“I just found it today,” he says, reappearing. “I thought I’d lost it years ago, but it just turned up out of the blue.” Propping myself up on my elbows, I gaze at him as he bends down to kiss me. “Kind of like you, huh?”
I look at him in confusion. What is he talking about? Then I notice he’s wearing something round his neck. A pendant. Half a coin.
My heart leaps and I feel a shock wave of amazement, incredulity, excitement . . . and something else. This must be more than just coincidence. This must be fate.
“Well, it’s funny you should say that.” Rolling over, I throw out my arm and reach for my bag, which is lying discarded on the floor, along with my clothes. With my fingers, I fumble around inside, until finally I find it. My half of the necklace. “Look.” Triumphantly I loop it round my neck and we exchange looks of delight.
“Hey, I wonder if they still . . .” Leaning toward me, he gently reaches for my necklace and puts it together with his. The two halves click into place, like two pieces of a jigsaw puzzle.
“It’s a perfect fit,” I murmur.
“Are you talking about the necklace or . . . ?” He raises his eyebrows suggestively.
“Nate!” I giggle, and swat him playfully.
“What?” he laughs, then pauses thoughtfully, tracing a finger across my shoulder. “You know, now I’ve found you again, I’m never letting you go.”
“Yeah, right,” I tease, but inside I feel a burst of happiness.
“No, I’m serious.” His blue eyes search mine and he looks at me for a long moment. “You’re never going to get rid of me.”
“Well now, there’s a coincidence.” Reaching up, I pull him down toward me. “You’re never going to get rid of me either.”
Chapter Twelve
The rest of the week slips away in a dreamy montage of romantic dinner dates in some of the finest restaurants in New York, a horse-drawn carriage ride in Central Park, an amazing bouquet of fresh white lilies delivered to work....
It’s everything a girl could ever dream of and more. What’s even more wonderful is this time it’s not happening to someone else, to some random celebrity I read about in a magazine on the subway, or a friend of a friend I hear about over drinks with my single girlfriends, but to me. Me. Lucy Hemmingway.
I mean, who would have thought that only a few days ago I was trundling along in my normal life, doing normal things like moaning about my cellulite to Robyn and doing my hand-washing, and then—boom—I’d bump into Nate again and everything would change? Not that my life was terrible before—it wasn’t at all. It’s just . . . well, put it this way, I’m not thinking about cellulite or hand-washing anymore.
Now I’m too busy smiling as yet another slushy text beeps up from my phone, or lying giggling in his arms after we’ve had sex for about the millionth time.
As for my cellulite . . . the funny thing is, I don’t think Nate even notices it!
Cocooned in our own little world called Nate ’n’ Luce, population two, it’s like no one and nothing else exists. In fact, it’s all I can do each morning to drag myself away from his penthouse and catch the subway downtown to work. I want to be like John and Yoko and just lounge around in bed for a week, though my reasons are slightly less honorable. Well, ten years is a lot of lost time to make up for.
Saying that, as soon as I enter the gallery, I automatically switch into work mode. Wafting around in a heady, romantic state might be wonderful, but it’s all-consuming and you can’t get anything done, and there’s loads to do, as this Friday is the opening. Falling in love and having your first New York gallery opening to organize all in the same week is a bit intense, but I rise to the challenge.
By Friday everything on my list has been ticked off with my brand-new highlighter pen. Compile guest list: tick. Send out invitations: tick. Write promotional material: tick. Book caterer: tick. Hire waitstaff: tick. Hang paintings ready to exhibit: tick. Now all we need is for the event to be a success, I tell myself, feeling like a bundle of nerves as the first guests start arriving.
“Welcome to Number Thirty-Eight,” I say with a smile, crossing their names off my list. “Please feel free to wander around and enjoy the artwork, and if you have any questions, my name’s Lucy and I’d be delighted to help you.”
Panic: tick.
Twenty minutes later the gallery is buzzing. It’s a hot, muggy evening in New York and the doors have been thrown wide open. People are milling around inside and spilling outside onto the pavement.
It’s a diverse crowd. Magda has put together an eclectic guest list, from somber-looking artists dressed in Birkenstocks and Elvis Costello glasses to some of New York’s glitterati, including several pubescent-looking models, the odd actor, and lots of older men with impossibly white teeth and impossibly skinny wives who are dripping in diamonds and designer handbags. And who all look suspiciously like they bought their face at the same place as Magda, I notice, watching them air-kissing with their strangely swollen lips.
“Wow, you clever girl, this is amazing!”
I glance up to see Robyn bounding toward me, her hair flying loose, a large smile sweeping across her face. I’ve barely seen her all week, as I’ve been at Nate’s, and it’s great to see her. She’s wearing an embroidered caftan and a pair of fisherman trousers, both of which are tie-dyed, and the longest, dangliest pair of earrings I’ve ever seen.
“And you look amazing! I love your hair!” Flinging her arms round me, she gives me a breathless hug. “The color looks great on you!”
“Thanks.” I grin. In honor of the occasion I popped into a salon during lunchtime and changed the color of my hair from a boring chestnut to a spicy black currant.
“Has Nathaniel seen it yet?” she asks excitedly.
What she really means is, Has Nathaniel been seen yet? All week she’s been dying to meet him, but I’ve been keeping him under wraps until tonight.
“He’s running a bit late at the studio, but I’ll introduce you as soon as he arrives,” I promise.
“Cool. I can’t wait.” She grins. “OK, I’m off to grab a drink before I die of thirst. Do you want one?”
“Oh, no, I’m fine.” I shake my head. “Better not drink on the job.”
“OK, well, I won’t be a sec.”
As she disappears into the crowd, I turn back to my guest list. More people are arriving and there’s still more yet to come, including my sister and her husband, Jeff, though they left a message saying they’d be late. Something about an appointment. I can’t complain. Knowing her, it’s probably some mega-important multimillion-dollar lawyer thing. In comparison, mine is just a little gallery opening.
“Babe, sorry I’m late.”
My thoughts are interrupted by a familiar voice and I look up to see Nate. Instantaneously my stomach does its usual loop-the-loop. “You made it,” I say, experiencing a rush of happiness as he bends down and gives me a kiss.
“Just. We had a bit of a nightmare at the studio.”
“Oh, is everything OK?” I feel a beat of concern.
“For now.” He nods, checking his iPhone. “There was a problem with the host of one of the shows I’m working on. He’s being a total prima donna, making all kinds of demands.” He stops and stares at me. “Hang on, you look different.”
I feel a wave of pleasure. He’s noticed my new hair.
“What do you think?” I do a bit of flirty flicking with my hand.
His brow furrows. “Lucy . . . is your hair purple?”
“It’s called spicy black currant,” I falter. “Don’t you like it?”
He looks at me carefully. “Well, it’s certainly interesting,” he says, but inside I feel disappointed. He hates it. He hates my hair.
“Isn’t the color amazing?”
Hearing a voice, I swivel round to see Robyn reappearing with a drink, her eyes wide with excitement as she takes in both me and Nate.
“Robyn, this is Nate,” I say, quickly doing the introduction and changing
the subject from my hair. “My boyfriend,” I add.
Well, I can’t resist. Just saying it gives me a little burst of happiness.
“Wow, I’m so pleased to meet you!” With a glass of champagne in one hand, she throws her other arm round him. “I’ve heard everything about you!”
“Really?” Nate looks amused. “Everything?” He shoots me a look over her tie-dyed shoulder and I blush.
“About Venice, and the bridge, and the legend.” Releasing him from her one-armed hug, she stands back and looks at us both, a huge soppy grin on her face. “Just look at you two. You make such a cute couple.”
I blush as Nate squeezes my shoulder.
“No, but seriously,” she continues, her face falling suddenly solemn, “you guys were meant to be together. You know there is a force out there that none of us understands, a bigger energy than either you or me.” She pauses, then lowers her voice to a whisper as if she’s telling us a secret. “Believe me when I say this, destiny is an amazing thing, and this is your destiny. This course was set out for you. You’re puppets and fate is pulling the strings, and—”
The jingle of someone’s phone suddenly interrupts Robyn’s monologue and Nate clamps his hand to his breast pocket. “Sorry, excuse me.” Pulling out his iPhone, he glances at the screen. “Do you mind? I need to take this. It’s the studio.”
“No, no, go ahead.” Robyn bats him away, snapping back to her usual vocal range, which is loud verging on even louder.
Clipping on his Bluetooth headset, he moves away. “Hi. Yeah, Nathaniel Kennedy speaking . . .”
“Wow, Lucy, he’s amazing,” gasps Robyn as soon as he’s out of earshot.
“You think so?” I say, trying to be modest, when of course I know he is.
“Totally.” She looks at me, suddenly welling up as if she’s about to burst into tears. “Oh, honey, I’m so happy for you.” Giving me a hug, she breaks away, sniffling. “Sorry I get so emotional. It’s just . . .” She dabs her eyes with the sleeve of her caftan and gives a little hiccup. “I’ll be right back. I’m just going to grab a napkin.”
Thrusting her drink at me, she turns and I watch her dashing off through the crowd. As it parts, I spot my sister. Carrying her briefcase and wearing a dark work suit and harassed expression, she couldn’t look more out of place at a fashionable gallery opening if she tried.
“Hi, Kate.” I wave to attract her attention, and seeing me, she turns and marches over. “I’m so glad you could make—”
But she cuts me straight off. “Is that who I think it is?” she demands, bypassing the pleasantries and jerking her head toward Nate, who’s still chatting away on his iPhone.
Oh shit.
I feel a clunking thud. The thing is, I haven’t actually got round to telling my sister about Nate. It’s not that I forgot as such. It’s more . . . OK, I completely avoided telling her. She left me half a dozen voicemail messages this week, but I just texted back saying I was busy with work. Which is entirely true. I have been super busy with work.
I’ve also been super busy falling in love with Nate, but I couldn’t tell her that. She’s not exactly a paid-up member of the Nathaniel Kennedy Fan Club.
“Um . . . yes, it is,” I say, avoiding eye contact.
“The Bridge Guy!” she gasps incredulously.
“He’s called Nathaniel,” I say, feeling defensive.
“I could call him a lot of things,” she replies, with a hard edge to her voice, “and most of them aren’t very complimentary.”
I feel my jaw set and I square my shoulders, just like I always do when I’m about to have an argument with Kate.
“Like, for example, married.”
“He’s getting divorced,” I explain quickly. “He and his wife are separated. He’s living here in New York now.”
Kate’s eyes narrow and she fixes me with the kind of look that terrifies vice presidents of law firms across Manhattan. “You’re not seeing him again, are you, Lucy?” she demands in a tone that makes grown men tremble.
By the look on my face there’s obviously no need to answer.
“Oh my God, you are,” she gasps in disbelief.
“We’re in love,” I say simply, trying to suppress a blissful smile, and failing.
“In love?” She staggers back as if she’s just been shot. “Since when?”
“Since I was nineteen,” I say simply.
Kate gives a little snort. “Lucy, you haven’t seen him for ten years. People change.”
“Well, he hasn’t!” I say rather crossly. For goodness sake, my big sister is always so negative. “OK, so he doesn’t drink coffee anymore, and he does yoga, and—”
“Yoga?” Kate says, gaping.
“What’s wrong with yoga?” I demand. “It’s very good for you. We’re doing private classes together.”
“You? Doing yoga?” She suddenly bursts out laughing. “Lucy, you can’t even touch your toes.”
“Yes, I can. Almost,” I say sulkily, thinking back to yesterday and our first lesson with Yani, our yoga instructor. He has long, dark hair and wears flowing white robes and reminds me a bit of Jesus. Especially when he kept talking about enlightenment, and spirituality, and discovering your inner soul. Unfortunately the only thing I discovered is that I have a body that does not bend. But like Yani says, it’s all about the practice.
“Anyway, yoga’s about the mind, not the body. Maybe you should try it,” I suggest, shooting Kate a look.
My sister looks back at me as if I’m an alien. “Er, hello, can this robot who’s stolen my sister please give her back?”
“If you’re just going to make fun the whole time—”
“Well, c’mon, Luce.”
“No, there is no ‘C’mon on, Luce,’” I snap hotly. “We’re back together again, and this time for good, and that’s all there is to it.”
I break off, flushing, and Kate falls silent. “Look, I’m not trying to spoil things for you,” she says, her tone much kinder, “but are you sure about this?”
“I’ve never been more sure,” I say determinedly. Then I just can’t help myself and gasp excitedly, “Oh, Kate, this is it. The real deal. He’s the One. He always was the One.” I feel like when we were little and used to huddle excitedly together beneath the bedcovers, sharing our secrets.
But there’s no flash of excitement across Kate’s face this time. Instead she just looks at me, totally deadpan, and opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and sighs. “I’m just worried, that’s all.”
“Well, don’t be.” I reach for her hand. “I’m really happy, Kate. Look at me. When did you last see me this happy?”
She pauses thoughtfully, then raises an eyebrow. “When you got your picture taken with Daniel Craig?”
“You know, I still have that as my screen saver.” I grin, thinking about the time I bumped into him outside Pret A Manger on the King’s Road in London and Kate took a photo of us with her phone—me grinning like a loon, him just looking jaw-droppingly sexy. “It alternates between that and the shot of him coming out of the sea in his swimming trunks.”
“Lucky you. My screen saver’s Jeff.” She smiles grudgingly. “Though thankfully not in swimming trunks.”
I laugh. Unlike my sister, Jeff has zero willpower when it comes to diet and exercise. He likes to describe himself as cuddly. Kate, however, describes him as a lazy sod and is forever nagging him to join the gym. “How is Jeff? Is he here?”
“Yeah, over there.”
My eyes swivel to the other side of the gallery, where I see Jeff hovering by White Noise, an abstract painting by one of our new artists, and peering at it uncertainly. He’s obviously been instructed to wait there until the coast is clear.
“Gosh, he’s lost weight,” I say with surprise, as Kate waves him over.
“Has he?” She peers at him as he starts walking toward us, then shrugs. “He looks the same to me.”
“No, he’s definitely slimmer. What happened? Did
you finally get him to join the gym?”
Kate snorts with amusement. “Hardly. Jeff’s idea of exercise is reaching for the remote. Isn’t it, darling?” she says as he joins us.
“Totally.” He grins, having learned a long time ago to agree with whatever Kate says. Giving her a kiss on the cheek, he turns to me. “Great exhibition, Lucy.” He hugs me. “Though I’m afraid I don’t know much about art. Just looks like a bunch of meaningless squiggles to me.” He shrugs apologetically.
“It’s abstract,” I laugh. My sister and I might not agree on a lot of things, but one thing we do agree on is her choice of husband. If you looked up “good guy” in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Jeff, an Irish American with a heart of gold.
“Oh, so that’s what it’s called.” He smiles good-humoredly.
“Loozy! So there you are!” We’re interrupted by Magda, who’s sporting a leopard-print dress and a beehive that appears to have taken on skyscraper proportions especially for the evening.
“This is Mrs. Zuckerman, who runs the gallery,” I explain to Kate and Jeff, who are looking at her with slightly bewildered expressions. “My boss,” I mouth over the top of her hairdo.
“Hi. So nice to meet you.” They both jump into action and go to shake her hand, but it’s full of meatballs. A whole tray of them. True to her word, she’s spent the whole week making them and is serving them up along with fake champagne.
Quite literally, I muse, watching her sticking the tray under their noses. Forget mingling with the guests—Magda has rolled up her leopard-print sleeves and is intent on serving up food like a good Jewish mother.
“Meatballs?” she asks, beaming, though it’s more of an instruction and less of a question.
“Oh, no, thank you. We’re going to go for dinner after—” begins Kate, but Magda interrupts.
“Nonsense. They are the perfect appetizer. Try some.” With characteristic pushiness, she thrusts them at her.
Kate shoots me a look. It’s probably the only time I’ve ever seen her seem scared of anyone. Mutely she takes one.
You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter Page 12