You're Not the One (9781101558959) (42 page)

“No, you look great,” I say. I've never understood why Robyn covers up her figure in baggy clothes, but tonight there's no mistaking she's working it. “Very sexy.”

Her cheeks flush. “Thanks.” She grins, then, remembering her hunt for her lost keys, darts across to the countertop and picks up a pile of mail. “Darn it, where can they be?”

“Don't worry, I'll hide my set.” Spotting a bag of Kettle Chips, I take a handful. “I'll put them under the potted plant on the landing.”

“You will?” She throws me a grateful look. “Oh, thanks, you're an angel.” She rushes for the door.

“Hey, but you still haven't told me where you're going—” The door slams behind her, sending something toppling from the top of the fridge with a crash. Bending down, I pick it up. It's her vision board.

“Or who with,” I murmur, staring at the pasted pictures of dark, handsome strangers and cut-out letters that spell the words “soul mate” and “Harold.” Something tells me it's sure as hell not with him.

Propping it back up on the fridge, I reach for my bag. I need to get ready for my date with Adam, though I still don't know what the surprise is, or where we're meeting, I reflect, feeling a flutter of nerves. Digging out my phone, I check again to see if I've got a text and notice the battery is completely dead. Damn, where's my charger? By the toaster, where I left it, I notice, hastily plugging it in. Instantly a message beeps up. It's from Adam.

It's a time and a place. I feel a thrill and glance at the clock on the microwave. Oh, no, it's that time already?

Dashing into the bathroom, I jump in the shower and spend the next thirty minutes doing what I call the “transformation.” Out go the frizzy hair, sweaty face, baggy T-shirt, and leggings, and in come natural-looking makeup, a vintage thrift store dress that's a bit tight under the arms but that makes me look like I've got a flat stomach, and hair that, OK, will never rival Jennifer Aniston's, but won't rival Amy Winehouse's either.

All done, I glance at myself in the mirror. Now I know how Jesus must have felt. Talk about performing miracles. So he made water into wine? Big deal. I can make a hungover mess into something vaguely presentable. Maybe even a little sexy, I think, giving myself the once-over and feeling a tingle of excitement.

A thought zips through my brain, and dashing into the bedroom I rummage in my chest of drawers and pull out my “special” underwear: a lacy thong and push-up bra that cost an absolute fortune from Agent Provocateur. I went shopping there last year after the office Christmas party, when I was a bit drunk, and ended up spending far too much on sexy lingerie that I've barely worn.

The problem is, I'm worried I might look a bit, well,
up for it
. Looking sexy is one thing, but premeditated is another. As if I'm
expecting
to have sex with him. I want to look like I've just thrown this on, as if it's my usual underwear, I decide, swapping out my regular underwear and wriggling into it. I glance at myself in the mirror.

Oh, please
. As if I usually wear a pink and black satin balconette bra that's squeezing my boobs together and hoisting them upward into impressive cleavage. I wear comfy flesh-colored T-shirt bras that go with everything. But I can't wear one of those, I think with horror, looking at the T-shirt bra discarded on the bed, like a beige jelly mold. It is the most unflattering thing you've ever seen.

I stare at it for a few seconds, an internal bra battle raging inside me, then make a decision. Nope, I cannot, repeat
cannot
, wear my jelly-mold bra on my surprise date. A man would never understand the excuse of comfort and that it doesn't show any seams. In fact, I remember once mentioning that very reason to an old boyfriend and he looked at me in bewilderment. “What, you have to wear an invisible bra?” Which wasn't the point at all, but still.

In the end I go with the pink and black satin—just in case—and head to the subway. Adam has given me the address, on Twelfth Street near Union Square, and I jump on a train. I'm getting pretty good at the subways now, I reflect, sitting down and glancing at the faces around me. When I first arrived, I used to feel so different, like an outsider, but now I'm beginning to feel like one of them. It's starting to feel like home.

But for how much longer? I muse, a seed of worry sprouting as I think about the gallery and Magda's financial problems. I just have to hope the meeting went well with Artsy. Whatever the outcome, we'll find out soon enough, I tell myself. Turning to stare out the window at the blackness, I brush my worry aside. For tonight, anyway.

Walking out of the station, I look for the address. Admittedly I have to take out my pop-up map—it might be starting to feel like home, but it's one I still regularly get lost in—and start navigating streets until I see a small art-house cinema. Neon light from the sign is illuminating the pavement, where a few people are milling about, including Adam.

I spot him first; he's leaning against a wall, smoking a cigarette and reading a magazine. It's as if my eyes laser in on him. Why is it that before I barely noticed him? At the gallery opening that first night he attracted my attention only because he looked out of place. Now it's as if a spotlight is shining down upon him and I don't notice anyone
but
him.

On top of that, I notice
everything
about him. How the V-necked T-shirt shows off that little soft, fuzzy triangle of skin at the hollow of his neck. How the muscle in his tanned forearm flexes as he turns the pages of his magazine. The way a dark shock of hair keeps falling over his brow like a mischievous child, unwilling to behave. I watch him brush it back with the flat of his hand.

“Adam?”

“Hey.” His eyes crinkle into a smile as he sees me. “So you made it.”

“Sorry I'm late,” I begin apologizing quickly. “The plane was delayed and then my phone died, so I only got your text about an hour ago and—”

“No worries. I was catching up on some reading.” Cutting me off with an easy shrug, he puts out his cigarette, then rolls up his magazine and sticks it in his back pocket. “I'm just glad you're here.” He looks pleased, and utterly adorable, and I feel my insides melt like chocolate. All my life I've been told off for being useless and late, greeted with an impatient tut or annoyed gasp. Adam is the first person just to be glad I'm here, as if it's no big deal.

“Me too.” I smile and go to give him a polite hug. I don't want to be presumptuous, despite my choice of underwear, I think, ignoring the pinching of my G-string. Instead I sort of trip up on the sidewalk and crash-land on his mouth. A tingle rushes all the way down to my feet.

Then I pull away awkwardly. “Oh gosh, sorry.” I begin apologizing again.

“Hey, no worries,” he says again. “I was going to save that move for later, but if you want to go ahead now . . .” His eyes flash with amusement and I can't help but laugh, despite my embarrassment. That's another thing about Adam: Even when I'm bursting into tears at police stations or lunging at him in public places, he always manages to put me at ease.

“So . . .” Grinning, we stand for a moment, facing each other on the pavement.

“So . . .” I say, raising my arms and then sort of flapping them back down against my sides. Rather like a penguin, I suddenly realize, quickly sticking them in the pockets of my jacket before he starts thinking he's gone on a date with Pingu.

“Shall we go inside?”

“Yes, let's.”

Looping his arm through mine, he leads me through the glass doors and into the foyer, with its faded maroon carpet covered in gold swirly patterns and zigzagging marks from where a vacuum has been run over it. On the walls are framed vintage posters advertising
The Godfather
, an old Bruce Lee movie, and Alfred Hitchcock's
Vertigo
, along with chipped Art Deco mirrors. It smells of buttered popcorn and air-freshener, and the whole place is badly in need of a lick of paint, but it has that warm, shabby, lived-in feeling that you'd never get from a big, modern multiscreen cinema. You can tell that everyone who comes here loves this place.

And so do I, I realize, feeling a sudden fondness for it.

“This used to be an old fire station,” Adam is saying as we walk across the foyer. “It's the oldest, longest-running art cinema in the city. It showed the first talkie in 1927, starring Al Jolson in
The Jazz Singer
. Look, there's a poster over there.” His voice is animated and his enthusiasm infectious. “The reaction from the audience was immediate. They couldn't believe it. Can you imagine? They got to their feet and started clapping when it happened. It was in the middle of the film, during a nightclub scene, when Jolson suddenly spoke.”

“What did he say?” I ask, my curiosity caught.

He puts on a stupid voice. “‘Wait a minute, wait a minute. You ain't heard nuthin' yet!'” He laughs. “Kinda prophetic, huh?”

I marvel at him. “How do you know all this stuff?”

“I dunno.” He shrugs. “I guess because I love it. Film fascinates me.” He stops and looks at me. “It's like you and art. It's whatever you're passionate about, right? It's the same thing.”

I glance at Adam: Thirty, a filmmaker from Brooklyn; habits include doing silly voices and gallery-crashing for the freebies. We're so completely different and yet . . . I look at him again and get the same feeling I got that day at the MoMA: that fundamentally, underneath, we're the same.

“Yeah, it is.” I nod. “It's the same thing.”

We continue walking, past the door that reads
Screen One
and toward another.

“So what's your favorite movie ever?” I ask, as we reach screen two. We pause outside. Briefly it crosses my mind that we haven't bought tickets.

“Wait and see.” He smiles enigmatically, pushing open the door.

“Is that the surprise?” Of course, Adam must have bought tickets earlier.

“Sort of.”

Passing through the doorway, we enter the darkened theater.

“Gosh, there's no one here,” I say, glancing around the empty rows.

“I know.” He leads me down the middle of an aisle.

“Damn, I forgot to get the popcorn,” I tut, suddenly remembering. “That was part of the deal, wasn't it? You get the tickets and I get the pop—” I break off as I spot something glinting in the darkness.

A silver bucket.
An ice bucket
.

“Is that . . . ?” I glance up at Adam. In the darkness it's hard to make out the expression on his face, but as my eyes adjust, I see he's looking at me and smiling nervously.

“I hope you like champagne,” he says, producing a bottle from nowhere.

“But how?” I'm gobsmacked. Truly. For once in my life I'm lost for words.

“My friend's the projectionist. He owed me a little bit of a favor.” He starts unwrapping the foil.

“You mean we've got this whole place to ourselves?” I ask in amazement.

“Call it a private screening.” He grins as the cork suddenly pops. “Oh fuck!” Champagne froths everywhere and he scrabbles to catch it in a plastic cup. “Sorry, I totally forgot the glasses—I got plastic cups instead,” he says, passing me one.

“You know, I've always thought champagne tastes better in plastic.” I grin, tapping my plastic cup against his.

“Goes well with popcorn too,” he says, producing a large carton.

“What are you?” I smile, incredulous. “A magician?”

“Something like that.” He smiles as I grab a handful of warm, buttered salty popcorn. Happiness swells. “Mmm, this is—”

He silences me with a kiss on the lips. “Shh . . . the movie's about to start.”

It turns out Fellini's
8½
is Adam's favorite film, and for the next two and a bit hours I'm completely absorbed by the tale of Guido, an Italian movie director, whose flashbacks and dreams are interwoven with reality.

“It was incredible, really incredible. Though I didn't understand a lot of it,” I confess afterward, while finishing my second slice of pizza. On leaving the cinema, we grabbed takeout slices and are eating them on the way back to my place.

“Exactly like I feel about the art you show me,” he says, as we climb the stairs to my apartment.

“Can you like something you don't really understand?” I muse.

“Totally.” He nods, taking a large bite of pizza. “You've got your whole life to figure it out. My grandfather once told me he'd spent his entire life trying to figure out my grandmother.”

“And did he?” Letting ourselves in, we pause in the kitchen.