You're Not the One (9781101558959) (19 page)

We're in the penthouse. There aren't any neighbors upstairs.

Flummoxed, I prise open an eye, as if maybe I'm actually going to see what's making this dull throbbing noise. The curtains are still drawn and the bedroom is pitch-dark; the only things in here are me and Nate.

And then I twig. It must be Nate snoring. Not that he usually snores, but in my experience all a man has to do is roll onto his back and it's as if someone just turned on the waste disposal. Reaching out my hand, I go to push him over.

But he's not there.

Disconcerted, I sit up. Where's he gone? I slip out from the covers and pull on the robe hanging behind the door. It's one of those lovely white waffle ones that you get in expensive hotels, and it bears no resemblance whatsoever to my raggedy old one that's covered in loose threads.

Note to self: Remember to hide it when Nate eventually comes over.

Opening the bedroom door, I pad into the hallway and catch sight of the sunrise breaking over the Manhattan skyline, triggering two thoughts: 1) Gosh, that's so beautiful; and 2) Fuck, it's early.

A hippo-sized yawn overtakes me, and distracted by the noise, I turn my attention away from the window. The noise is even louder out here, and is that . . . ?

Feeling a ripple of apprehension, I pause to listen.

Somewhere in the filing cabinet of my mind, my memory throws up a story I once heard about a friend who stumbled in on her boyfriend when he was watching a movie. Put it this way, it wasn't the kind of movie you'd rent at your local video store.

Oh God. Alarm stabs as I get an image of Nate—

I quickly pull myself together. OK, don't panic. I'm a woman of the world. I've been around. Well, not
that
kind of around, but I've watched porn. Once, by accident, for about two seconds. It was years ago and I was staying at a hotel with my parents and I pressed the wrong button on the remote. I don't know who was more embarrassed, me or my mum.

Still, it's fine. I'm totally cool. Just as long as he doesn't want me to sit down and watch it with him, I think, suddenly remembering a Dear Abby letter I once read and feeling a twinge of anxiety. I know, I'll just tell him I'm busy, that I need to make a cup of tea, or update my Facebook, or something.

Steeling myself, I pin what I hope is a sort of I'm-totally-open-minded-and-I-once-had-sex-dressed-in-a-nurse's-outfit-but-more-of- that-later expression on my face and head toward the living room. The panting is growing louder. And now there's a sort of
grunting
.

Oh fuck. I swallow hard. Be cool, Lucy.

Trust me, I have never felt less cool. I'm wearing a waffle robe and I have purple hair and I'm about to walk in on my boyfriend while he's—

“. . . and we should totally rethink our strategy of going out to the network with the pilot . . .”

On the phone and huffing and puffing up and down on a huge black exercise machine
.

Frozen, I stare at him for a moment. I was prepared for all kinds of things, but this? Taken aback, I watch him. Red faced and sweating profusely, he's gripping the moving handles for dear life, his legs pumping away. He's also naked apart from his pineapple boxer shorts, a Bluetooth headset, his glasses, and a pair of very large, very white trainers.

Unexpectedly, a thought fires across my brain.

It hits me sharp and hard in the solar plexus.

No sooner has it registered than I brush it aside. I mean, who
does
look sexy when they're exercising? I look terrible!

Well, I would if I exercised, that is.

“Hey.”

I snap back to see Nate looking at me.

“Hey, one minute, Joe,” he pants, as I give a weak sort of wave. “You're up early.”

I nod lamely. “So are you.”

“Well, now that my elliptical's here I want to get back to my normal routine,” he puffs in explanation.

So that's what the big box was, I realize, watching as he presses a button and the whole thing starts inclining.

“Also I had to make a few calls to the London office.”

“On a Saturday?”

“TV never stops,” he grunts, tightening his grip on the handles and pumping his arms harder. “It's twenty-four-seven.”

I watch the ramp getting steeper and steeper as he keeps striding.

“Anyway, I better get back.” He gestures to his earpiece.

“Oh, right, yeah, of course.” I nod. “I'll go make some . . .” I'm about to say “coffee,” as it's such a force of habit, then I remember that Nate doesn't drink it. “Juice,” I finish.

“Great. There's some celery in the fridge.” Breathlessly he breaks off to wipe his face with a towel. “I think there might be some beets too.”

“Fab.” I grin.

Celery? Beets?

With my smile still fixed to my face, I leave him huffing and puffing and pad into the kitchen, then pause as the enormity of what I've suggested sinks in: Me. In a kitchen. Using one of these gadgets.

As I glance around at all the scary-looking pieces of equipment lined up on the counter, my confidence deserts me. They look like evil torture devices. They
are
evil torture devices, I muse, remembering the one and only time I tried to use an electric can opener. It was like something out of
The Texas Chainsaw Massacre
. Trust me, I still have the scar on my thumb to prove it.

It takes a few minutes to locate the juicer. To be truthful, I'm not sure how I could miss it with a name like Hercules. It's a big silver monster of a thing and for a few moments I eye it warily, then screw up my courage. OK, so it
looks
scary and complicated, but how hard can it be? I'm making juice, for God's sake. Rolling up the sleeves of my robe, I tug open the fridge and grab the celery and beetroot.

I mean, come on, it's hardly rocket science.

Ten minutes later I am deeply regretting that statement.

I've dismantled the machine, there are bits of it everywhere, and it's still not working. I look at it lying dismembered on the countertop next to some wilted organic celery and a misshapen beetroot. Seriously, I would have more chance of building a rocket than making juice. For example, what's this bit? Picking up a piece of the machine, I peer at it curiously. It's like a cog with a wiggly bit on the end. I pick up another bit. This piece is sort of round with a hole in it. I stare at them both blankly. Now I know why I flunked physics.

However, there is hope. Flicking through the instruction manual, which I managed to locate in a drawer, I turn to Chapter One: Getting Started. See, it's not all bad, I tell myself brightly. I've got the instructions: “1) Take the mesh strainer (part A) and attach it to the pulp extractor (part B), making sure the safety-locking clip (part C) is attached and the extra-large feed chute (part D) is in position.”

And I thought putting together cabinets from IKEA was difficult.

“Hey, how are you getting along?” Nate yells from the living room, and I stiffen.

“Great,” I yell back, wishing I could do what they used to do on
The Martha Stewart Show
and produce one I made earlier. “Coming right up.”

Fuck.

Frantically grabbing at different parts, I manage to stuff Hercules back together and I grab the celery and beetroot. It says to “feed them in one by one,” but I don't have time for that and so I stuff the whole lot in together, then switch it on.

At exactly the moment I'm flicking the switch I spy another piece of the machine lurking by the side of the toaster. Oh, what does that bit do?

Argh. Suddenly that question is answered as I'm sprayed with bits of celery and beetroot. Juice starts squirting everywhere, all over the countertops, all over me, all over everything. I dive on the machine, trying to switch it off. Only I can't even see where the switch is, as now I've got beetroot juice in my eyes, and the machine is making a loud grinding noise, and it's shuddering, and I'm getting soaked, and—

“Jesus!”

Abruptly the machine falls silent and I twirl round to see Nate. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he's holding the cord, his face aghast.

“It looks like a bloodbath in here!”

Dazedly I take in the sight. It's like something from a horror film. Everywhere I look the walls are dripping with red liquid. It's sprayed over the countertops, the stainless-steel fridge, the cooker, the utensils . . . and then there's the celery pulp. Green clumps of it, flecks of it, little bits of it, all over his lovely, pristine kitchen. And all over me.

“What the hell happened?”

“Um . . . I-I was having a spot of trouble with the j-juicer,” I stammer in shock. Mortified, I start trying to wipe the splatters of pulp from my face with the sleeve of my robe.

“No kidding.” Grabbing a few sheets of paper towels, he passes them to me.

“There was this piece missing.”

“You mean the lid?”

The tone of his voice makes me bristle slightly.

“Gosh, look, I'm so sorry. I'll clear it all.” Grabbing a dishcloth, I start frantically trying to clean up.

“It's probably going to ruin the marble countertop.”

“Oh God, I'm so sorry, really.”

“Marble's porous, you know.”

“Is it? Oh crap.” I wipe faster. “Though it's a bit silly to make a work surface out of it, then, isn't it?” I can't help noting aloud as an afterthought.

“Well, they don't expect you to drown it in beet juice,” he retorts.

“I know. I'm sorry. It was just a total accident.”
And I've apologized three times
, I feel like adding.

There's a pause and then he sighs. “Hey, don't worry about it. I suppose it's not a big deal.” Picking his way through the debris, he tugs open the fridge and reaches for a bottle of Evian. “I'd just forgotten how clumsy you are.”

Abruptly I feel myself prickle. OK, I admit I'm not the most coordinated of people, but still. “What's that supposed to mean?” I reply stiffly, pausing from wiping the countertop.

“In Italy don't you remember you were always tripping?”

“Have you ever attempted walking in high heels on cobbles?” I reply, trying not to sound defensive, and sounding defensive.

“Or breaking things.”

I look at him in disbelief. “You're never going to let me forget that vase, are you?”

“It was expensive. It was Murano glass.”

“I didn't mean to drop it,” I gasp. “It was all that spider's fault. It just appeared from nowhere and it was huge, with those big, hairy black legs.” I give a little shudder. “Anyway, I bought you another vase.”

“True.” He nods. “But they were all individually handblown. No two were alike.”

“I can't believe you're still holding this against me. It was ten years ago.”

“I'm just saying.” He shrugs, unscrewing the bottle of Evian and taking a swig.

I look at him leaning up against the fridge, casually glugging back water while I'm standing here soaked in beetroot juice and covered in sticky bits of celery pulp, scrubbing down his kitchen, and feel a stab of annoyance. Actually, it's more than a stab—it's a great big dollop of fury.

“Well, don't,” I snap.

He stops drinking and glances at me sharply. “This mess isn't my fault.”

“No, it's mine. I know, I'm clumsy.” Turning away, I continue furiously wiping the countertop.

“Well, if you were a bit more careful,” he retorts.

“If you bought juice in a carton like a normal person,” I say hotly.

He scowls. “Oh, so I'm being blamed now.”

“No, you're just being patronizing.”

There's silence as Nate and I stare at each other angrily.

“OK, well, I'm going to jump in the shower,” he says gruffly after a pause. “I've got work to do today.”

It's like a boxer's jab. It's the weekend. We made plans to spend it together.

I reel slightly, then quickly recover. “Yeah, I'm busy too,” I say stiffly. “I'll just finish clearing up and then I'll go.” Then before he can say anything else, I turn away sharply and start scrubbing the sink.

O
K, so we've just had our first row.

But that's fine. All couples have them. It's perfectly normal. In fact, it's not a bad thing at all. It's a
good
thing, I tell myself firmly. Arguing is healthy. It means we're a proper couple. I once read in a magazine that it's a really positive sign for the relationship.