You're Not the One (9781101558959) (28 page)

At the thought of Magda, I feel a twinge of anxiety. The past few days she's had this worried look about her. She won't say why, and whenever I've asked if everything is OK, she's replied with her usual “Wonderful, wonderful,” but I know everything is far from wonderful, and I know it's because the gallery isn't selling as many pieces as it should be. In fact, despite our opening last weekend to drum up business, the only paintings we've sold recently are the ones Nate bought, which was significant, but not enough for us to retire on.

Nate
. As his name pops into my head, I quickly shoo it back out again. No, I don't want to think about him. I've had quite enough of him. My ankle throbs painfully and I grimace. Go on, scoot.

A waitress walks by with a tray of champagne. I accept a glass and take a sip. Savoring the cold bubbles, I glance around. Now, what shall I look at first?

Instead of my eyes landing on a piece of artwork, they land on a familiar figure in a baseball cap and faded T-shirt and jeans, hovering by one of the waitresses, who's carrying a tray of canapés. He's got his back to me, but I recognize him immediately.

The gallery crasher.

“Hi there.” Going up to him, I tap him on the shoulder.

He turns round and, seeing me, holds up his hands in surrender. In one is a glass of champagne, in the other a vol-au-vent. “Guilty as charged,” he declares, grinning, before I can say anything.

“So how is it?” I ask, smiling.

I'm surprised by how pleased I am to see him. That's only because I'm here on my own, I decide quickly. At events like these it's always nice to see a familiar face, regardless of whose it is.

“The art or the champagne?” he asks, his eyes twinkling with amusement.

“Both,” I laugh.

“Hmm, well . . .” He takes a sip from his glass and rolls it around his mouth. “I'd say the champagne is pretty damn good, better than the last opening I went to. . . .”

I shoot him a look. “And the art?” I raise my eyebrows inquiringly.

He looks sheepish. “I haven't looked yet.”

“Adam!” I cry, and whack him on the arm.

“You remembered my name.” He seems surprised.

“Um . . . yeah, my memory's not
that
bad.” I laugh self-consciously, suddenly feeling awkward. “I think I need to hit you harder.” I try rescuing myself by resorting to violence a second time and punch his arm again.

“Ow, no.” He winces, rubbing his arm. “I bruise like a peach.”

“Serves you right.” I smile ruefully. “I can't believe you haven't bothered to look at any of the installations. They're supposed to be amazing.”

“I was waiting for you,” he says simply.

“Me?” Now I'm the one to look surprised. Not just by his answer, but by my stomach, which unexpectedly flips over.

“Well, I figured you might show up, being such an art lover. . . .” He trails off, smiling, and I can't tell if he's teasing me or not. “I thought I'd wait for you to talk me through it. You did such a good job last time.”

So it's just because I know about art, I realize, feeling curiously deflated. “Compliments aren't going to get you off the hook,” I say, quickly hiding my disappointment. “Anyway, it's your turn.”

He looks at me, his eyes narrowed, as if now he thinks I'm the one teasing him. “You want me to take you to a movie?”

“Wasn't that the deal?”

Abruptly I catch myself. Lucy Hemmingway, are you
flirting
? At the realization I feel my cheeks flush. I am.
I'm flirting
. What on earth's got into me?

“Well, in that case, leave it to me.” He nods and chews his lip, clearly deep in thought.

“OK, whatever,” I say with a sort of noncommittal shrug, as if I'm not really bothered either way. Well, I don't want him getting the wrong impression and thinking I
fancy
him or anything ridiculous like that. Because I don't. Obviously.

We start moving around the gallery.

In fact, thinking about it, I wasn't really flirting. I was just being friendly. And jokey. Yes, that's it, friendly and jokey.

“Gosh, I'm starving!” I exclaim, trying to be all jolly and normal and steering the conversation on to something safe. Spotting a waitress, I help myself to a tiny wafer elaborately piled with slivers of lots of things I'm not sure I know the names of. I pop it into my mouth in one go. Well, it was really tiny. “Mmm, this is delicious,” I murmur. “You should try one,” I tell Adam.

“I've already had half a dozen.” He grins, swapping his empty champagne flute for a full one. “But I suppose another couple wouldn't hurt.” As he helps himself to more, we come to a standstill in front of a large red metal and mirror sculpture.

“So what exactly is it?” asks Adam, after a moment's pause.

I glance in the catalogue. “It's called
Minanga
.”

“Meaning?” Glancing at me sideways, he looks at me expectantly.

“I have no idea,” I confess with a giggle.

His face creases up into a smile, making his eyes crinkle around the edges. “How about getting some fresh air?”

“Good idea.”

We weave our way through the clusters of people, out onto the pavement and farther along the street, until we reach the edge of the crowd, where it's quieter. For a moment we both stand there, sipping our drinks. Then, after a long pause, Adam says, “So, is your boyfriend coming here tonight?” with what feels like feigned nonchalance.

My chest tightens and I pretend to study the bubbles in my glass, but I can feel his gaze upon me. “We broke up,” I say, forcing my voice to sound casual. I sneak a look at his reaction. I might be imagining it, but I'm sure I see surprised happiness flash across his face. A split second and then it's gone and we're back to the feigned nonchalance.

“Oh, what happened?”

At least I think it's feigned nonchalance. Perhaps it really
is
nonchalance and he's not bothered and I'm reading this all wrong.

I suddenly feel about twelve years old again and confused about whether Robert Pickles likes
me
or he's kicking my chair in maths simply because he likes kicking my chair. I never did find out, but you'd think after all these years I would have learned something, discovered a few tricks, got better at this body-language stuff.

Instead I'm still completely rubbish, I think, feeling a stab of frustration. If only men were like New York taxicabs and had a light that they could switch on when they're interested and off when they're not available. Then you'd know exactly where you were and you wouldn't have to worry about getting it wrong and being horribly embarrassed.

Like now. I look at Adam. Is his light on or off?

For safety's sake, I go for the “light off ” option. “It didn't work out.” I shrug.

Well, I'm hardly going to tell him the truth, am I? That I thought Nate was my soul mate. That we'd thought we couldn't live without each other, only to find out that we couldn't live
with
each other. And that we ended up having a huge row during which he said unspeakable things about my thighs and I made a hurtful comment about his receding hairline.

Exactly. I think I'm going to stick with “It didn't work out.”

“Sorry to hear that,” says Adam quietly.

“Thanks.” I give him a rueful smile, but somewhere deep inside I don't want him to be sorry to hear that I've broken up with Nate—I want him to be pleased I'm single.

Hang on,
what
did I just think?

As the realization strikes, it suddenly triggers two more thoughts: 1) If I'm one of those cabs, my light has just been flicked on; and 2) What on earth is that noise?

Abruptly I'm distracted by sounds coming from a shop across the street. I hadn't noticed it before. It's one of those stores that sell electrical goods; its window is filled with a jumble of toasters, kettles, hi-fis, and TV sets, each showing the same program. I look at them now, all the different screens ablaze with identical giant graphics, and there's a blasting sound of jingling theme music. Even from across the street I can hear the singsong voices booming out, “
Big Bucks
means big bucks!”

Big Bucks?
Hang on a minute, that's the name of one of Nate's game shows, the one that, rather appropriately given its name, made him all his money. He told me about it one night when we were in bed, about how it was one of the most lucrative and popular on TV. At the time I didn't pay much attention—to be honest, I was more interested in what was under the covers than in cash prizes—but now . . .

Now I watch, mesmerized, as a cheesy presenter bounds onto each and every screen, his neon white teeth flashing, and I feel myself recoil.

“Lucy?”

I tune back in. “Oh, sorry, I got distracted,” I fluster, turning back to Adam.

“You OK?” He's looking at me quizzically.

“Sorry . . . yeah, I'm fine.” I smile, shrugging it off.

Bloody Nate, he's everywhere. If I'm not bumping into him, I'm being reminded of him. It's as if there's no escape.

“Oh, good, because I was going to ask you . . . um . . . if you'd like to . . .” He shuffles his feet self-consciously.

I feel a leap of nervous excitement. Oh my God, I think he's going to ask me out.

“Hey, it's Lucy, isn't it?” Suddenly we're interrupted by a loud voice and I feel my heart plummet. Oh, no, go away. Whoever you are, go away!

“Yeah, it is you!”

I pretend I haven't heard. “You were saying,” I prompt Adam, looking at him expectantly, but it's no good. The mood is broken.

“I think that guy knows you,” he says, gesturing behind me.

Hiding my disappointment, I turn round and come face-to-face with a short man in a shiny suit; he's beaming at me. He looks familiar, but for a moment I can't place him—

“The TV party, the other evening. I said how cute your dress was.” He jogs my memory.

“Oh, hi . . . Brad?” Of course; he's the creep who kept putting his arm round my waist and who told one bad joke after another.

“Brad by name, bad by nature.” He laughs and lights his cigarette.

I falter. Normally conversations go back and forth, but there really is no answer to that. In desperation, I grab hold of Adam. “Have you two met? This is my friend Adam. Adam, this is Brad.”

If I was hoping to be saved by this introduction, I'm wrong. Instead Brad grunts and shakes hands before immediately turning back to me. “So, how's Nathaniel?”

I cannot believe this
.

“Oh . . . um, I think he's OK.”

“He's an awesome guy. You make a really great couple.”

This is a bad dream. Any minute now I'm going to wake up
.

“Well, actually—” I begin, but he cuts me off by turning to Adam.

“Seriously, they are so cute together.”

Oh my God. Make it stop. Please. For the love of God. Please make it stop
.

“I'm just going to get a refill,” says Adam, moving away before I can stop him.

Fuck.

I think about draining my drink and following him, but I'm not quick enough, I realize with dismay. Reluctantly I turn back to Brad, who's now droning on about himself. I try to look interested—“Uh-huh . . . really? . . . Uh-huh . . .”—but ten minutes later I'm still caught in this stranglehold of a conversation. I keep smiling and nodding, but on the inside I'm crying with frustration. This is all Nate's fault. He completely sabotaged it for me. One minute I thought Adam was going to ask me out on a date, and the next up popped Brad and ruined it. Talk about bad timing.

I glance desperately over Brad's shoulder to see if I can see Adam. He's been gone ages. Where is he?

Then I spot him. Over by the entrance to the gallery. He's smoking a cigarette and
talking to a girl
. A very pretty brunette. My heart thuds. Heads bent low, they're deep in conversation, and I see her lightly touching his arm. My stomach lurches. Who is she? Jealousy stabs, followed by a crushing sense of dismay as I watch them break into raucous laughter. They look intimate, comfortable,
together
.

“I'm sorry, will you excuse me?” Abruptly I cut Brad off mid-sentence.

“Oh . . . yeah, sure.” He nods, slightly taken aback.

I turn away before Adam sees me looking, and quickly slipping away through the crowd, I hurry into the night.

“You're home early.”

I arrive back at the apartment to find Robyn sitting cross-legged on the floor of the living room, surrounded by piles of magazines.