You're Not the One (9781101558959) (44 page)

I'm not sure how long I walk for, but after a while I become vaguely aware that my legs are beginning to ache. As I slow down, I find myself outside a large art gallery: the Whitney, on Madison Avenue. Seeking solace, I walk through the doors as if on autopilot, eager to immerse myself in the art, to lose myself and block out everything else. Only today the paintings don't make me feel better; the sculptures don't lift my spirits. Even Rothko's
Four Darks in Red
doesn't work its usual magic.

I think back to the last time I was at a gallery. It was after the row with Nate, when I bumped into Adam at the MoMA. As my mind flicks to him, I feel a tug in the pit of my stomach. What wouldn't I give to turn a corner and see him now? I reflect as I wander from room to room, each time hoping to glimpse him, each time feeling a thump of disappointment as I realize he's not here.

I leave when the gallery closes. It's early evening, the clear sky is now a purplish bruise, and for the first time I can feel summer nudging into autumn, as if while I was inside the gallery there was a shift, a change, a coming to an end. My feet are sore but I feel like walking and I set off zigzagging blocks, meandering past the park.

Finally I reach the Village. The streets are lined with busy restaurants and bars, and people are milling around outside on the pavement, smoking cigarettes and chattering, their voices filling the evening air. I keep walking, absently catching snippets of conversation, until all at once I stumble across another gallery.

I slow down. Sounds of glasses clinking, the hum of conversation, scents of perfume and aftershave float toward me. Outside the gallery is gathered a small crowd of people.

For a moment my heart races. It's a gallery opening. Maybe Adam is here.

With my breath held tight in anticipation, I glance around, my eyes skimming the crowd. Then I see a figure. He has his back turned to me, but he's wearing a T-shirt and baggy jeans, and he's got dark, floppy hair. My heart leaps into my throat. It's him.
It's Adam
.

It's like a shot of adrenaline. A jumble of thoughts shoots through my brain as I step toward him: relief, apprehension, hope, fear. “Adam.” I hear an urgent voice say his name and suddenly realize it's mine. “I need to explain.”

He stops talking and turns round.

Only it's not him. It's a stranger with a passing resemblance to him. He looks at me questioningly.

“Oh.” I feel a crash of disappointment. “I thought you were someone else.”

“Who would you like me to be?” he jokes good-naturedly, and his friend laughs.

I try to smile, but my face won't quite do it. Abruptly I feel tears prickling. “I'm sorry. I made a mistake,” I stammer, and turn away sharply.

If only I could say that to Adam. But I'll probably never get the chance, I realize with a heavy clunk of dismay. There are more than eight million people living in New York—what's the likelihood of ever seeing him again?

And fighting back tears, I hurry away.

I
arrive back at the apartment late, with a giant bag of Kettle Chips and a bottle of pinot grigio. Usually they're my fail-safe, cheer-up, get-out-of-a-crap-mood card, but tonight not even New York Cheddar flavor can make me feel better, I reflect, letting myself into the kitchen and putting the half-eaten bag on the table. Maybe the wine will do better.

I screw open the top. I once read an article about why winemakers have started using screw-tops in the twenty-first century. It said something about being a better way of sealing the wine, as corks can go moldy, apparently. Personally, I think that's a load of rubbish. Screw-tops are in demand because of all the heartbroken single girls who need to
get the wine faster
.

Pouring a glass, I glug half of it back, then pick up my discarded Kettle Chips in a resigned “OK, let's try again” stance, like a weary couple giving things another shot, and pad into the living room and flick on the light.

“Aaarrgh.”

I hear a strangled yelp and spot a couple lying entwined on the sofa. At exactly the same time, they see me and spring apart in a flurry of adjusting bra straps, fiddling with belts, and hastily brushing down hair.

“Oh, uh, hi, Lucy,” murmurs Robyn. Face flushed, she smooths her dress. “I didn't think you'd be back so early.”

“Um, no, I guess not,” I say, frozen in the doorway. Now I know how my dad must have felt when he blundered in on me and Stuart Yates in the conservatory when we were fifteen.

“You've met Daniel before.” She gestures to him; he's now sitting bolt upright on the sofa as if he's about to have tea with the vicar.

“Yes, of course.” I nod. “Hi, Daniel.”

“Hi, Lucy.” He stands up to shake my hand politely and I can't help noticing his fly is undone.

“Um . . .” I gesture downward with my eyes.

He looks puzzled and glances down. Seeing his zipper, he turns beetroot. I'm not sure who's more embarrassed, him or me. Or Robyn, who's now vigorously plumping cushions like my mother when the relatives are coming.

“We were just watching a DVD,” she says briskly.

I glance at the TV. It's turned off. “Great.” I smile.

“So did you have a nice day?” she asks brightly.

The conversation is so stilted it's as if we're in a bad amateur dramatics play.

“Oh, you know . . .” I consider telling her about my sister and Jeff and Adam, but decide against it. Now's hardly the time to unburden myself. “How about you two? How was your day?”

“Amazing,” Daniel replies enthusiastically, beaming.

“OK,” says Robyn, speaking over him with forced nonchalance.

Glances fly between them and I feel the air prickle as if there's a lot going on under the surface. I take this as my cue to leave. “Well, I think I'll probably go to bed. It's late.” I start backing out of the doorway.

“Oh, don't go on our account,” she says breezily. I notice she's still plumping the same cushion. As does Daniel, who prises it from her gently.

“Actually, I'm exhausted,” I say, and throw in a yawn for good measure. Which is true, I suddenly realize. It's been quite some day. “Night.”

“Night,” they say in stereo, from opposite ends of the sofa, where they're standing awkwardly as if to prove there's nothing going on between them. Proving that without any doubt there is something going on between them.

I go into my bedroom, flick on a couple of lamps, and turn on my fairy lights. That's always a surefire way to make me feel better. I don't know why it is, but there's something about their soft, twinkly glow that never fails to lift my spirits.

Except for tonight. Tonight they have zero effect, I think glumly. Lighting an aromatherapy candle, I put on some cheery music, but it's hopeless. Not even my ludicrously expensive Diptyque candle, which I burn only on special occasions, and the
Mamma Mia!
soundtrack Mum bought me can make a dent in my black mood.

Giving up, I resign myself to feeling miserable and settle on my bed with my wine, Kettle Chips, and laptop. Maybe Adam's replied to my message on Facebook, I tell myself. Maybe now he's had time to think about things . . . Hope flickers, like the flame on my candle, and for a brief moment I feel a tiny pulse of anticipation, a ray of possibility. Maybe, just maybe.

Taking a large slurp of wine for courage, I check my e-mails. I have three. One from my mum asking me if I've spoken to Kate, as she can't get hold of her, and saying that it's “boiling hot here. Everyone is wearing T-shirts.” Ever since I moved to New York, Mum and I have had an ongoing weather battle. For some reason she's determined to prove Manchester is hotter than Manhattan. “You wouldn't believe how sunny it's been since you left!”

Quite frankly, no, Mum, I wouldn't, I think, clicking off her e-mail and on to the next one, which is an engagement party Evite from a friend in London. “Brilliant. Congratulations,” I type with two fingers, while glugging back wine. “Sorry I can't make it.” Am in New York, becoming an alcoholic, I add mentally, clicking Send.

The last one is from eBay, reminding me that the online auction for my spare theater ticket is to end tomorrow and that I've had several bids. I feel slightly cheered. Well, at least that's something.

And that's it. No e-mail from Adam. I stare at my empty in-box, my mind turning, then log on to Facebook. You never know, there could have been an error and his reply never got forwarded. That happened to a friend of mine once. Well, not an actual friend—a friend of a friend, or maybe it was in an article I read. I can't remember. The most important thing is, it did happen.

Not to me, though, I realize, looking at my profile page. No new messages. Nothing, apart from a status update from Nathaniel Kennedy:

This time I don't even bother trying to defriend him. After all, what's the point? I think resignedly, logging out. Somehow it doesn't seem to matter so much anymore.

My mind jumps back to lunchtime and Kate's comment about wishing she and Jeff could be tied together forever. Reminded, I feel a clutch of anxiety and take a sip of wine, trying to shake off the heavy sense of foreboding that's threatening to envelop me like a heavy overcoat. Jeff's going to be OK, I tell myself firmly. Kate said it's the best cancer to have, and she trained to be a doctor, so she should know. Kate knows everything. She never gets it wrong. Why should now be any different?

I wake up on Sunday morning with one question and one question only: Why, oh, why did I have that fourth glass of wine? Yet along with a thumping headache comes a new sense of determination: That's it—no more drowning my sorrows. I'm going to forget about men and relationships. I'm going to stop wasting time on all that stupid love stuff. Instead I'm going to focus on what's really important. Like family and friends, health, raising money for charity . . .

And a stonking great big cup of coffee.

Padding bleary-eyed into the kitchen, I find Robyn making herbal tea. Robyn is the queen of herbal teas, and we're not just talking ordinary chamomile or peppermint that come as prepackaged tea bags from Trader Joe's. She makes a whole
science
of herbal tea, brewing up spoonfuls of dried herbs with exotic-sounding names in her little teapot, stewing, sieving, and straining through various filters and fiddly bits of gauze. All so she can produce the most foul-tasting liquid known to man.

Flicking on the kettle, I pull three cups from the cupboard. “One for me, one for you, and one for Daniel,” I say pointedly, giving her a knowing smile.

“Thanks”—she nods, spooning out dried herbs into a small ceramic teapot—“but I'll only be needing one cup.”

“Sensible man. He hates that stuff too, does he?” I grin. I start unscrewing my little silver espresso pot. “Maybe he'd like a coffee instead.”

“He's not here.”

Dumping the old coffee grounds in the bin, I give the pot a quick rinse under the tap. “Oh, has he gone to get croissants?”

Robyn and I live one street over from this great little bakery that does the most delicious croissants. Every time I walk by I think of Nate's comment and tell myself, “A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.” And every time I can't resist popping in for an almond one. It's a stupid rhyme anyway. I much prefer “A moment on the hips, a lifetime on the lips.”

“No, he's gone,” she says flatly. The kettle boils and clicks off and she starts pouring water over her herbs.

“Gone?” The way she says it, it's as if he's gone missing. I'm almost tempted to look under the kitchen table to see if he's hiding there. Then it suddenly strikes me that she means he's gone as in
He won't be coming back
.

“But how? Why?” In confusion I watch her stirring her teapot, a strange sort of dazed look on her face. “Last night you two seemed so . . .” I search for the right word. About to have sex? No, that's four. “Cozy,” I finish.

She stops stirring and looks up. “It's over.”

“Over?” I feel like when I missed an episode of
American Idol
and didn't realize that one of my favorites had been knocked out and I spent the first ten minutes completely bewildered and trying to work out what had happened.

“Not that we were dating or anything,” she adds hurriedly.

“No, of course not.” I nod, playing along.

“We were just friends.”

“Good friends,” I suggest.

“Yes, totally,” she agrees, averting her eyes.

“So what happened?”

There's a pause and then she sighs. “Harold. That's what happened. You told me you'd met him in Martha's Vineyard.”