You're Not the One (9781101558959) (53 page)

I can hear someone scream as I hit the water. Or is it me screaming? I can't tell. I think I've hit my head. Everything has gone woozy. Now I'm swallowing water and I'm trying to swim, but my arms are flailing and I'm going under. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, feel the panic rising in my chest. Oh God, I'm going to drown. I'm going to—

Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pair of arms grab hold of me and I feel myself being pulled out of the water and onto the gondola. Spluttering and coughing, I'm fighting for breath, but it's as if everything has gone dreamy, as if I'm seeing the world through a blurry film of Vaseline. Around me I can see people's mouths moving, hear muffled voices, but I can't respond. My eyelids are growing heavy. My limbs don't feel as if they belong to me. The world seems to be receding.

“
Fate la respirazione bocca a bocca!
” the gondolier is shouting over and over. “
Fate la respirazione bocca a bocca!
”

“The kiss of life,” translates a voice. “Give her the kiss of life.”

Adam's face flashes above mine, bathed in the golden glow of the sunset. I notice his wet hair, water trickling down his face, his urgent expression. I feel the gondola fall into shadow as we drift underneath the Bridge of Sighs. I'm so tired I want to go to sleep. Exhausted, I close my eyes.

Suddenly I feel someone's lips on mine, someone's mouth pressed urgently against my own. Jolted awake, I snap open my eyes to see Adam. Relief flashes in his eyes and he breaks off from kissing me. For a moment we just stare wordlessly at each other, a million questions hanging between us.

Then I hear them, in the distance, softly chiming. I listen harder. Is that . . . ? Could that be . . . ?

“
Bells
,” I whisper, as Adam looks at me, not understanding.

“Have you heard about the legend?” asks someone with a thick Italian accent, and we both turn to see the gondolier grinning at us.

“What legend?” says Adam, still holding me tightly.

I smile the biggest smile. “Oh, it's a long story,” and wrapping my arms around him, I lean in for another kiss.

 

B
undled up inside my thick winter coat, furry hat, and woolly scarf and gloves, I hurry along the snow-covered street, my breath forming white clouds, like steam puffing from a train. Dusk has fallen and it's freezing. Icicles hang like chandeliers from the fire escapes, and snowflakes twirl around me, as if I'm in a real-life snow globe.

Shivering, I wrap my coat tighter around me. I probably should have caught a cab, but I love to walk. I adore this time of year. New York has turned into a winter wonderland of festive decorations and lights twinkling in windows. Anticipation hangs in the frozen air. I can't believe it's going to be Christmas in just a few weeks. It seems like only two minutes since I was in Venice, I muse, my mind spooling back to the warmth of the Italian sunshine.

It's been three months since Adam kissed me under the Bridge of Sighs, and since then it's not just the seasons that have changed. I still can't believe he was there to rescue me when I fell into the canal. Afterward he took me back to his hotel to dry off and we stayed up for hours talking about everything.

He told me how he'd got an invite at the last minute to fly to Venice to film some interviews. How he'd never stopped thinking about me. How he'd missed me so much he thought he'd conjured me up out of his imagination when he saw my face amid the sea of tourists. How he'd felt when he saw me fall into the canal. It all came pouring out.

Then it was my turn. I had a lot of explaining to do, about why I was in Venice with Nate, what we'd been doing together in Martha's Vineyard, and how no, we weren't having an affair. He took some convincing. Three whole days in his hotel room in Venice, in fact. I had no idea convincing someone could be so much fun.

My heel slips on an icy paving stone and I have to fight to keep my balance. That's the problem with wearing high heels, I reflect, glancing down at my new red satin stilettos and feeling a rush of delight. Totally impractical, ridiculously high, and utterly gorgeous. But then I couldn't wear wellies to a swanky exhibition featuring the works of renowned artist Artsy, now, could I?

“Loozy, there you are!”

Arriving at the gallery, I'm greeted at the doorway by a flash of paparazzi cameras and Magda, resplendent in head-to-toe Gucci, with Valentino tucked under her arm.

“Sorry I'm late,” I gasp, giving her a hug.

Then again, not everything has changed.

Inside, the gallery is buzzing with an air of feverish excitement. Artsy's first-ever exhibition has caused quite a stir and there are crowds of people, tons of journalists, and even a few celebrities milling around his artwork. The exhibition has been the talk of the art world and we've had tons of publicity. Magda has been interviewed in the
New York Times
, the gallery has been featured in
Vogue
, and there's even a rumor
Vanity Fair
might want to do a piece.

Standing on tiptoe, I quickly scan the crowd. Crikey, is that Sarah Jessica Parker? I feel a leap of excitement, but I move swiftly past her, my eyes searching out a familiar figure. Then I see him standing in the corner, waiting for me.

Adam.

“Fancy seeing you here.” He smiles, slips his hand round my waist, and gives me a kiss.

I feel a beat of pleasure. “So what do you think of the art?”

“Hmm, well, I'm not sure about the dirty laundry”—he gestures to Artsy's washing lines—“but I think these are amazing,” he says, moving toward a series of charcoal sketches hanging on the walls.

“Really?” I study his face with interest. “And why's that?”

“I love the way they capture people's expressions, their emotions, their hopes.” He points to a large one of a woman half-dozing in a hospital waiting room, rosary beads clasped tightly in her lap. “There's a whole story, a whole history, and it's been captured in one fleeting moment with just a few strokes of charcoal.”

“You know a lot about art.” I nod approvingly, my mouth twitching.

“I had a good teacher.” He grins, turning back to me. “Plus it helps when you know the artist.”

Pride swells in me, and my face splits into the widest smile. Because, you see, those are my sketches hanging on the gallery wall. Tonight's exhibition isn't solely for Artsy, though of course he's the main attraction. It's also a chance to showcase new talent.

New talent
. My heart skips a beat and I almost have to pinch myself.

It was Adam who encouraged me to follow my dream of being an artist, so when I came back from Venice, I started sketching again properly. It was as if I'd never stopped. Soon I didn't go anywhere without my sketchbook, and evenings and weekends were spent exploring the city, capturing expressions, moods, moments. Until one day I plucked up courage and showed them to Magda, who threw up her arms, declared them wonderful, reprimanded me for being a dark horse, and offered me my first exhibition.

Well, I say “offered,” but it was more a case of her insisting and me speechlessly grinning like a loon. I've been doing a lot of that recently. I'll be walking down the street and I'll suddenly remember that I'm in an exhibition—
me
, Lucy Hemmingway—and I'll start grinning to myself. I've had some funny looks. I'm sure other New Yorkers think I'm some kind of crazy person.

But I don't care. I'm finally following my dream and I've never been happier. I'm even hoping to go part-time at the gallery soon so I can concentrate on my art. Who knows what might happen? It's scary, but it's also exhilarating, and that nagging feeling, the part of me that always felt as if something was missing, has gone. Because finally I've found it. I've found it and a whole lot more, I muse, glancing sideways at Adam, who's studying one of my sketches, his arm still wrapped tightly round me. Proof that dreams really do come true.

“Well done, sis!”

Hearing a voice, I twirl round and see my sister and Jeff. At least I think it's my sister, because she's almost unrecognizable. Gone is the gray pallor—her face is suntanned and covered in freckles—and her immaculate bob is tousled and streaked almost white-blonde. Even more shocking, the power suit and heels have been replaced by a pale blue silk dress and flip-flops. And is that
silver
nail polish on her toes?

“You're back!” I gasp.

“We just flew in from Bali this morning.” They grin excitedly.

“How was it?”

“Amazing. You'll have to come and see the photos,” enthuses Jeff, radiating health and happiness. “The one of your sister doing a bungee jump in New Zealand is incredible.”

“Kate? Doing a bungee jump?” I stare at them both in astonishment. “Actually, on second thoughts, are you
sure
you're my sister?” I joke, peering at her suspiciously, and Kate swats me good-naturedly.

“Bubbles?” We're interrupted by Magda bearing down on us with a tray of champagne flutes. Despite a flurry of waitstaff, she still insists on serving the drinks herself. “Who wants bubbles?”

It's not the kind of question that requires an answer, and she thrusts a glass of champagne in each of our hands. I don't think I've ever seen her so happy. Not only has she saved the gallery, bought herself a swanky new apartment, and put together the hottest exhibition in town, but she's treated herself to a brow lift, lipo, and lip implants.

Apparently Dr. Rosenbaum had a three-for-two offer. Magda might be a millionaire, but she also likes a bargain.

“How are you?” asks Kate politely. “You look well.”

“I'm wonderful, wonderful!” replies a beaming Magda, launching into her story about her amazing rescue of the Titian, which, like all her stories, has now become so exaggerated it involves the Mafia and a possible kidnapping.

“Wow, this is so cool!” cries Robyn, arriving and saving me from hearing Magda's story for the umpteenth time. She greets me with a huge bear hug. “I'm so proud of you!”

“Thanks.” I smile, my cheeks flushing.

“I had no idea I had such a talented roommate. Soon-to-be-ex roommate,” she corrects, and beams at me and Adam. I feel a flutter of excitement. Like I said, there have been some big changes since I returned from Venice, and one of them is that Adam and I have decided to move in together. “So how's the apartment search going?”

“We can just about afford a shoe box in Hell's Kitchen.” I smile ruefully.

“Well, at least that means your shoes are sorted,” Robyn says with a grin. “That's the most important thing.”

Adam rolls his eyes. “I think I'll leave you girls to catch up. I'm off for more champagne.”

I laugh. Some things never change.

“So what do you think of Artsy now you've finally met him?” I ask excitedly, as soon as we're on our own. I've been dying to ask that question all night.

“I think he's gay,” she replies evenly.

“What?” I look at her in confusion, then follow her gaze to where Artsy is standing, his arm wound firmly round a tall man with a shaved head and tattooed forearms. At exactly that moment he leans over and kisses him.

“That's his boyfriend,” deadpans Robyn.

For a second or two we both look at each other, neither of us saying anything, then burst into laughter.

“Harold has a boyfriend?” I giggle, shaking my head at the irony.

“Yup, I was talking to him earlier. He's interested in joining my drumming circle when they're in town.” Robyn looks thrilled. “Apparently he's amazing on the djembe.”

I look at her blankly.

“It's an African tribal drum,” she explains.

“So are you finally going to admit he's not your soul mate?” I raise my eyebrows pointedly.

She stops smiling and looks sheepish. “Well, you see, that's the thing,” she says slowly, winding a curl round her finger. “When I listened back to the tape of my psychic reading, Wakanda never said that Harold
was
my soul mate. She said I was going to
meet
my soul mate and I had to be on the lookout for a dark, handsome stranger named Harold. There's a big difference.” She stops talking suddenly and I see her blanch.

It's Daniel in a dark blue overcoat, snowflakes still glistening in his hair. He's just arrived and is chatting to his mum and Artsy. I haven't seen or spoken to him in months. No one has. Apparently he's been “away on business.” Well, that's the official line. Though judging by his expression as he glances over and sees Robyn, I'm not so sure.