You're Not the One (9781101558959) (35 page)

“So are you single?” I suddenly have that discombobulated feeling of hearing a voice blurt out, wondering whom it belongs to, then realizing with horror that it belongs to me.

In the middle of sipping his wine, Adam pauses.

The shame.
The shame
.

“I mean . . . sort of . . . as in . . .” I scramble around desperately in my brain for something to say that will stop me from looking like . . . like . . . Oh, this is awful. I can't even think of that word.

“As in, do I have a girlfriend?” says Adam evenly.

I stop scrambling and look at him resignedly. “Yes, that's what I meant.” I brace myself. OK, so he's got a girlfriend, and it's the pretty brunette, and they're very happy together, but that's all right—we can be friends. Platonic friends. Like in
When Harry Met Sally
.

Actually, no, they end up sleeping together. Oh crap.

“No, I don't have a girlfriend,” he replies. “I did, but we broke up a while back.”

“You did?” I sound happy and relieved. “I mean, that's tough. Breaking up is tough,” I add, trying to look suitably glum.

Though not as tough as
not being able
to break up, I think fleetingly, rubbing my wrist, which is still a bit sore from the handcuffs.

“Not really. She cheated on me.” He shrugs.

I'm shocked. I can't imagine anyone wanting to cheat on Adam. “Gosh, that's awful.”

“Yeah, finding out wasn't fun, but once I did, well, it was over pretty quick.” He takes a drag of his cigarette. “There's no point. You can never trust someone again after that. . . .” He trails off as if deep in thought, then holds out his cigarette. “You smoke?”

I hesitate. “Only on special occasions.”

“Do you think getting out of jail is a special occasion?”

“Maybe.” I nod, playing along as he passes me the cigarette. I inhale. It makes my head spin slightly, but in a good way. I can feel myself gradually unwinding after the madness of the evening, and for a few moments neither of us speaks; we just sit together sipping wine and listening to the sounds of Manhattan, which are playing like background music.

“I guess this is a bit different from most first dates,” he says finally.

“Um . . . yeah, I guess so.” I nod, trying to keep my voice even, but it's zipping through my brain:
We're on a first date?
So he wasn't just being friendly. I feel a buzz of delight, quickly followed by a sudden pressure. Casually drinking wine on the fire escape and sharing a cigarette has suddenly turned all official. If this is a first date, aren't I supposed to have made an effort, washed my hair, put on some mascara, at least? Aren't I supposed to be making flirty small talk, and flicking my freshly washed hair, and trying to be cool and impressive?

Honestly, I'm useless. Why didn't someone
tell
me this was a first date? I've narrowly missed being arrested, I've burst into tears, I'm not wearing a scrap of makeup, my hair is tied up in a scrunchie, and I just lunged at him.

And yet . . . I glance at Adam, sitting across from me on the fire escape, and my nerves disappear into the darkness as quickly as they appeared. And yet none of it seems to matter.

Well, maybe the hair scrunchie, I decide, hastily pulling it out. I'm trying to shake out my hair surreptitiously when I notice we've finished the wine. “Oh, look, all gone,” I say, standing up quickly. This is a good excuse to dash back inside and take a quick peek in the mirror, I realize. “I'll just grab us another bottle.” Actually, I don't know if we have another bottle, but I'm sure I can dig out some beers from somewhere.

“Hey, I can do that.” Adam makes to stand up, but I push him down.

“No, no, I'm fine,” I say urgently. “I want to get it.”

“Oh, OK.” He sits back down, looking slightly puzzled. Never has anyone appeared so keen to go into the kitchen to get a bottle of wine as a girl who has suddenly realized she's on a first date and needs to put on some concealer and lip gloss. Pronto.

Leaving him on the fire escape, I climb back through the window and hurry into the kitchen. There's no wine. There aren't even any beers. There is, however, Robyn's and my emergency bottle of tequila. I eye it for a moment, weighing up how this could be perceived, then grab it anyway, along with two shot glasses, and make a quick detour to the bathroom.

A few minutes, some concealer, a smear of raspberry lip gloss, and some hasty scrunching of hair products later, I head back into the bedroom to join Adam on the fire escape. Only instead he's sitting cross-legged on my bedroom floor with his back to me, looking at something.

“Who did these?” he asks as he hears me walk back in.

I glance over his shoulder to see what he's looking at. “Oh, that's one of my old sketchbooks.” I hold out the bottle of tequila. “I'm afraid we only have this.”

He ignores me. “These are yours? You did these?” He's flicking through pages. Stopping at one, he holds it up to me. “You drew this?”

“Um . . . yeah.” I shrug absently, put the shot glasses down on my dressing table, and unscrew the tequila. I begin pouring it out. “A long time ago.”

“Who is it?”

I stop what I'm doing and look at the sketch again. It's a pen-and-ink drawing of an old lady, her face turned to the light, her body in shadow. “I don't know who she was. I saw her sitting on a park bench one day.” My mind flicks back. “She was reading a book—I remember it was open in her lap—but she had her eyes closed and her face to the sun, as if she was lost in her own world.”

“It's amazing, Lucy.” Adam's voice is hushed. “These are all amazing.”

I smile with embarrassment. “Oh, don't be silly; they're just drawings.” I hold out a shot glass and he takes it from me wordlessly.

“Seriously, Lucy.” He looks up at me, his eyes wide. “They're incredible. You're really talented.”

I feel myself blush under his praise. Taking a sip of tequila, I kneel down next to him.

“Are those all your sketchbooks?” He gestures to a pile of books stuffed into my shelves.

I nod. “My canvases are back in England.”

“Canvases?”

“My paintings,” I explain. “I couldn't bring them with me. I keep them at my parents', in their garage.”

“You keep them hidden away?” He looks at me, incredulous. “You should have them out so everyone can see them.”

“You haven't even seen them,” I say, amused by his enthusiasm. “You might not like them.”

“Don't you have pictures?”

“Um . . . somewhere I think I have some Polaroids.”

“Where? I want to see!”

I know that he's never going to rest until he sees them, and so, leaning over to my shelves, I scrabble around for a bit until I find an old shoe box. “Here you go.” I pass it to him. “The colors are probably a bit faded now, as the shots were taken a few years ago.”

I watch while Adam opens the box. It's filled to the brim with a jumble of photos.

“Wow!” He looks up at me. “I had no idea,” he says, his eyes wide with astonishment.

That really I'm a complete pig and this tidy room is merely a temporary situation? That I'm addicted to tuna melts and I have the thighs to prove it? That my middle name is
Edna
?

“You're an amazing artist, Lucy. You have so much talent. The colors, the shapes . . .” He's waving Polaroids indiscriminately. “I mean, this one is incredible.” He grabs another. “And then this one. Just look at their faces.”

I watch him, feeling embarrassed by this show of eagerness, and yet . . . and yet I feel something else. An old excitement. A possibility.
A dream
.

“You really think so?” I say, my voice almost a whisper.

He stops looking through the Polaroids and gazes at me. “Yeah, I really think so,” he says quietly. Reaching for my hand, he pulls me closer beside him, his eyes never leaving mine. “I really think so.” He leans toward me—or is it me who leans toward him? I can't remember. All I'm aware of is his lips brushing against mine, my heart racing in my chest, as we start kissing.

I close my eyes. I've been wanting to do this all evening. I lean closer.

Abruptly he pulls away. “Lucy.”

I let out a little groan of dismay and try to pull him back toward me.

“What are those?”

Reluctantly I open my eyes. My heart is still racing and I can still taste him on my lips. “What?” I murmur thickly.

“Those,” he says, only firmer this time.

I turn my head to see where he's looking, slightly woozy with desire, wondering what it is, surely not more sketches....

Oh. My. God.

Suddenly I see them. My backpack has fallen off the bed, spilling out the contents, and there, lying on the rug, mocking me, taunting me, ruining my evening, are Nate's—

“Boxer shorts,” I gasp, my face contorted into a rictus of horror.

“Is there something you're not telling me?” Adam shoots me a look. His usual easygoing expression is gone and his face is set hard.

“No,” I say hastily. “I mean yes, but, well, no.” I'm flustered; my mind is racing. I can't tell him the truth about this evening, about magic spells, and soul mates, and ham bones wrapped up in boxer shorts. He'll think he's been kissing a crazy girl. “There was a mix-up. I got someone else's laundry,” I gabble. Well, that's the truth.

A tiny little bit of it
.

“OK . . .” he says slowly, seeming to accept the explanation, before asking, “So where's the rest of it?”

“Um . . . I gave it back.”

“But kept the boxer shorts?” He raises his eyebrows.

Shit. He doesn't believe me. He thinks I'm sleeping with someone.
And do you blame him, Lucy?
pipes up a little voice.
You have another man's boxer shorts lying on your bedroom floor
. I cringe inwardly. This does not look good. I suddenly remember his story of his cheating ex. Fuck, this really does not look good at all.

“It's not what you think,” I say urgently.

“How do you know what I'm thinking?” he fires back contrarily.

“I don't. I'm guessing.” With a deep sigh, I raise my eyes to meet his. There's no point trying to explain; I can't. “Look, I know it seems kind of weird, and I know how it looks, but you've just got to trust me on this one.”

There's a long pause and he looks at me for what feels like the longest time. Then slowly he gets to his feet. My chest tightens. So that's it. He doesn't believe me. I feel a heavy thump of dismay.

“OK,” he says after a pause. “I trust you.”

“You do?” Relief surges. For a moment there I thought that we were over before we'd even started.

“There's just one thing.”

I look up at him, feeling a beat of apprehension.

“Why are they covered with pineapples?”

As his mouth twists up into a smile, I burst out laughing. “Funny you should ask that. I've asked myself the same question.”

T
he next morning I arrive at work to be told I'm flying to Martha's Vineyard to meet with the new artist Magda's been raving about.

“What?
Today?
” Mid-sip of my latte, I freeze and stare at Magda, taken aback.

“No time like the present,” she breezes, tearing off a piece of bagel and feeding it to Valentino. “We need to snap him up before someone else does.”

“But what about flights, somewhere to stay . . . ?” I start firing obstacles like a knife thrower.

“All done.” She deflects them by handing me a large brown envelope. “A friend at the health club has done it for me. Her daughter works in a travel agency. She owed me a favor—I found her a husband. And trust me,
not easy
.” Magda clicks her tongue. “Forty-one, three cats, a Judy Garland habit. Y'know what I'm saying?”

Only I'm not really listening, I'm tearing open the envelope and pulling out my airline ticket. “My flight's at two thirty this afternoon?” I gasp.

“Wonderful,” she says absently, tickling Valentino under his chin.

“Magda, that means I have to leave for the airport in . . .” I quickly do the math. “Less than two hours!”

“I know. Shouldn't you be home packing?” She frowns, looking up at me as if surprised to see I'm still standing here. “You don't want to miss your flight.”

“But . . .” I open my mouth and then close it again. It's pointless. When Magda wants something done, she wants it done yesterday.

“Oh, and here's some reading material for the plane.” Magda passes me a few pages torn from various magazines. “Articles all about Artsy.”

“Artsy?” I repeat, feeling slightly dazed.

“You know, our new artist!” exclaims Magda, pausing from hand-feeding Valentino. He begins yapping loudly, and picking him up, she shushes him with a flurry of kisses. “Remember, Loozy, the gallery is counting on you!”

I force a smile. Great. No pressure, then.

I catch a cab home and chuck some things into a holdall. I haven't a clue what to take. I've never been to Martha's Vineyard and have no idea what to expect. I vaguely remember reading something in my guidebook about how it's a little island off Cape Cod where American presidents go on holiday, but I haven't had time to Google it. I mean, is it an actual vineyard? Am I going to be bumping into Obama? Should I take my posh dress or a pair of shorts?