You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

by Alexandra Potter

  “Well, actually,” I begin, my cheeks reddening. Oh shit, I’ve been busted. She knows I spent the night with Nate and it looks really unprofessional. I feel a stab of panic. How am I going to explain this?

  “Aha! I knew it!”

  But if I thought she was going to be angry with me, I couldn’t be more wrong. Clapping her bony hands together with glee, she beams delightedly. “Are you seeing him again?”

  “Tonight. He’s taking me out for dinner,” I blurt before I can stop myself. I can’t keep it inside. I just want to tell someone. Correction: I want to tell everyone.

  Magda’s face lights up like a hundred-watt bulb. “What did I tell you?” She throws me a triumphant smile. Then her expression falls serious. “Did you look at his shoes?”

  For a moment I regard her in confusion. Then it registers. Of course. The checklist.

  “Made in Italy,” I say, suddenly remembering my earlier snooping and feeling a faint flash of embarrassment.

  Magda, however, has no such reservations. She couldn’t look more thrilled if I’d handed her a winning lottery ticket. “Loozy, this is unbelievable ,” she gasps in a hushed voice.

  Which is somewhat of an exaggeration. I mean, shoes do have a habit of being Italian—even mine are, and they’re only from Nine West—but still, I feel a ridiculous thrill that Nate is measuring up to her checklist.

  “And his watch?” She leans closer, her eyes wide.

  “Um . . .”

  I can’t remember if he was even wearing a watch, but then it wasn’t his wrist I was looking at, I muse, my mind darting off to a totally different body part.

  “I’m not sure,” I say vaguely, but if I’m expecting it to put Magda off, I’m wrong.

  “Don’t worry,” she’s saying determinedly. “It will be fine. It will be more than fine! Trust me, I am never wrong when it comes to matchmaking. I even managed to fix up Belinda, my sister’s daughter, once we’d addressed the waxing issue.”

  Now I know why she’s been so successful as a matchmaker: This woman is like Jason Bourne on a mission.

  “Well, that’s the thing, you see, you don’t need to matchmake.” I need to explain about me and Nate, about how we’ve already met, about everything.

  But Magda’s not listening. She’s waving her skinny arms around like propellers and gushing, “Oh, this is wonderful! Wonderful!” before putting them on her tiny hips and fixing me with an accusatory look. “Is this not wonderful?”

  “Well, yes, but . . .” I try again, then pause. Oh, what the hell. Why explain? I’ve met Nate again and it’s fantastic—no explanation needed.

  Breaking into a huge, delighted, over-the-moon grin, I nod happily. “Yes, it’s pretty bloody wonderful.”

  Chapter Ten

  The grin never leaves my face. I wear it all day, like a clown’s painted smile, as I waft dreamily around the gallery. Nothing can pierce my good mood. Not the jammed printer that decides to chew up my guest list and get ink all over my skirt. Not the couple with the little boy who misreads the sign saying, Please don’t touch so that it says, Please touch everything with your grubby, sticky fingers. Not even the sullen man behind the counter at Katz’s when I go to pick up our usual lunch. Everything and everyone is wonderful. Life is wonderful. Even my hair looks wonderful.

  Well, OK, maybe not wonderful, but less fluffy and definitely shinier.

  All through the day my phone beeps like a heart monitor as Nate sends me texts. Funny texts, flirty texts, romantic texts—plus quite a few suggestive texts that send me blushing to the bathroom to respond in secret. Magda might be the most broad-minded boss I’ve ever worked for, but there are still some things I can’t do in front of her, and typing “Naked with whipped cream” is one of them.

  I float all the way home from work. I’m oblivious to the wail of police sirens and crazy rush-hour traffic, and when someone stomps on my foot, I barely notice. Neither do I notice the three flights of stairs that I usually pant up, cursing my lack of fitness. Instead, cocooned in my own little world called Planet Nathaniel, I glide up them effortlessly, until here I am, unlocking the door of my apartment.

  I discover the TV on and Robyn lying on the sofa with Simon and Jenny. A braceleted arm waves from over the back of the cushions. “You’re just in time. Oprah’s about to interview a man who had a baby.”

  “Oh my God, I can’t believe it!” I blurt, plonking myself down on the sofa.

  “Well, it’s not really a man, but she’s got a beard and everything.”

  “It’s unbelievable.” I shake my head.

  “No, don’t you see? It’s actually a woman who’s been taking male hormones. I imagine she’s doing it for the publicity.” She waggles the remote at the TV accusingly.

  “I still can’t believe it,” I murmur dazedly.

  “No, Lucy, you’re not getting it.” Turning from the screen to look at me, Robyn suddenly stops. Her brow furrows. “Lucy, are you OK? You look funny.”

  Hugging my knees to my chest, I’m staring into space, a dippy expression on my face. “I had sex. It was amazing. I think I’m in love.”

  Robyn looks like someone just hit her over the head. She stabs the Pause button on the remote, freezing Oprah in mid-sentence. “Whoa, whoa, whoa!” she cries, holding out both hands like one of the Su-premes in a dance routine. “Not so fast. Let’s back up here a moment.” Tucking her curls behind her ears, she fixes me with her flashing green eyes. “Sex? Love? With whom?” she demands.

  “Nathaniel.” I smile dreamily.

  Her eyes grow wide as dinner plates. “You mean the One,” she gasps in a sort of hushed awe.

  I nod, feeling a leap of joy. “The One,” I repeat, happiness swelling inside me.

  There’s a sharp intake of breath and Robyn shoots bolt upright, like something out of The Exorcist, arms flailing, eyes rolling, nostrils flaring. Simon and Jenny jump off the sofa, whimpering.

  “Oh, wow, Lucy!” she shrieks. “I can’t believe it! Well, actually, I can,” she says quickly, as if arguing with herself. “It’s the power of the universe bringing you guys together. I just knew when you told me that story—you and Nathaniel are meant to be together. It’s kismet.” Clutching at the crystal round her neck, she continues breathlessly, “So come on, tell me, what happened?”

  And so I tell her, in all the wrong order, and she asks me millions of questions, trying to fill in the gaps, as I jump into the shower, then out, and start getting ready.

  “Hang on a minute, so he’s no longer married?”

  “Separated, getting divorced,” I explain, twisting my hair into a towel and padding into my bedroom. I flick on the tangle of fairy lights around my wardrobe and light my aromatherapy candle.

  “And he’s moved to New York?”

  “From L.A., yes. He’s filming some TV shows here. He’s a producer.”

  “What does a producer do?” asks Robyn, trying to clear a space on the bed to sit down, then giving up and sitting down anyway.

  “Um . . . produce.” I shrug, reaching for my moisturizer. I have no idea what a producer does, but it sounds impressive. “Oh God, Robyn, it was just amazing,” I sigh, daubing little dollops of cream on my cheekbones. “He was amazing.”

  “Wow, it’s so romantic.” She sighs dreamily.

  “I know.” I nod, tugging off my towel and pulling on my bobbly old robe. “You know, he asked me if I believed in soul mates.”

  “He did not!”

  “He did.”

  We exchange glances. Robyn looks as if she’s died and gone to heaven. “Oh jeez, Lucy!” she exclaims, her face flushed with happiness. “I told you, you just have to believe. That’s all you need to—” She breaks off and wriggles uncomfortably. “Ouch, I think I’m sitting on something sharp.” Grimacing, she reaches underneath the embroidered bedspread. “What’s this?”

  “I don’t know. What is it?” I say distractedly, without even looking. Having unearthed a pair of tweezers from my underwear drawer, I�
��m making a start on my eyebrows.

  “Um . . . it’s some kind of pendant, I think.”

  “Oh, just chuck it with all my other jewelry.” I motion vaguely to my dressing table, which is strewn with nail polishes, loose change, a couple of sketchbooks. I make a mental note to add it to the list of things to clear up when I have a minute. Only I never seem to find that minute.

  “It’s made from a piece of a coin.”

  In the middle of tweezing, I freeze. Hang on a minute, it can’t be . . . “Where is it?” I gasp, twirling round, my heart pounding.

  Robyn sees my expression and suddenly the penny quite literally drops. “Oh wow, is this . . . ?”

  “My necklace,” I gasp, catching it as it falls from her fingers. In disbelief I trace the broken edge with my thumb. “I thought I’d lost it years ago. Where did you find it?”

  “Right here, on the bed.”

  “But that’s impossible.” My mind goes helter-skelter. I only moved to New York six weeks ago and there’s no way it was in my suitcases. I would have noticed a necklace that went missing years ago. Especially this necklace.

  Bewildered, I look up at Robyn, expecting her to appear as baffled as I am, but instead her eyes are shining with excitement. “Don’t you see? It’s the legend,” she gasps, her face splitting into an ecstatic grin.

  “The what?” I frown in confusion, not comprehending.

  “The legend of the Bridge of Sighs,” she responds impatiently. “It’s coming true!”

  As she says it, a warm gust of wind blows in from the open window, causing the flame of the aromatherapy candle to flicker and billowing out the length of red and gold sari fabric acting as a curtain. As the golden threads shimmer and dance, a shiver suddenly runs up my spine, and for an infinitesimal moment my imagination ignites.

  Then just as quickly the gust of wind stills and my imagination is snuffed out. “Don’t be silly,” I retort. “It’s me being messy, never knowing where anything is. I’m always losing things.”

  Inside, though, I feel jittery. Seriously, what has got into me? You’re just nervous about tonight, I tell myself firmly. That’s what it is. Nerves make you think all kinds of silly things.

  “Anyway, on to more important matters,” I say, briskly shoving the coin pendant into my bag.

  “Ooh, you mean like his star sign,” enthuses Robyn. “Don’t tell me. I bet he’s an Aries.”

  “No,” I gasp, grabbing a jumble of clothes. “Like what am I going to wear?”

  An hour later I’ve tried on everything that’s hanging in my wardrobe, which isn’t very much, as I seem to have an aversion to hangers and instead prefer the back-of-the-chair approach to hanging up clothes. And I’ve tried on everything that’s lying crumpled on my bed, for when the back of the chair gets full. Plus everything that belongs to Robyn, even though she’s about six inches taller than I am and a fan of all things tie-dye.

  And I’m still in my robe.

  “Oh God, what am I going to wear?” I wail desperately for the umpteenth time.

  “What about this?” replies Robyn brightly.

  Honestly, the woman is amazing. Even in the face of defeat she remains amazingly upbeat.

  “It looks great with leggings.”

  I glance over. She’s holding up a vicious purple tie-dyed smock thing that looks like every other item of clothing she’s already shown me from her wardrobe.

  “It’s nice, but . . .”

  “But what?”

  “I’m not sure about tie-dye,” I say carefully. Or the fact that it looks like a shapeless purple tent, I think.

  “What’s wrong with tie-dye?”

  What’s right with tie-dye? I want to reply, but I have to be tactful. Unlike most Americans I’ve met, Robyn spends her holidays traveling to far-flung corners of the globe, and her wardrobe stands testament. Forget the high street—hers is an eclectic mix of embroidered silk tunics from tiny hill villages in China, woven jackets from a tribe in Africa, and baggy fisherman trousers from Thailand. And lots of tie-dye from India. The other day I caught sight of her underwear on the airer and saw even that is tie-dyed.

  “You’ve got to be a really special person to wear it. I mean, it looks amazing on you,” I gush, and see Robyn flush at the compliment, “but I think I need something that’s a bit more . . .” I search for the right words. “Of a statement.”

  “Right, I see,” says Robyn, nodding thoughtfully. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she wrinkles up her nose in concentration, the tiny stud in her nostril twinkling under the fairy lights. “What kind of statement?”

  “I’m not sure. Something that’s feminine but not girly.” In desperation I start attacking the heap of garments on the back of the chair again.

  “Something sexy,” she says with a wicked grin.

  “But not tarty,” I add quickly, feeling a beat of panic. “I want him to think, Wow.”

  “He already thinks, Wow,” she reassures me.

  I shoot her a grateful smile.

  “Seriously, he loves you the way you are!” she exclaims. “You could wear a trash bag and he’d still think you look amazing.”

  “Actually, that’s not a bad idea,” I groan, holding up a pair of black leggings that have gone all baggy at the knees. “Do we have any of those?”

  In the end, I opt for a lilac silk dress I bought on eBay last year. It’s made of crumpled silk (so it’s supposed to be creased), and I cinch in the waist with an amazing belt I borrow from Robyn.

  “It’s from the Amazon,” she says, fastening the strands of multicolored beads round my waist.

  “Have you been to the Amazon too?” I ask, impressed. God, Robyn has been everywhere.

  “No, Chinatown,” she says matter-of-factly. “They sell everything there.” Standing back, she looks me up and down appraisingly.

  “How do I look?” I ask, angling my body into the mirror above my dressing table. I can see my torso and not much else.

  “You look perfect,” she says, her face splitting into the whitest, toothiest smile. “Just perfect.”

  “Not too dressy?”

  “Lucy, he’s taking you to one of the best restaurants in Manhattan!”

  “Argh, don’t!” I feel a beat of excitement and alarm. Nate texted me the name of the restaurant earlier, and when I told Robyn, she just looked at me agog and whispered, “Oh, wow, Lucy,” over and over until I begged her to stop because she was making me nervous.

  “What time is the reservation?”

  “Um . . .” Picking up my mobile, I scroll through the texts. Nate sent me dozens today, every one of which has been duly read and analyzed by Robyn to much approval. “Nine thirty,” I say, finally finding the right one.

  “But it’s twenty after now,” says Robyn, glancing at my alarm clock.

  “What?” I shoot a panicked look at the same clock. “It can’t be.”

  I watch the digital numbers flick to 9:21. “Shit, I’m going to be late!”

  “You’ll be fine. Jump in a cab,” she says calmly.

  “I can’t. I’m broke. I’m still trying to pay off that Visa bill.” Scrambling around, I grab my bag.

  “Lucy! This is your destiny!” she gasps. “You can’t make it wait while you catch the freaking subway.”

  Actually, put like that . . .

  “Here’s twenty bucks for the fare,” she says, digging a bill out of her little embroidered purse. “And I’m not going to take no for an answer.”

  I give her a grateful hug. “Thanks. What would I do without you?”

  “I have no idea. Now, go have fun,” she calls after me as I dash out of the bedroom.

  Then I dash back in again. “I forgot my shoes,” I explain breathlessly. Snatching up my favorite pair of heels, I run barefoot out of the apartment, down the stairs, and onto the street to hail a cab.

  Chapter Eleven

  According to my New York tour guide, there are thirteen thousand registered yellow taxicabs in Manhattan. In add
ition there are all those other private-hire vehicles, limos, and black cars—I’m not sure exactly how many, but it’s a lot. Which means that basically there’s literally tens of thousands of taxis prowling the city.

  And yet I can’t bloody find one of them!

  Fifteen minutes later I’m still standing on the pavement. Waiting. OK, don’t panic, there must be a cab somewhere, there just must be, I tell myself, waving desperately at every passing vehicle in hopes that one of them might be a cab.

  Oh look, one’s stopping! Finally! Brilliant! I feel a jolt of relief swiftly followed by something else.

  Er, actually, no, it’s not brilliant. It’s not a cab at all. It’s some creepy man in a car. And now he’s making a rude gesture.

  Urgh. Jumping away from the curb, I march quickly in the other direction—not so easy in three-inch heels—and continue scanning the traffic for a yellow light. But nothing. The knot in my stomach tightens a notch. Shit. I’m going to be really late. Like, really, really late. Like, my-romantic-dinner-with-Nate-is-going-to-be-ruined late.

  No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I see a flash of yellow. Hang on a minute, is that . . . ?

  Out of nowhere a cab appears and swerves up bedside me. Oh my God, where did that just come from? For a moment I stare frozen in astonishment as it drops off its passengers next to me on the curb and flicks on its light. I mean, how can that be? One minute it wasn’t here and then the next . . .

  Lucy, for God’s sake, just get in.

  “Fifth and Fifty-seventh, please,” I say to the driver, jumping inside. Gosh, listen to me—I sound like a proper New Yorker. Then, smiling happily to myself, I can’t resist adding, “And step on it.”

  Robyn was right—the restaurant is super swanky.

  The uniformed maître d’ leads me through the intimate dining room, with its subdued lighting and murmur of chinking cutlery, to a candlelit table tucked away in the corner. And Nathaniel, looking immaculate in his dark gray suit. He’s chatting to someone on his iPhone. He sees me and smiles. My stomach flips right over like a pancake.