You're Not the One (9781101558959) (9 page)

B
y the end of the afternoon all the paintings have been carefully packaged and are being loaded onto a truck for delivery. As the last wooden crate disappears into the back of the truck, Magda turns to me.

“So the doorman will sign for the paintings, but they are to be delivered to the customer's penthouse. You must wait with them until the customer arrives. For insurance purposes, you understand?”

“But if someone's already signed, then surely—”

Magda silences me with an outstretched palm. “You must wait,” she repeats in a tone that's nonnegotiable.

I fall silent. I know there's no point trying to reason. She's determined to matchmake, I muse, reluctantly climbing into the front seat of the truck alongside the driver. And after her son, Daniel, I'm under no illusions.

“You ready?” A thick Queens accent interrupts my downward spiral into general gloom about being single, nudging thirty, and at the mercy of well-meaning friends, relatives, and now my boss wanting to try to set me up with anything that's got a penis and a heartbeat.

I glance at him.

I feel my spirits lift. I've been so distracted I haven't noticed my driver until now, but he's actually really cute. He's got a shaved head, dark brown eyes, and the whitest teeth. In fact, they're so white they look almost luminous against his dark skin. And look at those arms! My eyes flick to biceps that are bulging out of his T-shirt like two huge watermelons as he grips the steering wheel. Crikey, I don't think I've ever seen arms like that in real life, and he's got this amazing tattoo of a dragon.

Shit, I'm staring. “Er, yes . . . all set.” I smile brightly.

“Loozy.”

I snap back to see Magda at my side window, an expression of disapproval on her face. Without thinking I glance at the driver's feet. He's wearing Nikes.

Well, so what? I'm not looking for a husband, I think indignantly, peeking at his empty wrist and noticing he's not wearing a watch. Or anyone else's, I realize after noticing he
is
wearing a wedding ring.

Bang
goes my little crush.

“And remember to call me,” she instructs. “I want to know everything got there safely.”

“I will,” I reply dutifully, as the driver turns on the ignition.

“And make sure—”

Thankfully her voice is drowned out as the engine fires up noisily.

Waving good-bye as the truck pulls away, I watch her figure getting smaller and smaller in the side mirror, and for the first time today I allow myself to feel a beat of excitement. I can't believe it. Me. Lucy Hemmingway. In sole charge of some of the finest artwork. Representing the gallery. It's a huge responsibility and a great opportunity to help me climb further up the career ladder.

Plus I get the chance to see inside a real-life penthouse in New York! With a doorman and everything!

Smiling to myself, I roll down the window and look out across Manhattan as I and thousands of dollars' worth of paintings begin our journey uptown.

The traffic is bumper to bumper and it takes a lot of stopping and starting and cursing from my driver, who hangs one arm out of the window, yelling at cab drivers and gesticulating, before we reach the park. En route I'm given a running commentary by Mikey, my driver, who's full of anecdotes about each district we go through.

“SoHo's SoHo 'cause it's south of Houston. Greenwich Village is just called the Village. It's always been this bohemian haven. See that café on the corner? That's where Jack Kerouac and Bob Dylan used to hang out.”

It's hot and humid and I stare out the window and watch Manhattan slowly pass us by.

“Now Washington Square. Man, that was nasty, full of drug dealers, but now it's totally cleaned up its act. Now Chelsea, that's famous for where Sid Vicious killed Nancy Spungen.”

As we move uptown, old brick warehouses covered in cast-iron fire escapes that cling like ivy give way to elegant brownstones with wide steps and polished brass doorknobs. Shafts of sunlight shine through the gaps in the buildings that tower overhead, and shop fronts change from discount ninety-nine-cent shops, busy markets, and eclectic bookstores to fancy designer stores and expensive restaurants.

Neighborhoods smarten up, as do the people. From the grungy guys wheeling racks through the garment district, to the blonde pony-tailed mums with their four-wheel-drive baby buggies and coffees-to-go in Columbus Circle, to the hordes of joggers and Rollerbladers zigzagging in and out of Central Park.

“And finally we have touchdown.”

Amid a fanfare of horns the truck swings to a shuddering halt outside a large, modern high-rise towering over the park.

“We're here?” Dipping my head, I try craning upward to see.

“Yup. Sure are,” Mikey says with a nod, flashing me a huge grin. He glances at the building and lets out a whistle. “Very fancy.”

I look across at the dark green awning, the square of carpet that spills out onto the pavement, and the polished glass and brass door, out of which a uniformed doorman hurries to greet us.

Wow. It's like arriving at the Savoy or something. “Are you sure this isn't a hotel?” I call to Mikey, who's already jumped out of the truck and is hoisting up the back door with a loud rattle.

He laughs at my reaction. “Nope, this is how some people live, lady.”

I feel a clutch of nerves. God, this is seriously posh. Nervously climbing out of the truck, I tug down my skirt and quickly smooth my hair, which has gone all poufy in the heat.

That's another difference between my sister and me. Whereas Kate has thick, straight blonde hair, mine's fine and brown. I swear I have the most boring hair color in the world. I'll never forget the first time I dyed it. I matched it up against a color chart in Boots, the ones with the little locks of hair to compare against, and guess what? It wasn't even chestnut brown or dark brown; it was “normal brown.” Can there be a more dispiriting description?

Hence I've colored it my entire life. I've been butterscotch, cinnamon, jet, and all the colors in between, including a dodgy period in my mid-twenties when I thought I'd try something different and dyed it bubblegum pink. I'm currently a very sensible and mature chestnut.

“Good afternoon. You're from the gallery?”

I turn to see the doorman. Wearing a dark green uniform, complete with peaked cap and white gloves, he nods briskly.

“Hi, yes,” I say, trying to cover up my nerves. “Lucy Hemmingway . . . um . . . senior coordinator.”

I just made that up. I don't actually have a title.

“I'm here to oversee the delivery and installation of a collection of artwork.” I want to appear super professional. Like someone who's completely in control of every situation. Someone who's efficient, organized, and, well, basically like my sister.

I do not—repeat
not
—want to appear like someone whose approach to problem-solving is ignoring something and hoping it goes away, who writes lists only to lose them and once hit Reply All to a friend's birthday Evite and asked if she was still having sex with her ex.

“Ah, yes.” The doorman nods gravely. “I've been given instructions to expect you.” Pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose, he flicks his eyes to the paintings, which are being unloaded onto a cart by Mikey. “I'm to take you up to the penthouse.”

My stomach gives a little flutter. It's that penthouse thing again.

“If you'd care to follow me.”

With Mikey in charge of pushing the cart, I dutifully follow the doorman through the entrance to a large marble lobby, complete with trickling water feature, button-back leather sofas, and oversize vases filled with the kind of exotic flower arrangements that you know cost an absolute fortune.

“The elevator is straight ahead.”

I'm trying to appear completely nonchalant and unimpressed, but my head is swiveling from side to side like a barn owl's. It's a bit different from my lobby, with its obstacle course of bikes, strollers, and piles of mail to negotiate. And that's
before
you even begin to climb the three flights of stairs to our apartment. Stairs, by the way, that are so steep they make the ones up the sides of the Mayan pyramids at Chichén Itzá, in Mexico, seem like a walk in the park.

“Whoa, fancy,” Mikey says, whistling from behind the cart. “You must have some celebrities living here, right?”

“I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose that kind of information,” replies the doorman stiffly.

Mikey throws me a look and mouths, “Madonna.”

I break into a grin, despite myself, and stifle a giggle.

Ahead of us, I notice a lift, the doors of which are just about to close. “Oh look,” I say, gesturing to it, “just in time.” I make a mad dash toward it, but the doorman stops me.

“The penthouse has its own private elevator.”

“It does?”

He turns the corner, where another lift is waiting for us.

Crikey. There's posh and then there's
posh
. Maybe Mikey's right. Maybe Madonna
does
live here.

Buzzing with anticipation, I step into the lift. It's quite tight inside and we have to shuffle up against each other as the door slides closed. The doorman presses the button with a ceremonious stab of his white-gloved finger and we start traveling upward, climbing steadily higher and higher. I feel my stomach drop as we gather speed. Gosh, we really are going quite high, aren't we? Now my ears are even starting to pop. I try swallowing to unblock them. Nope, they're still blocked. I know, maybe if I yawn . . . Hiding behind my hand, I try yawning, but nothing; my ears are still well and truly blocked. So much so I can't hear anything.

Out of the corner of my eye I notice the doorman. He's looking at me expectantly, the way people do when they've asked you a question and are waiting for your reply. Shit. Trying to look as natural as possible, I throw him what I hope looks like the confident smile of someone who knows exactly what she's doing, and not someone who can't hear a bloody thing as her ears are popping like crazy.

Honestly, you'd think I never go in elevators.

You don't
, pipes up a little voice.
You hate them. Ever since you got stuck in one at art college and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.

I feel a flash of panic but ignore it. I'll be fine. This is New York. Home of the skyscraper. People use elevators all the time here.

I slow my breathing and stare fixedly ahead. I'm being ridiculous. I bet if you told a New Yorker you were scared, they'd think you were crazy.

I glance at Mikey for reassurance, but he's staring at his feet and muttering something under his breath. I notice he's wearing a small gold cross round his neck. And he's clutching it.

Fuck. This is not good. This is not good. This is—

The elevator suddenly comes to a halt and the door springs open.

My fear instantly evaporates as I'm hit with the most breathtaking view of Central Park. Stretching out ahead of me, as far as the eye can see, is a vast carpet of trees. On and on it goes, as if someone just plopped a big piece of the English countryside in the middle of Manhattan.

“Holy shit.”

As we step out into the apartment, with its huge floor-to-ceiling windows, I turn to Mikey. Eyes out on stalks, he's gripping the cart as if for support. “I'm not good with heights. I get dizzy,” he mutters gruffly, a queasy expression on his face as he gazes out at the skyline and the towering skyscrapers we're now rubbing shoulders with.

“I would recommend putting the crates here in the hallway,” the doorman is saying in the background. “That way, they're not causing an obstruction.”

“Sure, good idea,” Mikey says, nodding. Immediately he gets under way unloading the crates in an eager bid to get out of here.

“It's very important not to cause an obstruction,” continues the doorman somberly. “Fire regulations, you know.”

“Um, yes.” I nod distractedly, my eyes flicking around me. Gosh, this place is enormous.

“Fire?” repeats Mikey. His voice sounds a little strangled. “Did someone just say ‘fire'?” He starts unloading faster, his biceps popping like pistons.

And white. Everything's white, I notice, glancing around at the white rugs, white sofas, white walls. I feel nervous just looking at it, as if I'm going to get this sudden impulse to chuck a glass of red wine somewhere.

Not that I go around chucking glasses of red wine everywhere, but I have been known to spill things occasionally. Not that I'm clumsy; I'm just—

Oh, who am I kidding? If I lived here, I'd have to take out shares in OxiClean.

Anyway, I don't need to worry about that, I reflect, thinking about my cluttered little shoe box downtown with its clashing color schemes and eclectic mix of East-meets-West-meets-thrift-shop. Which is something, I suppose.

“I like art, you know.”

I drag my eyes back to the doorman. “Oh, really?” I nod politely.

“Van Gogh, he's my favorite,” he confides. “Got any of his stuff?” He jerks his head toward the paintings.

“Er, no.” I smile apologetically.

The doorman's face drops with disappointment.

“OK, well, I'm all done here,” interrupts Mikey, straightening up. Digging out an invoice from his back pocket, he holds it out for me to sign.