You're Not the One (9781101558959) (24 page)

“Exactly.” She nods, ignoring my obvious disapproval. “I told him we had no future.”

I look at her aghast. “You told him that? You told him about Harold?”

“Of course,” she says, as if it's the most normal thing in the world to tell a man she's just met that she can't date him because a psychic told her she's going to meet a dark, handsome stranger called Harold. But then for Robyn I suppose it is.

“Why wouldn't I?” she asks.

Because he'll think you're a total fruitcake
, I want to say, but instead opt for a more diplomatic “But if you went on a date, you might discover you really like him.”

“Exactly. That's what I'm afraid of,” she says, shooting me a strained look. “Because then what am I going to do when I meet Harold?” Quickly she glances back. “Oh crap.”

I follow her gaze. The dark, handsome stranger has his arm round a heavily pregnant woman.

“Anyway, I've agreed to go out with him. Not on a
date
date, just as friends.” She sighs, brushing the grass off her skirt and standing up, ready to leave.

“Good.” I nod approvingly, hauling myself up. “Maybe this way you'll really get to like him.”

“No, don't say that!” She looks panicked. “That can never happen. What am I going to do when I finally meet Harold?”

Note it's not “if”; it's “when.”

“But what if when you finally meet him, you and Harold don't get along?” I reason, as we start walking through the park toward the exit.

She throws me a look as if to say,
That's not very nice, Lucy
, and refuses to be drawn. “Oh, by the way, a client gave me two free tickets for the theater next week,” she says, swiftly changing the subject. “That new play on Broadway,
Tomorrow's Lives
. I wondered if you wanted to go.”

“Ooh, yes,” I say eagerly. “I've never seen a play on Broadway.”

See? I'm not going to sit around moping about you, Nathaniel Kennedy
flashes through my brain.

“But the thing is, I can't go. I've got a healing conference. So if you want to ask someone to go with you, like, oh, I dunno . . .” The word “Nate” escapes silently from her mouth and hangs above her in a cartoon bubble.

“I'll ask my sister,” I say firmly.

Winding a curl round her finger, Robyn pauses thoughtfully. “Lucy, I don't want to interfere, but are you sure this isn't just a lovers' tiff?”

“Definitely not.” I shake my head determinedly. “In fact . . .” Suddenly remembering something, I stop walking, reach my fingers into my T-shirt, and pull out my half-coin pendant. I haven't taken it off since Nate and I put them back on again. Looping it over my head, I chuck it into a nearby bin.

And turning to Robyn, who's staring at me in disbelief, I say, “Now do you believe me?”

With endings come new beginnings, and later that day, back at the apartment, I decide to have a clear-out. Fresh start and all that. I've got junk everywhere and so I spend the rest of Sunday sorting stuff out and throwing lots away. Including my “Nate file,” which is full of old photographs, letters, and mementoes that I've kept all these years and carted around with me wherever I've gone.

Now it's time to let go, I tell myself firmly, chucking the whole lot in the bin. Time to move on.

Before I go to sleep that night, I put my phone on charge. I haven't heard from Nate, but then I don't expect to. For a brief moment I think about sending him a sort of good-bye-but-no-hard-feelings text, then decide against it. Things are still a bit too raw. Best leave it until the dust settles, then send an e-mail saying something mature and philosophical about love and relationships.

Maybe even one day we'll become friends like Bruce and Demi, and go on holidays together with our new partners. Whenever anyone asks us, we'll talk fondly about each other and laugh and reminisce. I'll even laugh about those pineapple boxer shorts and how he's always on the phone. It will be endearing, as will my lateness and messiness and purple hair.

I'll still want to kill him for his comment about my thighs, though.

I wake up on Monday morning feeling positive. It's a new day, the first day of the rest of my life. After yesterday's cathartic throwing-away of the old, it's time to welcome the new. Just consider, I'm never going to have to think about Nate again. He's never going to pop wistfully into my head when a song comes on the radio, and I'm never again going to get a pang of “What if?” when I see a couple cozying up together. It's incredible.

It's as if a whole weight has been lifted from my shoulders, I muse, happily sipping my extra-shot latte as I walk to work. Listening to my iPod, I stride down the street with a real spring in my step. I feel lighter, freer—

“I hear wedding bells!”

Pushing open the door of the gallery, I'm greeted by Magda charging over to greet me, her stilettos clattering loudly on the polished concrete like a drum roll.

“What?” Pulling out my earphones, I stare at her in confusion.

“You and Nathaniel! Can you hear them?” she exclaims, cupping her hand against her ear.

I stand frozen in shock, all thoughts of being lighter and freer and never hearing his name again vanishing into the ether.

“You should have it at the Plaza. I have a friend, Ernie Wiseman, who can give you a fabulous deal on the flowers.”

I feel a sickening thud. How am I going to break the news to Magda that it's over? “Actually, I don't think there's going to be a wedding,” I say tactfully. Well, let's start with the obvious.

“I know, I know, you want a long engagement.” She shrugs her tiny shoulders, which are encased in two huge shoulder pads. “You want time to plan, to organize, to make it all perfect, but let me tell you, you need to get him down the aisle in the first three months—three months, I tell you.”

Faced with the ten-ton truck that is Magda careering toward me in full wedding-at-the-Plaza mode, I realize softly-softly isn't going to cut it. “We broke up,” I blurt.

For a moment Magda's mouth continues moving but no words come out. Then she lets out a howl, like a wounded animal, her Gucci heels appearing to buckle beneath her as she clings to the reception desk.

“No, no!” she wails, finding her voice. “This
cannot
be true!”

“I'm sorry. It just didn't work out,” I try explaining, but Magda's turned pale, even underneath that Hamptons tan and thick layer of pearlized blusher, and is staring at me with a stricken expression. Though that could be the result of a visit to her “friend” Dr. Rosenbaum, I reflect, spotting the telltale signs of bruising around her eyes.

“But he has Italian shoes,” she manages to croak.

“I made a mistake,” I fib hastily. “They were from Banana Republic.”

Magda is undeterred. “Don't worry, we can fix that,” she says, a look of pure determination in her eyes. “I know the manager at Bergdorf. I can get fifty percent off a pair of Pradas.”

“No, truly, it's fine,” I say hastily. “We weren't right for each other.”

Magda looks at me as if I'm speaking a foreign language. “What does that have to do with anything?” she gasps, incredulous. “I have had three husbands and none of them was right for me!”

She says this so indignantly that it takes a moment for it to register, and when it does, I'm not quite sure how it's supposed to lend support to her argument.

“At least the gallery opening went well,” I say cheerfully, deciding not to ask and instead changing the subject. Quickly skirting round to the computer, I flick it on and start checking our e-mails. “Fingers crossed it helps business.”

“Hmph,” she says sulkily.

“And we've got a few e-mails here about the food, saying how delicious the meatballs were,” I continue, looking over for a reaction. There's a vague stirring of her head; her golden beehive tips slightly.

“Oh, and I saw my friend Robyn and she said she and Daniel are going out on a date,” I say, in a last-ditch effort. OK, so it's not strictly true. And I'm prostituting my friend. But give me a break—I'm desperate.

It works. Magda's head shoots up, like Jenny's and Simon's when you say, “w-a-l-k.”

“They are? I knew it! What did I tell you? When it comes to matchmaking, I am never wrong.” She shoots me a pointed look, which I quickly deflect.

“Yes, isn't it great?” I enthuse. “They seem like a really good couple.”

“A
good
couple? They are the
perfect
couple,” she boasts, raising herself up to her full height of four feet eleven. “Though my son never tells me anything,” she grumbles as an afterthought. “He thinks I will tell everyone, that I have a big mouth.” She looks at me, affronted. “Me? A big mouth?” Clutching her chest, which, like everything on Magda, looks suspiciously pert, she gasps theatrically, “I am the soul of discretion. The very soul.”

“Absolutely.” I nod gravely, clicking on an e-mail from the photographer we hired for the opening. A whole set of pictures opens up. “Who's that?” I ask, peering at a photograph of a particularly attractive older woman. “She looks very glamorous.”

I swivel the screen so Magda can see, and she tuts loudly.

“Well, what do you expect?” she exclaims, rolling her eyes. “That's Melissa Silverstein. She blackmailed her millionaire husband when she discovered he was having an affair.” Leaning closer, she lowers her voice. “I shouldn't really say, as she told me in confidence, but she found him in bed with the gardener. . . .”

After Magda has divulged the innermost secrets of her friend, giving proof, if any was needed, that perhaps Daniel does have a point and discretion and Magda don't go together, it's business as usual and the rest of the morning is taken up with admin and paperwork.

Then it's lunchtime and I'm going to Katz's for our regular order, being served by the same grumpy man behind the counter who never speaks, and walking back to the gallery with Magda's hot matzo-ball soup and pastrami on rye. The only difference being that today I decide to skip my usual tuna melt and grab a coffee and an apple. No particular reason. It hasn't got
anything
to do with Nate's comment about my thighs, for example. Or that I now know that tuna melts are hideously fattening because I Googled them earlier and they've got about a million calories or something and all that melted cheese is just waiting to hijack your thighs and cover them in dimples.

No, it's really strange. I just don't have an appetite today at all, I muse, sipping my coffee as I stride down the street. My stomach isn't gurgling because I'm hungry; it's just making a funny noise because . . . well, I'm not sure why, but I'm sure there must be lots of reasons.