You're Not the One (9781101558959) (25 page)

“Ow!” I let out a yelp as someone bashes right into me, knocking my arm and spilling coffee all down my top. “Watch where you're going!” I yell.

I'm becoming much more like a New Yorker. In the past it would have been “Sorry!” but not now, I think, looking down with dismay to see my top is covered in rapidly spreading brown splotches.

“Hey, why don't
you
watch where you're going!” yells back the person who just bashed into me.

Looking up, I wheel round angrily. Hang on a minute, it was—

“
You!”

We both say it at the same time. It sounds in stereo as I look at the man standing opposite me in a smart gray suit, the person who just knocked into me because he wasn't looking, who just ruined my top and scalded me with hot coffee because he was too busy yakking away on his phone to look where he was going.

And it's Nate
.

He's staring at me, a shocked expression on his face. “I'll call you back,” he says sharply into his Bluetooth headset.

I look at him in astonishment. I can't believe it. It's him. Of all the people on the streets of Manhattan, I have to go and bump into him!

Correction: He has to
bash
into me.

Suddenly my astonishment is overtaken by anger. “You need to look where you're going when you're on the phone,” I snap with annoyance.

His face clouds over. “You walked right into me.”

“No, I didn't!” I gasp. I feel a stab of fury. Trust Nate to make out it was my fault. “You were chatting on your phone and not paying attention. Look, you've spilled coffee all over me!” Grabbing my now coffee-soaked shirt, which looks like something that's been tie-dyed by Robyn, I yank it at him furiously.

“Well, I did warn you about drinking coffee,” he says evenly.

I glare at him. “What? So it's my fault?”

“Well, it's not my fault you're drinking coffee, now, is it?”

“It's your fault you were on your phone and walked straight into me,” I retort impatiently.

“You walked straight into me,” he fires back.

We're going round in circles and we both break off and glower at each other. I can't believe it. Until last week I hadn't seen him for ten years. And I'd spent those ten whole years fantasizing about bumping into him and yet it never happened. Now here I am, randomly bumping into him on the street.

“By the way, you left a few toiletries at my place,” he says awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and jingling his loose change. “I was going to mail them to the gallery.”

“Oh, don't bother. Just throw them away,” I say quickly.

God, it's come to this. One minute we were ripping each other's clothes off; the next we're discussing the disposal of my toothbrush.

“OK, well, I guess that's it, then. . . .”

“Yup, I guess so.”

For a moment neither of us says anything and then his iPhone starts ringing, like a bell calling time on the relationship. It's a fitting ending.

“Look, I need to take this.”

“Yeah, sure.” I nod. “Good-bye, Nate.” And leaving him standing in the middle of the street, I turn and walk away.

After all these years I've finally put him behind me, and this time there's no looking back.

“D
o you want sake?”

Later that evening I leave work and hurry to Wabi Sabi, a tiny little Japanese restaurant tucked away underneath an antique shop in Chelsea, to find my sister already sitting at the sushi bar, waiting for me.

“Er, yes, great,” I say, puffing slightly after my run from the subway. I was determined to arrive first for once, and even left the gallery early, but despite my best efforts she's here before me.

Now I know how British holidaymakers must feel when they discover that despite getting up at the crack of dawn, the Germans have already got to the sun loungers.

“Good. Because I've ordered it.” She nods as I slide into the free seat next to her. “I didn't wait. I knew you'd be late.”

That's my sister for you. Never one to mince words.

“Lovely to see you too.” I smile, giving her a hug, despite the fact that she doesn't really do hugs. Or kisses. Or, in fact, any shows of public affection. At school the boys used to call her Iceberg, which was a bit mean. And blatantly not true.

After all, icebergs do sometimes melt.

“Oh, before I forget I wondered if you wanted to go with me to the theater. Robyn has two free tickets,” I say, breaking open my chopsticks and diving on the little bowl of edamame. I'm starving; I've only had coffee and an apple all day.

“'Fraid not. I'm training,” she replies, shaking her head.

“Every night?”

“Well, the marathon is only a couple of months away.”

That's another thing. On top of the fourteen hours a day that my sister puts in at the office, she's currently spending her free time training for the New York City Marathon.

I know. I feel exhausted just thinking about it.

“I have free passes for my gym. You should come,” she suggests, popping out the soybeans with her teeth. “Now that you won't be doing all that yoga.” She smirks and I swat her with a chopstick.

I already told Kate about how I've broken up with Nate. I called her last night and filled her in on the details, after which I drew breath and waited for her response. It came in the form of one word—“Good”—and then moved briskly on to a conversation about her new bathroom tiles.

“Effusive” is not a word you could use to describe my sister. Sometimes I wonder if she views words like the rest of us view money and tries to save them up and not spend too many all at once.

“I think that was a lucky escape,” she continues. “It will save you a fortune on chiropractic bills.”

“I'm not that bad at yoga,” I complain sulkily.

“Luce, how are you going to get into the lotus position when you can't even cross your legs? Remember that time in school assembly?”

Trust Kate to remind me of one of the most humiliating moments of my life. Age twelve, I was sitting crossed-legged in the school hall, listening to our headmaster, and my legs suddenly cramped and I was unable to uncross them. I had to be airlifted out of assembly by Mr. Dickenson, our PE teacher. I don't think I've ever got over the shame. For years after I was teased mercilessly with “Don't forget to cross your legs,” which took on a totally different connotation as I got older.

“Excuse me. Your sake.” I look up to see a waiter return with a little carafe and two small ceramic cups. Ceremoniously he arranges them on the counter in front of us.

“
Dōmo arigatō
,” says Kate with a smile, bowing her head respectfully.

The waiter beams. “
Dō itashi mashite
.” He replies, nodding profusely and backing away.

I stare at Kate in astonishment. “Since when did you start speaking Japanese?”

“Since most of my clients are based in Tokyo,” she says casually, taking the sake carafe and pouring me some. “I'm learning in my spare time.”

I look at her agog. My sister never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes I wonder if we really are sisters or if there was some mix-up in the hospital. I mean, can I really be genetically related to someone who
learns Japanese
? In her
spare time
?

There I was thinking spare time was for logging on to Facebook and sneaking a look at everyone else's photos, bidding on lots of things on eBay that I don't need and that never fit properly, and watching TV with Robyn and discussing challenging subjects such as whether we should order a twelve-inch pizza and garlic bread or just go for a sixteen-inch with extra toppings.

“Now it's your turn. You have to pour mine,” she says, passing me the sake. “It's supposed to be good luck to pour each other's.”

“I thought you weren't superstitious.”

“I'm not.” She frowns as if I've just called her a bad name. “It's tradition, not superstition. There's a difference.”

“So tell me, how's work?” I ask, changing the subject. “Any good . . . um . . . intellectual property happening?”

If there's one surefire way to snap my sister out of a bad mood, it's to ask her about work. It's her favorite topic of conversation. If she had it her way, it would probably be her
only
topic of conversation. Unlike my girlfriends, she's not interested in commenting on the fabulous new dress you just bought from Zara, speculating about what's going on in the Jennifer-Brad-Angie triangle, or talking about relationships. Not even when it's her own.

In fact, the closest I think she ever got was on her wedding day, when someone asked her what the best part of being married to Jeff was and she replied cheerfully, “Our new apartment. With two salaries, we can now afford a two-bedroom,” which I don't think was exactly the gushing response the person had hoped for.

“Exhausting but exciting,” she says, suddenly galvanized. “The CEO is thrilled with the Clayton deal so far, which is superb on a performance note, but it looks like the Joberg-Cohen case might need some extra . . .” She trails off as she sees my glazed expression. “Are you interested in any of this?”

“Of course,” I protest. “It's fascinating.” And it would be. Truly, it would be. If only I had half a clue what she was going on about.

“Hmm.” She looks at me unconvinced, then suddenly stifles a yawn. “Anyway, it's all good. Just the hours are pretty grueling.”

I look at my sister closely. Beyond the power suit and immaculately groomed bob, there are dark circles under her eyes and the crease between her eyebrows is so sharply etched it's turning into a furrow.

“You look shattered,” I observe. “You need a holiday.”

Kate looks at me as if I've just told her she needs to grow another head. “
A holiday?”
she snorts, as if the very idea is completely ludicrous.

“When did you last go away?” I persist.

She falters momentarily and I can feel her brain whirring backward. “We went to Mum and Dad's,” she says, with a flash of triumph.

“For Christmas last year,” I point out. “Anyway, that was Mum and Dad. That's not exactly a holiday.”

“Luce, I don't think you understand,” she gasps impatiently. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she rubs her nose agitatedly. “I can't go anywhere right now. I'm far too busy.”

“But you look like you need a break,” I say, squeezing her arm.

“No, what I need is to be partner,” she says determinedly, moving her arm away. “And if I continue at this pace, there's a very good chance of being recommended at the next annual meeting.”

But can she continue at this pace? I ask myself silently, looking at her pinched expression and feeling uneasy. My sister has always been a crazy workaholic—“overachiever” is scribbled across her school reports—but she seems to be overdoing it, even by her standards.

“What does Jeff say?”

Her face clouds. “Jeff understands. He knows how important this is to me.” Opening her menu, she says briskly, “Anyway, we should order. It's getting late,” which is her way of saying the subject is closed.

She beckons the waiter over and orders for both of us. I'm not sure exactly what, as she does most of it in Japanese. “Oh, and an extra miso soup to take away when we're done,” she says in English. “For Jeff,” she adds, turning to me. “I promised to bring him back some soup as he's a bit under the weather.”

“What's wrong?” I ask, feeling a beat of concern.

“Oh, nothing. Probably one of those seventy-two-hour bugs.” She shrugs, taking a sip of sake.

“He should go and see Robyn—she's got Chinese herbs for everything,” I suggest, thinking about the dozens of bottles that are randomly scattered around the flat. I'm forever tripping over things with weird and wonderful names like Yellow Croaker Ear-Stone or Long-Nosed Pit Viper.

“You have got to be kidding me!” gasps Kate.

“No, really. I know you don't believe in all that stuff, but she swears by them.” I stop as I see her making googly eyes at me. “Are you OK? Is something in your eye?”

Now she's jabbing chopsticks at me and pulling this weird sort of strangled face. Suddenly it registers and I feel a flash of panic.

“Oh my God, are you choking?”

An image of me having to perform the Heimlich maneuver in the middle of the restaurant flashes across my brain. Shit. Why didn't I watch more episodes of
ER
? I got bored when George Clooney left.

“No, behind you,” she hisses.

“What?” Bewildered, I frown, wondering what she's going on about, then turn sideways.

I don't believe it
.

Because there, sitting right next to me, at the sushi counter, is Nate. He's with a man in a business suit and they've obviously just arrived, as they're ordering a couple of drinks. I stare at him in disbelief.

“Are you following me?” I accuse, finding my tongue, which was held hostage by shock.

Hearing my voice, he turns and sees me. His face darkens. “Are you following
me
?” he accuses back.

I can feel my hackles rise. “I was here first,” I point out stiffly.

“Well, I made the reservation for the sushi bar last week,” he replies, as if to say,
Told you so
.

Not be outdone, Kate fires back over my shoulder, “We made ours the week before. You can check with my assistant.”