”

“So what made you?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “It was totally random. I'm never usually in that part of town, but I was on my way to a business lunch and had five minutes to kill, so I was just walking around. In fact, I nearly walked right past it, but then . . .”

“Then what?” I ask, interested.

“I'm not sure.” He crinkles his brow. “I suddenly had this desire to go inside. It was really weird.” He shakes his head dismissively, then laughs. “Trust me, I don't normally go around buying expensive art on my lunch break. It's usually just a salad.”

I laugh, and at that moment the waiter reappears with the bottle of champagne, which he duly opens with a deft flick of his wrist and pours into two glass flutes.

“Here's to Venice,” Nate says, passing me a glass.

“To the gallery.”

“To us,” he adds quietly, holding my gaze as he clinks his glass against mine.

A tingle runs all the way up my spine, and I take a sip, savoring the sensation of the cold bubbles fizzing on my tongue. I feel as if I'm in a dream, as if I'm going to pinch myself and wake up back in my old life instead of here with Nate, in some fabulously posh restaurant, sipping champagne and making eyes at each other across the table.

Suddenly we're interrupted by his iPhone ringing. He glances at the screen, then frowns. “Sorry, Lucy, but do you mind if I take this call? It's work.”

“No, it's fine, go ahead,” I say happily.

He throws me a grateful smile, then picks up. “Hi, John. So, as we discussed earlier, depending on the pilot, I would see this as a straight-to-network show and I'd be very happy to ensure that Regis takes a consulting, executive producer role and credit.”

As he starts talking business, I take another sip of champagne and glance around the restaurant. It's a well-heeled crowd. Mostly couples, and mostly older, the women all look the same, with their Hamptons tans and professional blow-dries, whereas the men are all salt-and-pepper hair and bespoke suits. Though there's a couple over there who look quite funky, I notice, spotting an unshaven man in the corner wearing a pair of dark sunglasses.

I give a little snort of derision. Honestly, who wears sunglasses inside a restaurant? Who does he think he is? Bono?

Absently I watch as he moves slightly to the side and I get a better look at him. Oh my God, it
is
Bono.

I feel a sudden thrill. I can't believe it. A famous person, eating dinner in the same restaurant as I am! See, this is what's so fantastic about coming to swanky restaurants in Manhattan. This wouldn't happen in my local Italian back in Earls Court.

“OK, CC me in on the e-mail and I'll call you tomorrow. Thanks, John.” Hanging up, Nate turns back to me. “Hey, sorry about that.”

“Oh, it's OK.” I smile, then lean across the table and whisper, “Guess what, Bono's sitting behind you!”

I'm expecting Nate to look excited and try to sneak a peek, but instead he just sort of shrugs disinterestedly and says, “Oh, really?” and reaches for his champagne.

“Yes, I'm pretty certain it's him.” I nod, shooting another covert glance over his shoulder. “I mean, he looks exactly the same.”

“Are you a big U2 fan?”

“Well, not really, but I saw them in concert once and they were amazing.”

“Yeah, me too. A friend of mine won tickets to the last gig of their three-night run in Dublin and took me along. It was a few years back now.”

“June 2005. The Vertigo tour,” I finish before I can stop myself.

“Wow, you
are
a fan!” he laughs.

I stare at him in astonishment. “I was there.”

“'Scuse me?” He looks at me as if he's misheard.

“My boyfriend took me to the same concert. Well, he wasn't really my boyfriend,” I add hastily. “We just went on a few dates and—”

“You're kidding!”

“No, really, we were totally mismatched. He was into going to festivals and taking hallucinogens. OK, so I ate hash cookies once, but that's only because I thought they were real cookies—”

“I'm talking about the concert,” interrupts Nate, and I blush.

“Oh, right, I know.” I shake my head in disbelief. First New Year's Eve in Paris and now this. It's almost as if we've been meant to meet again. As if all these years we've been circumnavigating the globe, going to the same places at the same time, but we just kept missing each other.

Until now.

“Anyone would think you've been following me.” He breaks into my thoughts, grinning.

“Or you've been following me,” I protest indignantly. Goodness, I'm getting as bad as Robyn. Of course it's just a coincidence. There must have been thousands of people at that concert.

“By the way, that's not Bono,” he confides, his eyes flashing with amusement.

“It's not? How can you tell?” I look over to see he's standing up, ready to leave. I get a jolt of surprise. Oh my God, the man is a giant. Seriously, he must be about seven feet tall. I feel a flash of embarrassment. “Well, the resemblance was very striking,” I say in explanation.

“I suppose you think that's Lady Gaga sitting in the corner over there too,” he teases.

“And next to her, Barack and Michelle Obama,” I giggle loudly.

“Shh.” He frowns slightly and gestures with his hand for me to keep my voice down. “A little less on the volume.”

“Oh, sorry.” My giggles immediately disappear and I feel a bit awkward, as if I've just been told off. Still, I suppose I can get a bit loud and silly when I'm tipsy, and this champagne has gone straight to my head. That always happens when I drink on an empty stomach, I muse, feeling a flash of relief as the waiter arrives with our food.

“Mmm, this is heavenly,” I say, tasting a delicious mouthful of pasta. “Do you want to try some?”

“No, thanks. I'm trying to stay off the carbs,” says Nate, making a start on his green salad.

“So you can't eat pasta?” I ask, momentarily trying and failing to imagine life without macaroni and cheese.

“Or potatoes or bread.” He nods, spearing a lettuce leaf. “And pretty much any baked goods.”

“So no biscuits?” I squeak.

“Well, I wouldn't be eating cookies, anyway. They're full of refined sugar.”

“Right, yeah.” I nod, trying not to think about all the packets of Hobnobs I've devoured over my lifetime. “Absolutely.”

“When I think about what we used to eat when we were in Italy.” He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “All that pizza and ice cream. I mean, can you imagine eating that now?”

I don't have to imagine—it's pretty much all Robyn and I
do
eat. Our apartment is strewn with takeaway pizza boxes and empty Ben & Jerry's ice cream cartons. I feel a beat of alarm. What if Nate wants to come back to my place?

“God, no,” I say, and giving a little shudder, I make a mental note to nip to the loo to text Robyn and tell her to get rid of the evidence. Just in case.

“Since living in L.A., I've adopted a much healthier lifestyle,” he continues, putting down his fork and leaning across the table toward me. “I go hiking in the canyons. I run along the beach.”

Slow-motion footage of a muscular Nate running along the beach suddenly springs into my mind and I feel a lustful twinge.

“What kind of stuff do you like doing?”

“Me?” I suddenly return from my daydream to see him looking at me expectantly.

“Yeah, to keep fit.” He smiles.

Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Shit. Think of something quick. I don't want to look like I'm some kind of slob who sits on the sofa every night watching
Oprah
and eating biscuits. Well, not
every
night.

“Oh . . . um . . . I love Rollerblading.” OK, so “love” is rather a strong word. I went once in Hyde Park and didn't know how to stop. I ended up crashing into a group of French tourists. Not good for Anglo-French relations.

“And yoga.” I've been once, maybe twice, but still, I love the
idea
of doing yoga. All that Nag Champa incense and a bendy pretzel body like Gwyneth's.

“Wow, really? Me too,” says Nate, looking pleased. “We should do a yoga class together.”

Oh crap.

“Well, I'm not very good,” I say hastily. In fact, if the truth be told, the last time I went to yoga, I nearly put my back out trying to touch my toes.

“Don't worry, I can help you. I studied with a great teacher in L.A.,” he says, reaching across the table for my hand and giving me a smile that makes me feel all funny behind the knees. “In fact, maybe we should have some private classes together, just you and me.”