You're Not the One (9781101558959) (38 page)

Picking my way through the grass in my new sandals, I walk around the side of the ramshackle barn and outbuildings. There's an abandoned tractor, a rusty bicycle leaning up against a wall, a drum kit . . .
a drum kit?
What's a drum kit doing in the middle of a field? Shielding my eyes from the bright sunshine, I stare at it in astonishment, before being distracted by the sight of a man up ahead digging a vegetable patch.

Maybe he can help. I call over to him, “Excuse me. Do you know where I can find Artsy?”

Straightening up, he turns round and, seeing me, strides over. Tall and broad shouldered, he's wearing a deerstalker hat, plus fours, and argyle socks, and looks a lot like the bronze statue of Sherlock Holmes that's outside the Baker Street tube station. It makes for a bizarre sight. It's not helped by the fact he's got a big, bushy beard and is smoking a pipe. While wearing flying goggles. Taking them off, he peers at me. “Who's looking for him?” he asks in a gruff southern drawl.

“My name's Lucy Hemmingway. I'm from Number Thirty-Eight, a gallery in New York.” I realize I'm gabbling.

He throws out his hand, which is the size of a dinner plate. “Artsy. Pleased to meet you.”

Of course. It had to be him. Who else would wear such an outfit? “Oh . . . hi,” I stammer. Smiling, I shake his hand. He's not anything like I imagined, though I'm not sure what I did imagine, as he never allows himself to be photographed.

He hands me a shovel. “You can help me dig for potatoes.”

Dig for potatoes? I look down at the earth and try not to think about the new sandals I bought at the airport and wore especially for our meeting. “Um . . . thanks.”

Luckily it seems Artsy is not just an artist; he's also a true gentleman. “Here, put these on.” Smiling, he holds out two plastic bags. “For your feet, so they don't get dirty.”

For the next hour I dig for potatoes with plastic bags tied around my feet. Slightly surreal, and not exactly the first impression I wanted to make, but then Artsy is renowned for being eccentric, so it was never going to be me and him chatting over a cappuccino.

We don't talk about art at all during that time. Instead we talk about composting, organic fertilizers, and the benefits of horse manure versus cow manure. Understandably, he does most of the talking—my knowledge of cow manure extends to the fact I once trod in a cowpat on a farm near my parents'—while I listen politely and sneak sideways glances at him. The article didn't give his date of birth—he's very secretive about that, as he is about a lot of things—but underneath the beard and goggles, I ascertain he's probably in his thirties.

And attractive, I decide, noticing his piercing blue eyes and perfect white teeth, hidden underneath his beard and revealed only when he smiles. It's as if the beard and his wacky outfit are part of his disguise, his desire to remain anonymous, but if he shaved it off and wore a T-shirt and jeans, he'd actually be rather devilishly good-looking, I realize, as he rolls up his sleeves to expose large, tanned forearms.

After a backbreaking hour in the hot sunshine, he finally declares it's time we break for ice cream.

“Vanilla or pistachio?” he demands, as we troop into one of the barns, where a large fridge with the words “Eat Me” stands. He flings it open to reveal nothing but tubs of ice cream and stacks of cones.

“Vanilla, please.” I smile at his eccentricity.

“Coming right up.” Grabbing a cone, he scoops out a ball of ice cream and passes it to me, then does one for himself. “Delicious, huh?” He looks to me for approval. “I love these cones. They're made from actual waffles, you know?”

“Mmm, yummy.” I nod approvingly.

“So . . .” Taking a lick of his ice cream, he studies me.

“So . . .” I say, trying to sound all breezy and not really nervous, which is how I am feeling. I can't put it off any longer. I have to bring up his artwork. I take a deep breath and swallow hard. “About your artwork . . .”

“Wanna see it?” He flashes me a grin.

Taken aback, I stare at him. Crikey, that was easy. “Absolutely.” I nod, and feeling myself relax, I break into a broad smile. “I'd love to.”

His studio is a large barn at the rear of the farm. As he slides back the door, shafts of sunlight flood inside, lighting up the dust particles, which twirl round like glitter in a snow globe. I'm filled with excitement and anticipation. Artsy is a hot new talent, a graffiti artist known for his ironic phrases and subverted images, and I'm entering his inner sanctuary, where he works, where he creates, where the magic happens. I feel like an explorer about to discover a whole new world.

What I discover instead is a giant washing line. Strung the full length of the barn, it's hung with dozens of large white sheets, each stenciled with various graphics and slogans. On one is painted a giant heart in all its anatomical detail with the words “Life is love” spray-painted across it. On another a series of hand silhouettes spell out “It's complicated.” Another is simply a plain white sheet, and right in the middle, in lettering so tiny that you have to go right up to it and squint, is the word “Why?”

“Wow, these are . . .”

“Different?” he finishes my sentence.

“Very.” I nod. “Tell me, why did you choose to use sheets as your medium?”

I'm expecting a long, convoluted answer, but instead he just shrugs. “Do you have any idea how much canvases that size are?” He pulls a face. “Total rip-off!”

I smile at his honesty. I'm beginning to really like Artsy. Like his art, he's certainly different.

“Sheets were perfect, but I used other stuff as well.” He walks farther into the barn, past piles of paint cans, brushes, and aerosols, to another washing line. This one is strung with shirts, trousers, socks, and underwear—all dirty, and all painted with slogans and words.

“It's sort of a metaphor for airing your dirty laundry,” he's saying. “Only I really am airing my dirty laundry.” He reaches forward to sniff a sock. “Pheugghhh.”

“And why all the umbrellas?” I ask, amused, pointing to a whole washing line strung with them, all painted with different graffiti.

“Well, they make wonderful canvases, plus I thought I'd highlight the plight of all the missing umbrellas.” He shrugs. “Everyone loses their umbrella—they're left on the subway, in cafés, in bars. But where do all these umbrellas end up?” He looks at me beseechingly. “Maybe there's some parallel universe where they're all propping up a singles bar, meeting other singleton umbrellas, creating mismatched waterproof couples.”

“Maybe.” I nod. He really is cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs, and yet there's something childlike in his imagination and enthusiasm that's oddly appealing. Having said that, eccentric people always are appealing, aren't they? Like your crazy aunt who's in her eighties and wears feather boas and does the cancan. Actually, no, that's just
my
crazy aunt.

“So, what are you thinking?”

I turn back to see Artsy looking at me, his brow crinkled up, like a child awaiting approval.

“I think the gallery would love to represent you,” I say, a little nervously. After all, he must have heard this a million times.

If he has, he still looks delighted. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” I nod.

“Huh.” He smiles faintly to himself and seems to be turning the idea over in his head. I think he's going to say something,
anything
, but then suddenly he's sliding his goggles back down and holding out his hand. “Well, I must get back to my potatoes.”

Our meeting must be over.

“Um . . . yes, of course.” I smile, hiding my disappointment, and shake his hand. “It's been great meeting you, and thank you for taking the time—”

Before I can finish he's striding out of the barn. I hurry after him before I'm locked in. Trust me, I wouldn't put it past him.

“So, any last questions?” Padlocking the barn door, he turns to me. “Speak now or forever hold your peace.” Twirling his hand above his head, he does a silly formal bow.

I don't move a muscle. There's nothing Artsy could do or say now to surprise me.

Except . . .

“Why all the secrecy?” I blurt, before I can stop myself.

His expression clouds and a large furrow appears down his forehead and runs underneath the glass of his goggles.

Oh shit, me and my big mouth. Immediately I regret my question. What on earth did I go and say that for? And just as it was going so well. Feeling a stab of panic, I try doing what I always do when I regret saying something, and that's say even more. “I mean, no one even knows your real name.” When really I should just shut the fuck up.

“Do you ask Sting his real name?” he demands. “Or Madonna?”

“Actually, Madonna is her real name,” I can't help pointing out.

“It is?” Surprise flashes across his face, followed by one of his handsome smiles. “Well, in that case I'll let you in on a secret. It's actually really embarrassing.” And pressing his bushy beard against my face, he whispers it in my ear.

“H
is name's Harold!”

An hour later I'm in a café in town making a frantic call to Robyn.

“Lucy?” She sounds disoriented. “Is everything OK?”

“Did you hear what I just said?” Ever since Artsy told me his real name, I've been desperate to get hold of Robyn to tell her the news, but the signal is so sketchy on the island that it's only now, back in town, that I've finally got reception.

“Um, sorry. Say that again.”

“The artist who I've come to see in Martha's Vineyard,” I cry into the phone. “You're never going to believe this, but his name's Harold!”

Robyn takes a breath. “You met someone named Harold?” she whispers.

OK, so I'm
slightly
breaking the confidentiality agreement. “But it's a secret,” I add quickly. I was always useless at keeping secrets. However this is more than just a secret, I decide, in justification for telling her. This is her destiny.
This is Harold!

God, I'm getting as bad as she is.

“What does he look like?” she asks quietly.

“Tall, dark, handsome . . .” I trail off. “Well, he would be if he shaved off the big bushy beard and he wore some different clothes, but I'm sure you can sort that out.”

There's silence on the other end of the line.

“Robyn? Are you there?”

“Yes, I'm here.” She sounds bizarrely calm. I thought she'd be whooping excitedly into the phone. But no,
I'm
the one whooping excitedly into the phone. I know, maybe she's in shock, I suddenly realize.

“Hey, are you OK?” I feel a beat of concern. “I know it's probably come as a bit of a shock.”

“No, not really,” she says evenly.

“It's not?” Now
I'm
the one in shock.

“Of course not,” she replies, sounding completely unfazed. “I always knew he was out there and I'd find him one way or another. How could I not? He's my soul mate,” she says with absolute certainty. “It was just a question of where and when. Like everything, it's all about timing and—” She breaks off. “Sorry, D, I'm on the phone. I'll just be a minute.”

“Who's D?” I frown.

“Oh . . . um, Daniel,” she says, sounding cornered. “We're at Rockaway Beach. It's super hot, so we came here for the day. You've never been, have you?”

She's changing the subject, which means only one thing: She's hiding something.

“What's going on with you and Daniel?” I ask suspiciously.

“Nothing,” she fires back innocently. “We're just friends.” She lowers her voice. “It's totally platonic.”

“Hey, Robyn, will you rub some lotion on my back?”

“You're rubbing lotion on him?”

“Sorry, Lucy, but I'm going to have to go.”

“
Go?
” I look at my phone in disbelief. Did I just mishear? She's been looking for Harold for months. She's visited a psychic. Made a vision board. Lit candles. Said her affirmations. Accosted strangers in the street. And now here I am ringing to tell her I've found him
and she wants to go
? “OK,” I say reluctantly. “Well, make sure to keep all your fingers and toes crossed. If he decides to exhibit with us, you'll meet him then.”

“Meet who?” she asks distractedly.

“Harold!” I gasp incredulously.

“Oh . . . awesome.”

Is it just me or could she have made that sound any
less
awesome?