I feel a beat of relief. Great, the worst part is over.
“Would you care for a refreshment?”
I open my eyes to see the flight attendant, minus her earphones, standing next to me.
“Just some water, thanks.” I grab the in-flight magazine from the seat in front of me and start flicking through.
“And for you, sir?”
“Nothing for me,” he says gruffly.
I freeze mid-flick. I know that voice.
Up until now I’ve only been vaguely aware of a person in the seat next to me, as I haven’t so much as glanced in that direction, but now every single cell in my body is on full alert and is plummeting downward as if I’ve just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. Actually, that’s not a bad idea. At least that would be one way to finally escape.
Instead I continue staring at my magazine, willing it not to be true. Willing the person sitting next to me not to be the person who I know is sitting next to me. In fact, by not even thinking his name to myself, I can pretend it’s not real. I’m hallucinating. Or having some kind of lucid dream, and any moment I’m going to wake up and find myself back in my apartment in New York, and not twenty-five thousand feet in the air, on a tiny nine-seater plane, sitting next to—
“You’ve got to be kidding me. Lucy.”
Bang goes my lucid dream.
Having slunk lower and lower behind my magazine in an attempt to hide, I look up from behind its parapet. “Oh, hi, Nate,” I say, trying not to meet his eye, as if somehow I can still act like this is not really happening.
I mean, seriously.
THIS CANNOT REALLY BE HAPPENING.
But of course it is.
“Jesus, it is you!”
This flight is only thirty minutes. We must have done five already. Briefly I consider trying to ignore him for the next twenty-five.
“What on earth are you doing here?”
Only it’s not that easy when he’s sitting inches away, staring at me aghast, and is insistent on talking to me.
“Flying to Martha’s Vineyard,” I deadpan, finally turning to face him. “How about you?”
He frowns. “That’s not funny, Lucy.”
“Trust me, I know,” I agree. “Do you see me laughing?”
We both stare at each other. I’ve never actually seen Nate lost for words before, but now he genuinely seems at a loss for what to say or do. I know how he feels.
“There you go.” The flight attendant reappears with my water.
“Oh, thanks.” Grateful for the interruption, I take a large gulp and console myself that at least this will soon be over. And turning to gaze out the window, I stare at the sea of white clouds.
Twenty-five minutes and counting . . .
Chapter Twenty-six
Nate and I don’t talk for the rest of the flight, and after touching down, we mutter our good-byes—“See you around,” “Yeah, you too,” while both fervently hoping that’s not the case—and grabbing my bags, I go outside to get a taxi.
“Mermaid Inn, please,” I say to the driver, as I climb inside and roll down the window.
It’s a lovely, warm evening and I turn my face to the sunshine. It’s the magic hour. Everything is bathed in a honey-colored light, and after the frenzy of New York, the island feels quiet and sleepy. As if the pace of life has slowed down, I muse, as we drive down country lanes bordered by handcrafted stone walls and fields filled with wildflowers, past clapboard houses and quaint village stores that remind me of The Waltons.
According to the driver, I’m staying “up island,” which is the more remote side of the island and where Artsy has his studio. It’s also much wilder, I decide, as we pass white windswept beaches with grassy bluffs and a lighthouse standing proud up on the cliff.
After thirty minutes we arrive at the small ramshackle fishing port of Menemsha—blink and you’d miss it—and the cab pulls into a gravel driveway. At the end is a pretty inn with a pitched roof, white-framed windows, and a wooden porch complete with a rocking chair on which is curled a big fat ginger tomcat, fast asleep.
As I pass him with my bags, I tickle his tummy and he stretches out like a draft stopper and yawns languorously.
“Welcome to Mermaid Inn.” A stout, ruddy-cheeked woman greets me with a huge smile when I walk into reception. “I’m Sylvia.”
“Hi. I’m Lucy Hemmingway. I’m checking in for two nights.”
“One moment, please.” She taps cheerfully at her computer. “Ah, yes, we’ve got you in the Shell Room. That’s one of my favorites. It’s just down the corridor in a separate annex. It has an uninterrupted view of the ocean.”
“Super.” I smile happily. Despite the shaky start, I’m really looking forward to my time here on the Vineyard. It really is like turning back the clock, I note, glancing around at the vast stone fireplace, the framed black-and-white photographs of fishing boats, the grandfather clock ticking quietly in the corner.
“Oh dear.”
I turn back to Sylvia. Her smile has slipped slightly.
“Is anything wrong?”
“Well . . .” She’s still tapping at the computer keyboard. Only now she’s not so much tapping cheerfully as jabbing frantically. “I’m afraid we have a slight problem.”
I get a twinge of apprehension. I don’t like how she used the word “we.”
“Problem?”
“We seem to have double-booked the Shell Room.”
“Oh.” I feel a beat of disappointment. After her big sell on the room I was looking forward to staying in it. Still, I suppose it doesn’t matter; I’m only here for two nights. “Well, never mind. I’m sure all your rooms are lovely,” I say placatingly. “What else is available?”
There’s an ominous pause. “Well, that’s the problem. There isn’t anything else available. We’re fully booked.”
I look back at her, not quite computing what she’s saying. “But I have a confirmation.” I brandish the documents that Magda gave me.
“I know, my dear, but so does the gentleman.”
I frown. “What gentleman?”
At that moment the door swings open and my heart sinks. I should’ve known. “Nathaniel,” I say stiffly.
“Lucy.” He nods curtly.
“Oh, you two know each other?” cries Sylvia, glancing between us in astonishment.
“Intimately,” Nate says through gritted teeth.
A look of relief flashes across Sylvia’s face. “Oh, silly me, I didn’t realize you were together.”
“No, we’re not,” I reply quickly. “Together, I mean. Well, we are”—I glance at Nate, who’s typing an e-mail on his iPhone—“but we’re not supposed to be. . . .” I trail off. This is hopeless.
“Oh, I see.” Her eyes widen, then lowering her voice, she says quietly, “Don’t worry, here at Mermaid Inn we’re very discreet. The Vineyard has a history of accommodating presidents and world-famous celebrities.”
I look at her blankly.
“Who just happen to be married,” she adds, raising a bushy eyebrow.
Suddenly it registers. Oh my God, she thinks we’re having an affair! “No, it’s not like that,” I try explaining quickly, but she’s pinned a coy expression on her face and is holding out a key.
“Very discreet,” she repeats in a whisper.
I glance at the key. For a split second I think about trying to demand another room, but it’s been a long day and I’m exhausted. I just want to take a shower and go to bed.
And if you don’t grab that room first, Nate will, hisses a voice inside my head.
“OK, great. Thanks,” I say hastily, and snatching the key, I quickly set off down the corridor.
“The Shell Room is just to your left,” she calls after me.
Then I hear Nate’s voice. “I’m sorry, but I thought I was in the Shell Room.”
Five minutes later there’s a loud rapping at the door. For a moment I considering ignoring it, pretending I can’t hear, hoping it will go away
.
Yeah, right. This is Nate we’re talking about, remember.
Bracing myself, I open the door. “Oh, it’s you,” I say, feigning a look of innocent surprise.
“Of course it’s me,” he snaps, brushing past me. “This is my room.”
“And mine,” I fire back challengingly.
“So it seems.” He nods, glancing around at my stuff, which is already strewn all over the place. I don’t know how I manage to do that. I can make over a spotlessly tidy room in five minutes flat and make it look as if it’s been lived in for years. I could be on one of those home-makeover TV shows, only with a slight twist.
“I tried everything,” Nate continues, “but it’s August, their busiest time of year, and there’s no availability anywhere on the island.” He drops his luggage on the floor.
“Meaning?” I glance at his suitcase nervously.
“Meaning one of us will have to sleep on the sofa.”
We both look over at it. Tucked into the corner, it’s this tiny little wicker thing, with plumped-up cushions embroidered with seashells, in keeping with the room’s marine theme.
“I’m six foot three,” he says, turning to me.
“So?”
“So it will have to be you,” he says simply. He takes off his jacket and hangs it over the chair. Then kicking off his shoes, he flops down on the bed, picks up the remote, and turns on the TV.
I watch him in amazement. “Er, hang on a minute.”
Flicking channels, he appears not to hear me.
“I don’t think so.”
“Don’t think what?” he says absently, getting comfy on a pillow. Suddenly he pounds the bedspread with his fist. “Oh great, it’s the game,” he whoops excitedly.
“Me. On the sofa,” I say loudly.
There’s no response. Not even a glimmer. It’s like I’m not here. I feel a stab of frustration. This is getting beyond ridiculous. I mean, what am I supposed to do now? It’s not as if there are any rules to follow in a situation like this, is it?
No, but there’s the Strategy.
Suddenly I hear Kate’s voice in my ear and stiffen. Maybe she’s right. Perhaps it will work. After all, nothing else has. Robyn’s spell was a complete disaster—I was lucky I didn’t wind up in jail—and this would be the perfect opportunity to put the Strategy into effect.... I pause, my mind turning. All my life I’ve listened to my big sister in times of crisis. She always knows best.
Sod it. That’s decided. I’m going to go for it. I’ve got nothing to lose, except Nate.
OK, so first I need to refresh my memory. Grabbing my bag, which I’ve dumped on the floor, I pull out the four-page PowerPoint document. I’ve been carrying it with me everywhere, along with my bridal and baby magazines. Unfolding it, I have a quick scan of the points. OK, so here goes, in no particular order. I’ll just start with an easy one.
Sticking the document back into my bag, I march over to the TV and stand in front of it.
“Hey? What the—?” Nate glares at me and motions with the remote. “I can’t see!”
“I can’t sleep on the sofa. I have a bad back,” I say determinedly.
“Since when?” he sighs exasperatedly.
“Since Auntie Flo came to town.” I say in explanation, rubbing my stomach.
“Auntie Flo?” His brow crumples in confusion.
“My period,” I gasp loudly in explanation. “It’s that time of the month. You know, cramps, acne, bloating.” I pull up my T-shirt and stick out my stomach as far as I can. “I mean, just look at that! Buddha belly or what?”
Nate blanches.
“Seriously, have you ever seen anything like it?” Grabbing as much of it as I can in two fleshy rolls, I waggle it at him menacingly. “I look almost pregnant.”
Nate couldn’t look more horrified. Turning ashen, he recoils, as if an alien is about to explode from my swollen belly at any moment and eat him alive. I feel a twinge of meanness for torturing him like this, but quickly console myself. I’m being cruel to be kind. To both of us. If Nate wasn’t determined to stay away from me before, he will be now.
“Saying that, I wish I was pregnant,” I continue loudly. “I’m so broody.” Gosh, this is fantastic! I’m racing through the Strategy.
Nate goes puce and tries to ignore me by turning up the volume on the remote he’s holding. I notice he’s gripping it so hard his knuckles have gone white.
“Just imagine if we had a baby. It would be so cute!” I declare loudly above the sound of the TV.
A strangled expression flashes across his face. “Look, if you don’t mind, I really need to catch up on some paperwork,” he says gruffly, and giving up, he switches off the game.
“Of course, pumpy-wumpkin,” I say, pouting playfully.
A pet name. In a baby voice. Brilliant.
“I need to catch up on some reading too.” Digging out my pregnancy magazine, I climb onto the bed next to him and start flicking through the pages, which are filled with photos of bouncing babies. I see Nate glance over, then sharply away, and I smile to myself.
Kate was right. With any luck we’ll be broken up for good in no time.
Chapter Twenty-seven
When I wake up the next morning, I find myself alone in bed.
He’s gone!
For a split second joy pierces my heart like a silver bullet. Kate, you star! You were right! The Strategy worked! Overjoyed, I spread out starfish wide, relishing the feeling of space, freedom, triumph.
His suitcase. It’s still here. Shit. Feeling a clunk of dismay, I stare at it resentfully before peeling back the covers and climbing out of bed. Oh well, like he said, it’s only for a couple of days. It’s not like it’s forever.
Or so you hope, the voice of doom in my head reminds me.
Oh, shut up.
The phone rings, interrupting my thoughts. Reaching over, I pick up. “Hello?”
There’s a brief pause and then a female voice says briskly, “Oh, I must have been put through to the wrong room. I’m sorry to bother you.”
“No worries.” I stifle a yawn. “What room do you want?”
“Um . . .” I can hear the rustle of papers. “I believe it’s the Shell Room.”
“No, you’ve got the right room.”
“Oh . . .” She sounds confused. “I was looking for Nathaniel Kennedy.”
“You mean Nate? He’s already gone out—” I suddenly have a thought and break off. “Hang on. He might be in the shower.” Putting down the phone, I quickly jump out of bed and try the bathroom door handle to see if it’s locked. It’s not, and the bathroom is empty. “No, sorry. Can I take a message?”
There’s silence on the other end of the line.
“Or you can try him on his cell phone. Do you have his number? Hello?”
She’s hung up. I feel a snap of annoyance. I hate it when people do that; it’s so rude.
I stare at the receiver for a moment, feeling rankled, then determinedly shoving all thoughts of Nate and his rude friends out of my brain, I put it back in the cradle and dash into the bathroom. I have my big meeting with Artsy this morning. I can’t be thinking about anything but that, I remind myself as I quickly shower and get ready.
Nerves twist in my stomach. The article I read on the plane described him as “an eccentric recluse.” Having dealt with lots of artists, I realize this is most likely the journalist’s polite way of saying he’s difficult, unfriendly, and completely weird.
And I have to make friends with him and persuade him to show at the gallery, I think, giving up on my hair and rushing outside to my waiting taxi. Considering no one has yet managed to do this, it’s not going to be easy. Perhaps impossible, I brood, thinking about Magda and how she’s pinning all her hopes on this meeting.
The cab pulls out of the driveway, and as it heads along the coastal road toward Aquinnah, the most remote part of the island, at the southwestern tip, I can feel my spirits sinking to my default setting of Mancunian pessimism. My
mind runs along ahead to a terrible meeting, an unsuccessful outcome, and breaking the news to Magda that I’ve failed, it’s all over, she’s out of a home and I’m out of a job.
Whoa! Screeching the brakes on my negativity, I quickly try to rally. This is no good at all. I can’t turn up with that attitude. I’m supposed to be cheerful, hopeful, positive. Just the fact that Magda managed to get Artsy to agree to a meeting is hugely impressive. After years in the business, she knows a lot of people and has asked a lot of favors, but apparently what clinched it is that she and Artsy share the same philosophy: Art should be free to be enjoyed by everyone. Which is brilliant.
Saying that, his art isn’t free. On the contrary, his pieces run into tens of thousands.
Still, no need to split hairs, I tell myself firmly, as we reach a gate swung wide and off its hinges, with “Keep Out” scrawled on a sign, and turn down an unmade road. The cab driver seemed to know exactly where he was going when I asked him to go to “Artsy’s house” (the only address I had), and as I bounce around in the backseat, I see a ramshackle farmhouse ahead of me through the windshield.
“This is as far as I can go,” declares the cab driver after a couple of minutes.
“OK, great, thanks.” Paying him, I climb out, and as the cab reverses down the lane, I look around.
When the journalist said “remote,” he wasn’t wrong. Perched up high and hugging the edge of a cliff, the house is surrounded by tufty hillocks and wild, unkempt farmland. I can’t see anything for miles, apart from the ocean on one side and the farmhouse on the other. I walk toward it. It’s old and weather-beaten, one of the windows appears to be boarded up, and several chickens are running freely around it. Boldly I knock on the door. Nothing. I knock a second time. Again nothing.
I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m coming? I stare uncertainly at the peeling paint on the door for a moment, unsure about what to do. I can’t call him; he has no phone—landline or mobile. I can’t e-mail him—no Internet or e-mail address either. Apparently Magda had to go through a long and complicated process in order to contact him, ringing various friends of friends on the island who passed secret messages back and forth, like something out of the French Resistance.
You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter Page 26