You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

by Alexandra Potter

  At that alarming thought I suddenly remember the strategy.

  “Hey, look over here,” I pipe up, grabbing Nate by the elbow and steering him toward a store where a couple is peering in the window.

  “Huh? What?” Regardless of the fact there’s hardly any phone reception on the island, Nate has found a weak signal and is chatting away to his real estate agent about uninterrupted views and under-floor heating.

  “What do you think?”

  The couple has now moved away and we have the whole window to ourselves. It’s just as I thought: a whole window of antique rings. Antique engagement rings.

  “Sorry, Jennifer, one minute.” Slapping his hand over his iPhone, he turns to me in confusion. “What have you dragged me over here for?”

  “What about the pink sapphire with the baguette diamonds?” God, I can’t believe I know all this stuff. Baguette diamonds? Where did I get that from? Females must just absorb this stuff through osmosis.

  “Yes, very nice,” he says, not even looking before going back to his phone call. “Hi, Jennifer. Sorry—you were saying about the under-floor heating?”

  This is harder than I thought. “Maybe you could buy it for me?” I say loudly, and gaze beseechingly at Nate.

  A sharp crevice splits down his forehead. “You want me to buy it?” he asks, incredulous.

  “Well, that’s the idea.”

  “Sorry, no, Jennifer, I wasn’t talking about the Chappaquiddick house.” He glares at me. “Look, can you give me a few minutes? I’ll call you right back.” He gets off the phone, his face furious. “Jesus, Lucy,” he gasps. “What’s gotten into you? Why the hell should I be buying you a ring, for Christ’s sake?”

  I widen my eyes pointedly. “Why do men usually buy women rings?”

  He stares in bewilderment. Then suddenly the penny drops. “What the . . . ?” He pauses, trying to contain himself. “Have you gone insane? You want us to get married?”

  I open my mouth to reply, but the words don’t come out. Oh God, this is useless. Strategy or no strategy, I can’t do it. I heave a frustrated sigh. “Don’t be ridiculous. Of course I don’t want to marry you!” I rebuke.

  “Good. Because I don’t want to marry you either.” He throws me a withering look. “Believe me, I’m as horrified as you are that we’ve been thrown together these past couple of days. When you sat down on the plane next to me, my heart just sank.”

  “It did?”

  “Are you kidding me? Like a rock.” He nods. “It was bad enough bumping into you the whole time in New York, but trapped on an island together? I have to confess I thought you were stalking me.”

  “Me?” I look at him with indignation. “Stalking you?”

  “Well, c’mon, there’s coincidence and there’s coincidence.” He raises his eyebrows. “I thought you were trying to find a way to get back with me.”

  I’m speechless. Totally speechless.

  “A friend of mine said it was obvious. I mean, all those calls.” He throws me a pointed look. “Apparently that’s what girls do.”

  “That’s what girls do?” I repeat. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

  “He said you were probably a psycho ex.”

  I glare at him in disbelief. “Me? A psycho ex?” Oh my God, wait till I tell Kate.

  “It’s been hell for me too, you know,” I protest.

  “I’m sure.” He nods. “It’s not pleasant for either of us.”

  “You know, maybe we can end up being friends,” I say, as we move away from the jewelry shop.

  “Hey, watch it,” he replies sardonically.

  “OK, well, what about acquaintances? Our only contact can be a Christmas card every year,” I suggest. “Unless of course I forget.”

  “Or I delete your address. By accident, of course.”

  I feel a shift, as if we’ve entered a new phase in our relationship, an understanding.

  “Sounds perfect.” I grin.

  “Doesn’t it?” He grins back.

  We end up staying in town and having dinner together. It goes fairly smoothly, apart from when I snap at him for making a fuss about wanting to taste their wine list (I mean, really. We’re in Papa’s Pizza. They have two wines: house red and house white), and he snaps at me for using my fingers to eat the calamari starter we’re sharing.

  Then there’s the bit when he tells me off for glancing at a text that beeps up from Adam—Looking 4ward 2 tomorrow x—and texting a reply—Me 2 x—and I accuse him of being a hypocrite for using his iPhone at the table, which results in him doing that thing with his hand in which he tries to shush me for talking too loudly and I get infuriated and loudly tell him to sod off. Followed by several long, sulky silences from both of us.

  All in all, though, it’s pretty civil, and although it’s not an experience I’d want to repeat, we both emerge alive, which, considering there were sharp implements of cutlery at the table, is saying something.

  After the meal, Nate offers to give me a lift back to the inn in his rental car, which is lucky, as on leaving the restaurant, we discover it’s started raining heavily.

  “Probably a storm coming,” comments Nate, pausing in the doorway to put up his collar. “You get some pretty big ones here in the summer.”

  “Big storms?” I repeat. “How big?”

  “Oh, pretty big.” He shrugs, then dashes out into the blackness, holding his blazer above his head. “C’mon, run!”

  Fuck. Bracing myself, I race after him across the parking lot. A few seconds is all it takes, but by the time I get in the car I’m drenched.

  “Didn’t you have a jacket?” he says, stating the obvious.

  “If I had, I’d be wearing it,” I gasp, slamming the door closed and peeling off my soaking cardigan. I glance across at Nate. He’s totally dry. “You know, a gentleman would have lent me his.”

  “Why should I lend you my blazer?” he remarks, putting the car in gear and heading out of the parking lot. “It’s your fault if you’re not sensible enough to bring a jacket. That’s the problem with you, Lucy. You’re never sensible.”

  My jaw sets hard. “How was I supposed to know there was going to be a storm?” I reply, trying to stay calm.

  “Didn’t you check the weather report?”

  “No, Nate, I didn’t check the weather report,” I fire back.

  “Well, there you go,” he says smugly. “Let that be a lesson.”

  Argggghhh! He’s so patronizing I want to hit him over the head with his bloody weather report, but instead I take a couple of deep breaths and, ignoring him, sit on my clenched fists and stare out the window.

  Outside it’s pitch-black. The island isn’t like New York—there aren’t a million lights illuminating the sky—and we head out of town and start driving down a small road into thick, velvety darkness. Nate puts on his high beams, but rain is pelting against the windshield, making it impossible to see.

  “Be careful,” I say after a moment. “You need to slow down. You’re driving too fast.”

  “I’m not driving too fast,” he replies. “It’s fine.”

  “Don’t you know what happened to Ted Kennedy?” I reply. “In fact . . . are you related?”

  He tuts impatiently. “Just quit it, OK?”

  My patience snaps. “No, I won’t quit it,” I cry above the sound of the windshield wipers, which are beating furiously. “Slow down!”

  “Jesus, I’d forgotten what a nag you are,” he grumbles.

  “And I’d forgotten what a bad driver you are,” I mutter, my mind flicking back to when we were teenagers and Nate drove me from Venice to Florence for the weekend and nearly crashed because he insisted on racing the Italian drivers.

  He swerves to avoid a giant puddle spilling across the road and I’m thrown back into my seat by my seat belt.

  “Are you trying to kill me?” I shriek.

  “Well, that would be one way of getting rid of you!” he yells, glancing sideways at me.

  “What a
re you doing? Keep your eyes on the road!” I yell back.

  “My eyes are on the road!”

  “And slow down!”

  “Lucy, am I driving or are you?”

  “You are, but you’re going too fast.”

  “I am not going too fast!”

  A huge bolt of lightning splinters the sky, illuminating the inky darkness, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Every nerve ending jumps and I grip the seat with my fingers. Shit, we’re really in the thick of the storm now. Rain is lashing down, pummeling the car and flooding the road. I feel the back wheels skidding.

  “Be careful. You’re going to hydroplane!” I roar over the din.

  “Of course I’m not going to hydroplane!” he roars back.

  “Nate, be careful. Look where you’re going.”

  “Argghhhh!”

  Everything happens so fast. All I’m aware of is our voices sounding in stereo, me shrieking, him yelling, as suddenly he loses control of the car. Now we’re being flung across the road. The car is spinning out of control. We’re veering off into the blackness . . . I hear the tires screeching . . . see flashes of fields, bushes . . . feel the sensation of being thrown forward.

  And then . . . boom!

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Dazed, I open my eyes and am immediately blinded by bright lights. Oh my God, so this is it. It’s all over. I’m in heaven. Any minute now I’m going to hear piped Muzak, arrive at the pearly gates, and see my grandma waiting for me with a big pile of her homemade coconut macaroons.

  “Shit!”

  I swivel sideways, but instead of Grandma and her coconut macaroons, it’s Nate.

  Seriously, there is no getting away from him. Not even in the afterlife.

  “Are you OK?”

  “OK?” I round on him in disbelief. “You’ve killed me!”

  “Oh, stop being a drama queen,” he snaps. “You’re fine. We hit a tree, that’s all.”

  There’s a brief silence as I register this information. I’m not dead. Then . . .

  “That’s all?” I exclaim. “You drive like a crazy man in a storm and crash into a tree and nearly kill both of us and that’s all? I’ve probably broken my arms and legs because of you!”

  “Well, have you?”

  I wiggle my arms and legs. “No, but that’s not the point.”

  “That’s totally the point,” he replies, rubbing his forehead in agitation. Letting out a deep sigh, he hugs the steering wheel.

  Reluctantly I feel a beat of concern. “Are you OK?”

  “Fine, no damage done,” he says stiffly. “Not sure about the car, though.”

  Following his gaze, I stare out through the windshield toward the bright lights. Only now I realize, slightly shamefacedly, that they’re just headlights, and they’re shining brightly at the trunk of a large tree, up against which the hood is completely scrunched.

  “Well, it still starts,” he mutters, firing up the engine. “That’s something.”

  Relief washes over me. Thank God. Soon I’ll be back at the inn safe and sound, tucked up in bed.

  I scratch that image. I’ll stick with just being back at the inn.

  Rain is still drumming hard on the roof of the car as Nate sticks it into reverse and puts his foot on the accelerator. My relief is short-lived. There’s the high-pitched sound of the wheels spinning, but we don’t move. He revs harder. The wheels scream louder.

  “Fuck.” Slamming his fists on the steering wheel, Nate flings open the door and disappears round the back of the car. He returns a few seconds later, soaking wet. “We’re stuck in the mud.”

  Images of the warm, snug inn quickly start receding. “Who are you calling?” I ask, as Nate pulls out his iPhone. Please don’t tell me it’s the studio. Or his real estate agent.

  “Triple A. We need a tow truck.”

  “But how will they find us?”

  He looks at me as if I’m a complete idiot. “It’s got GPS. I’ll be able to locate exactly where we are.” He starts jabbing away at the screen.

  “Oh, right . . . great!” The whole time I’ve hated that dratted iPhone, but now I take it all back. I feel a swell of gratitude. Thank God for Nate’s iPhone!

  “Except there’s a slight problem.”

  “Problem?” I look at him warily.

  Peering at the screen, he sets his jaw. “There’s no signal.”

  After twenty minutes walking along an empty road, in the pouring rain and pitch-dark, we make out distant lights. My heart soars as we trudge toward them and I spot a sign: O’Grady’s Irish Tavern. Never have I been so happy to see an Irish pub. Pushing open the door, we stumble inside, soaking wet and freezing cold, and are greeted by warmth, light, and “Fisherman’s Blues” playing on the jukebox.

  Spotting a pay phone, Nate hurries over to it, while I make my way, squelching, to the bar. The tavern isn’t very big. At the far end are a few tables and chairs, around which are gathered what look like locals—I’m beginning to recognize their uniform of yellow sailing jackets and beat-up khakis. Running along one side is a well-stocked bar, behind which is a wall of hundreds of faded Polaroids, no doubt taken during previous Saint Patrick’s Day celebrations, I note, as everyone’s wearing green and there are lots of shamrocks. The luck of the Irish.

  I could do with some of that luck right now, I think, wearily hoisting myself onto a barstool, where a puddle rapidly starts forming around me.

  “Little wet out there, huh?” The mustachioed barman, a fiftysomething Hells Angel with a cut-off T-shirt and tattooed forearms, pauses from chewing a toothpick.

  “Just a bit,” I sniff, resting my elbows on the bar.

  He reaches underneath and holds out a bar towel. “Here you go.”

  “Thanks.” Smiling gratefully, I wipe my face, then tip my head upside down and start towel-drying my hair.

  “It’s going to be a while.”

  Hearing Nate’s voice, I flick my head back up. He’s standing next to me, looking like he’s just taken a shower fully clothed. Even his blazer couldn’t keep him dry, I think with a beat of satisfaction. I’m half-tempted to let him drip-dry, but I take pity and pass him the towel. “How long?”

  “Apparently there’ve been a lot of accidents,” he grumbles, rubbing his face roughly, “and there’s only one frigging tow truck.” With a face like thunder he slides onto the barstool next to me.

  “Maybe we can call a cab,” I suggest.

  “Oh, silly me! Why didn’t I think of that?” He thumps his forehead in a sarcastic eureka moment.

  “I was only trying to help,” I reply archly.

  “Well, don’t,” he deadpans. “There’s, like, one cab service on the island and it’s busy. We’re just going to have to wait.”

  “So, what can I get you guys to drink?” interrupts the barman cheerfully.

  “A vodka tonic, please,” I say, thankful for the interruption.

  “Make that two,” says Nate gruffly.

  The barman moves away and there’s an ugly silence. I cast around for something to say. “Oh, by the way, some woman called the room for you this morning.” What with everything that’s happened today, it totally slipped my mind. “She didn’t leave a message.”

  “Huh, it was probably Jennifer, my real estate agent,” he tuts. “That woman won’t take no for an answer about the Chappaquiddick house. She’s becoming a real pain.”

  You mean Jennifer who you were shaking hands with earlier and chatting to about under-floor heating, I’m tempted to point out, but I’m not going to go there. Instead I steer clear of his bad mood and, noticing “Fisherman’s Blues” has finished and the bar has fallen silent, ask, “Do you have any change for the jukebox?”

  For a moment he looks as if he’s going to make a sarcastic comment. Then, seeming to think better of it, he reluctantly digs in his pockets and holds out some quarters.

  “Thanks.” I force a bright voice and, leaving him sitting at the bar, hurry off to the jukebox. I feel
a wave of relief to be away from him; he’s in a foul mood.

  For the next five minutes I browse the playlist and choose songs. It’s really quite fun. There are some absolute classics on here: the Eagles, Fleetwood Mac, Sister Sledge . . . and “You’re So Vain,” by Carly Simon. I love that song! Humming away to myself, I pick some of my all-time favorites and then make my way back to the bar.

  And to Nate, who’s sitting by himself, nursing his drink and scowling at his iPhone, as if willing it to work. “So what did you choose?” he grumbles, looking up.

  “Oh, a bunch of stuff,” I say vaguely, and reach for my drink. Boy, do I need this. Dispensing with the straw, I take a large gulp . . . and nearly choke as vodka blasts my tonsils. Wow, I always forget how strong the drinks are in the States compared to back home.

  “Like what?” he persists.

  “Wait and see,” I reply, refusing to be drawn. No doubt he will hate all my music and take great pleasure in telling me so. I don’t like his taste either, though. Last time I was at his penthouse he was playing Hootie and the Blowfish.

  I wait expectantly for the jukebox to start playing the first of my selections: The Verve, “Bitter Sweet Symphony,” which is one of my favorites. Oh, here we go. I hear the opening chords strike up. Violins start blasting. Only, hang on, this isn’t the Verve. Isn’t this—

  “INXS?” snorts Nate derisively.

  “What? I didn’t choose this,” I say in confusion, as Michael Hutchence starts singing.

  “You must have,” retorts Nate.

  “No, I didn’t.” I shake my head. “There must be some mix-up. The jukebox must be faulty.”

  Nate looks at me, quite obviously not believing me. “Jesus, I hate this song,” he complains.

  “Really? I love it,” I retort. Still, it’s really weird. I honestly didn’t choose this. Suddenly a thought stirs. “Wait a minute, what’s this song called?”

  “Um . . .” Nate crinkles his brow.

  “‘Never Tear Us Apart,’” says the barman from behind the bar.

  Nate and I exchange looks as goose bumps prickle my arms.

  “Talk about apt,” he mutters.

  “Yeah, isn’t it,” I murmur, feeling a shiver running up my spine as Michael Hutchence belts out the lyrics. What? Even the jukebox is in on this now?