You're Not the One (9781101558959) (22 page)

“So, when are you coming home?” asks Nate, interrupting my thoughts.

I feel a warm glow. See? We're back on course again. It was just a silly row. Nothing more.

“Well, I was going to head back to my apartment. I need to feed Jenny and Simon.”

“Jenny and Simon?”

“My roommate's dogs,” I explain, realizing that of course he wouldn't know anything about them as he's never been to my apartment. “She's away at a class all day and not back until late.”

“OK, well, a producer friend of mine is having a little drinks thing. It's nothing too fancy, just some TV people.”

Just some TV people? I feel a flash of nervous excitement.

“I wondered if you wanted to go.”

“That sounds fun,” I hear myself saying.

“Cool.” Nate sounds pleased. “Give me your address. I'll pick you up in an hour.”

One hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand and six hundred seconds.

To rush home, nearly have a heart attack racing up three flights of steps, feed the dogs, drag them round the block and almost choke them to death in an attempt to stop them from sniffing every lamppost. Then jump in the shower, shave my legs, cut them to ribbons, exfoliate, moisturize, try my super new straightening balm, blow-dry my hair, realize super new straightening balm is a total con and tie my hair up instead. Afterward apply makeup, attempt smoky eyes like I saw in a magazine, end up looking like I've been in the ring with Mickey Rourke, agonize over what to wear, then wear the only thing I can find that's not too creased. Then finally charge around the apartment tidying up, abandon tidying up and shove everything under the bed or behind the sofa, jump a mile when the buzzer goes, panic, take deep breaths, and greet Nate at the door looking composed and utterly relaxed.

“You look nice,” he says approvingly, as he walks in and gives me a kiss. Then he jumps back as Simon and Jenny come running, tails wagging, to greet him.

“Don't worry, they're super friendly.” I smile at his worried expression.

“It's just that I've had these pants dry-cleaned, that's all.” Bending down, he brushes a couple of hairs from the legs of his suit, where the dogs have rubbed against him. Jenny, thinking he's bending down to pat her, rewards him with a big slobbery lick. “Eugh.” He jerks upright, looking disgusted.

“Ooh, sorry.” Hastily I try to shoo the dogs back into the living room.

“Do you have any antibacterial wipes?” he asks, wiping his face with his hand.

“No, I don't think so.”

“Where's your bathroom?”

“Just down the hallway on the right—”

Before I can finish he marches past me and I hear the water start running on full blast.

“Is everything OK?” Shutting the dogs in the living room, I hurry down the hallway to find the bathroom door wide open and Nate stooped over the sink, washing his face.

“Yeah, fine.” Face dripping, he looks around for a towel.

Which is when I realize that in my mad rush to tidy up the flat, I totally overlooked the bathroom. Through the steam my eyes do a quick sweep and fall on several soggy towels I've left lying on the floor, together with the different products I used, all with their tops off. There's even my Bic razor just lying there on the shelf, full of shaving foam and bristles, I notice, feeling a wave of mortification.

I have a flashback of Nate's spotlessly clean bathroom, with his pristine white towels rolled up and stacked neatly on the shelves, like something out of
Elle Decor
.

Oh God, he must think I'm a total slob.

“I'll get you a fresh one,” I say, quickly scooping up the towels and shoving them into the laundry basket. I open the linen cupboard, but it's empty. Shit. Where are all the towels? Then I remember. I've got about five hanging over the back of my chair in my bedroom. “Er, sorry, we seem to have run out.”

“Don't worry, I'm practically dry now anyway,” he says, a little tetchily. “Ready?”

“Nearly. I just need to finish my makeup.” Having wiped off my ill-fated attempt at smoky eyes after realizing I looked like Ling-Ling the giant panda, I need to apply a bit of mascara.

“You've had an hour. What have you been doing?” He laughs, but I detect a twinge of irritation.

Or maybe that's just my twinge of irritation, I realize, resisting the urge to reel off the long list of everything I've been doing in a mad panic so I won't be late. Instead I say brightly, “Do you want something to drink while you wait?”

“Just some water will be great.”

“I don't have any bottled. Is tap water OK?” I start heading toward the kitchen.

“You don't? Well, in that case, no.” Nate wrinkles up his nose. “You know me—I only drink mineral.”

“Oh, of course.” I nod, feeling a bit stupid. We've moved into the tiny hallway and I'm suddenly aware it seems much more cramped and poky than usual.

“Shit. What's that?” He bangs into a carved wooden mask hanging on the wall.

“It's from a tribe in Ethiopia,” I say, hurriedly straightening it. “My roommate got it. I think it's supposed to scare away evil spirits.”

“No kidding.” He studies it with a raised eyebrow.

“OK, well, I'll just grab my bag and then we can leave.” The sooner we get out of here, the better, I tell myself, pushing open my bedroom door. I dive inside and scramble around for my mascara. I'll put it on in the cab on the way to the party.

“So this is your room?”

I turn to see Nate standing at the doorway, glancing around, taking everything in.

“Er, yeah, this is it. It's a bit small . . . and there's not much wardrobe space,” I add hastily, catching him looking at the piles of clothes on the back of the chair, “but I like it.” I continue hunting for my mascara.

“It's very . . . colorful,” he says, choosing his words carefully.

“Well, I've always loved color.”

Shit, where is that mascara? I look at my makeup strewn all over my dressing table. It's got to be here somewhere.

“You've certainly got a lot of stuff considering you only moved to New York a few weeks ago.”

I look up from my dressing table to see Nate staring at my bookshelves, which are crammed with pictures, magazines, old sketchbooks, and my collection of seashells, which I haven't got round to finding a place for.

“What's this?” I watch as absently he picks up a magazine and peers at it, frowning. “You've done some kind of quiz. . . .”

Suddenly it registers. He's found
that
quiz. I feel a flash of embarrassment. “Oh, that?” I say, trying to sound casual while hastily taking it from him. Yesterday I would have probably shown it to him, had a giggle over it—after all, Nate would probably find it cute—but now . . .

Out of the corner of my eye I spot my mascara on the bed and pounce on it.

Now everything's different.

“It's just a load of rubbish,” I say dismissively, and chucking it in the wastepaper basket, I grab my bag. “OK, let's go.”

The party is already in full swing by the time we arrive. Well, I say “full swing,” but in reality it's just lots of people standing around drinking vodka martinis and talking TV. And by “talking TV” I don't mean chatting about who they think is going to win
Dancing with the Stars
, but discussing the ins and outs of production, escalating budgets, and viewing figures.

Apart from me, it appears that everyone here is in the industry, and whereas on the way over I'd been imagining a really glamorous party, it's actually a bit dull. In fact, at one point, while struggling to keep up with a conversation about production scheduling, I find my mind wandering and I catch myself wondering when we can leave. I quickly remind myself that I'm in New York at a TV party with Nate. A few months ago this would have been my dream scenario, and now I'm wanting to go home, put on my pajamas, and curl up in front of
Oprah
. I mean, Lucy!

I force myself to focus on the conversation.

“As I was saying, it's all about having integrity,” intones Brad, a short man in a shiny suit, who keeps putting his arm round my waist under the guise of moving me out of the way of servers and then letting his hand linger. Not that Nate notices. He's too busy trying to pitch his new idea for a game show.

“Totally,” says Nate, nodding, his face earnest.

I mean, please. He's talking about a game show, not an award-winning documentary.

“If you'll excuse me,” I say politely, trying to extricate myself.

“Why, what have you done?” chuckles Brad, highly amused at his own bad pun.

“Always the joker, Brad,” Nate says with a smile, playing along with the locker-room humor.

“Anyway, tell me,” says Brad, flashing Nate and me a broad smile, “how did you two meet?”

“In Italy. We were both studying art,” I explain. At the memory of Venice I feel a familiar tingle.

“Oh, really? So are you an artist?”

I pause, briefly thrown by the question. “I was, for a little while,” I say quietly.

“Then she realized she needed to live in the real world and get a proper job,” laughs Nate.

His words sting. “Something like that.” I nod, forcing a smile, but deep down it's as if something suddenly breaks inside me, and at the first opportunity I make an excuse about popping to the loo and leave them laughing.

Making my escape, I wander to the far end of the room. The party is being held in an amazing loft in Tribeca, all exposed brickwork and pipes, with über-trendy furniture dotted around like art. Speaking of which, there's some amazing artwork on the walls, all of it no doubt original. According to Nate, the owner is someone high up at one of the networks, which doesn't mean much to me, except that working in TV seems to make people very rich.

After a few aborted attempts at trying to mingle, I find myself outside on the balcony chatting to one of the waiters. His name is Eric and he plays guitar in a heavy-metal band. After twenty minutes of telling me all about his recent gig and how he spent the whole evening head-banging next to the speakers, he has to leave to serve canapés and I make my way to the loo.

This time it's genuine—I really do need to go—and finding the door unlocked, I push it open, only to see a couple of guys with their backs to me, one of whom is bent over the sink. It's pretty obvious he's doing coke, as when I walk in, he springs up. It's Brad. And with him, I suddenly realize, is Nate.

“Oh!” Feeling a mixture of shock and embarrassment, I stand there frozen for a moment as they turn round and see me. Then I remember myself.

“Sorry,” I blurt, before backing out.

“Excuse me, Brad,” says Nate, who quickly follows me out into the hallway. “Where are you going?” He looks at me, his brow etched.

“I'm tired. I think I'm going to go home.”

“I'll come with you.”

“No, it's OK. You stay. You're obviously busy.”

Nate frowns. “Oh, come on, Lucy, don't make a big deal out of it.”

I look at him and suddenly I see someone I don't know. This isn't long-haired, pot-smoking, easygoing Nate. This is uptight, exercise-obsessed, workaholic Nate, who says coffee is bad for you and yet who's in the toilets at a party with a slimeball in a shiny suit doing God knows what.

“That's not the point. You're the one who's always going on about being healthy. I mean, you won't even drink tap water,” I say, thinking back to earlier.

“That's totally different.”

“No, it's not.” I shake my head. “You're being a hypocrite.”