“I’m beginning to feel like nothing can tear us apart,” he adds, through a mouthful of ice.
“Me too.” I nod.
“It’s like we’re stuck together.” He sighs gloomily, staring into his drink. “For eternity.”
My ears prick up. “Did you say ‘eternity’?”
“Well, it sure feels like it, doesn’t it?” he says, taking a slug of his drink.
I look at him. Suddenly my heart is thumping like a piston. I want to tell him. I want to tell him everything. “Well, it’s funny you should say that.”
“Is it?” he quips wryly. “I’m not laughing.”
I hesitate, chewing my lip, wondering if I should continue. He’s going to think I’m an idiot. Oh sod it, he thinks I’m an idiot already. “Do you remember the bridge?” I blurt.
“What bridge?”
“In Venice. The Bridge of Sighs. We kissed underneath it, on a gondola.”
“Sorry, Lucy,” he says impatiently, “but I’m not in the mood to be going down memory lane.”
I feel myself stiffen. God, he really is an arrogant little shit sometimes. I fall silent. I’m almost tempted not to bother trying to explain, but we’re in this together—unfortunately—and it’s as much his problem to sort out as it is mine, I think indignantly.
“This isn’t about memory lane,” I respond, trying to keep my voice even. “It’s about the legend. Don’t you remember? About how if you kiss underneath the bridge, at sunset, when the bells are chiming, you’re guaranteed everlasting love?”
The song is still playing . . . They could never tear us apart.
Nate looks at me as if I’ve gone totally mad. Slugging back the rest of his drink, he turns to the barman. “I’ll have the same again. Make it a double.”
The barman glances at me. “Two of those?”
“Yeah, why not?” I nod, draining my glass.
“So what are you saying? That all this is because of some legend?” Nate turns back to me, his face flooding with scornful disbelief.
“Look, I know it sounds crazy. I thought the same thing at first ... well, for ages actually,” I confess. “In fact, I still think it’s crazy—”
Nate cuts me off. “That’s because it is crazy.”
I exhale sharply. “OK, so it’s crazy,” I snap with annoyance. “But don’t you think it’s crazy that we’re here now? That we keep bumping into each other? That we get each other’s laundry? Our phones call each other? We’re booked into the same room? Next to each other on the same flight? Sharing the same bed?”
His cheeks flame. “That wasn’t my idea.”
“Don’t you think it’s crazy that we can’t get rid of each other? That we’ve broken up, but we can’t break up? That somehow something keeps bringing us back together?” My chest is heaving and I can hear my voice getting louder. “Even the frigging jukebox is in on it!” I cry.
“What?” Nate looks at me in confusion.
“Listen!” I instruct, gesturing into the air. INXS has finished and another song has now started playing. “Trust me, I didn’t choose this song.”
“Velvet Underground, ‘I’m Sticking With You,’” pipes up the barman, passing us fresh drinks. “A true classic.”
“See!” I gasp impatiently.
There’s a beat as Nate computes this onslaught of information. “So let me get this straight.” Narrowing his eyes, he peers at me. “What you’re telling me is that a kiss, ten years ago, has gotten us into this mess?”
“Exactly.” I take a large gulp of my drink.
He looks at me for a moment, then sits back on his barstool. “You really expect me to buy that?”
I feel my cheeks flame. “Well, do you have a better explanation?”
“Anything is a better explanation than that!” He rubs his forehead in agitation. “C’mon, seriously.”
I heave a sigh and am casting around in my mind for a way to convince him, which isn’t easy when I’m still having trouble convincing myself, when abruptly I’m distracted by someone caterwauling.
“Christ, what’s that noise?” curses Nate, glancing around. “Don’t tell me it’s another song you didn’t choose.”
“Thursday’s karaoke night,” says the barman with obvious delight.
“No kidding.” Nate smiles tightly. “This just gets better and better.”
“Yup, that’s my girl, Shiree. Isn’t she great?” The barman beams proudly.
“Um, yeah, great!” I enthuse, kicking Nate’s calf.
He grimaces and fires me a furious look.
“Why don’t you guys get up there?” he continues. “We like out-of-towners giving it a shot on the old mike.”
“Oh, no, I don’t think so.” I shake my head hastily and begin hoovering up my drink.
“She can’t sing—terrible voice,” confides Nate to the barman.
“I don’t have a terrible voice,” I say indignantly, putting my empty glass down on the bar.
“Oh, yes, you do.” He nods, gesturing to the barman for another round. “I’ve heard you in the shower.”
“Huh! Me in the shower?” I cry. “What about you?”
The barman puts down two fresh drinks. Grabbing mine, I take a large swig.
“I’ve got a great voice,” replies Nate. “I used to be in a band.”
“You mean the time you played tambourine in college?” I scoff, my mind throwing up memories of him telling me all about it in Venice when we were teenagers.
“I did some vocals,” he says stiffly.
Giving a little humph that is meant to translate into Yeah, right, I shake my head, then quickly grab the bar to steady myself. Gosh, I’m beginning to feel a bit dizzy.
“What? You think you’re a better singer than me?”
“Absholutely,” I slur. Crikey, what’s happened to my tongue? It’s gone all floppy.
“OK, well, prove it,” he says challengingly.
“I don’t have to prove anything,” I retort, glaring at Nate. Actually, make that two Nates, I think, seeing double.
“Hah!”
“Hah?” Trying to focus, I draw back my shoulders. “What’s ‘Hah!’ supposed to mean?’
“It means you know I’m right,” he says arrogantly.
That’s it. I’ve had it. I don’t know if it’s the vodka or his smug expression, or the fact that I’ve been stuck with him for more than twenty-four hours on Martha’s Vineyard, together with the past few weeks, coupled with the past ten years, but something finally snaps.
Right, that does it. I’ll show him.
“OK, you’re on,” I say, rising to the challenge. “Listen and weep.” And without a backward glance I slide off the barstool and boldly head toward the microphone and speakers that have been set up in the corner of the tavern. Behind me I hear the barman whooping, “Atta girl!” Jutting out my chin, I begin weaving my way among the tables. I bash into a few accidentally. “Oops, sorry.” I smile as people cling to their drinks to stop them from spilling.
Oh dear, I’m feeling rather tipsy. In fact, I’m feeling a lot more than tipsy; I’m actually feeling drunk. The ground sways beneath me and I take some deep breaths. Make that hammered.
As I reach the speakers, a big-busted woman in a tank top asks for my request, then hands me the microphone. Normally at this point I’d be a nervous wreck, but it’s almost as if I’m having an out-of-body experience and am not in control anymore. Something else is operating my mind and my limbs, and it has no fear. It’s full of confidence.
It’s called three double vodkas.
I walk unsteadily onto the little makeshift podium and under the spotlight. “Um, testing, testing, one, two, three.” I start tapping the microphone. Well, isn’t that what people always do? It has an immediate effect. People stop chattering and swing round to look at me interestedly. “This one’s for my ex-boyfriend, Nathaniel.” In the shadows I can see him making stricken “no, no, no” gestures. “He’s over there, sitting at the bar.”
Everyone twirls round and looks at Nate. Suddenly plunged into being the center of attention, he looks like a rabbit caught in headlights: petrified.
“It’s the classic from Grease,” I continue. “I think you’ll all know it.” There are a few murmurs of approval, and buoyed by my newfound confidence, courtesy of Smirnoff, I introduce it. “It’s called ‘You’re the One That I Want.’”
There’s a murmur of approval.
“But tonight I want to sing it a little differently.” I pause as my eyes flit around my tiny audience. I see people looking at me expectantly, their curiosity piqued. “Tonight ‘You’re the One That I Don’t Want.’”
There are a few hoots of laughter and someone whistles. Over by the bar I can make out Nate shrinking down on his barstool in pure, undiluted mortification, and then the opening chords of the song start blasting from the crackly speakers.
I’m on!
Taking a deep, drunken breath, I start singing. I’m a bit wobbly at first, but I soon get going. It’s actually quite fun, I realize, as I begin serenading Nate at the top of my lungs. Especially when the crowd starts joining in with the ooh-ooh-ooh-honey in the chorus. I feel like Leona Lewis, or Mariah Carey, or one of those other big divas, I think, closing my eyes like you see the contestants on The X Factor doing. With a blast of exhilaration I grip the microphone and really go for it.
Wow, and now the crowd is going crazy. I can hear them wolf-whistling and cheering and someone else singing. I flick open my eyes. Is that Nate?
I watch him being pushed onto the stage, a microphone thrust into his hand, a look of horror on his face as he’s forced to warble into it. He shoots me a strangled look as he does the part of John Travolta to my Olivia Newton-John: “You’re the one I don’t want, you’re not the one I want, ooh, ooh, ooh, honey . . .”
The audience goes wild as we grimace at each other across the stage. Forget singing a duet—we’re singing a duel, the karaoke equivalent of fighting to the death. I’ll show him—take that! Adrenaline pumping, I blast a line at him. I’ll show her—take that! Gripping the microphone, he lunges at me with another line.
Back and forth, back and forth, until . . .
“Excuse me.”
In the middle of our song fight, the music stops and I hear a voice. It’s the bartender’s. “Guys, your tow truck is here.”
Chapter Thirty
“Well, I guess this is good-bye.” Walking through the gate at JFK in New York and out into the busy arrivals hall, Nate turns to me.
“You hope so,” I caution.
“Oh, don’t tell me, the legend is going to get me,” he mocks, waggling his fingers spookily and singing the music from The Twilight Zone.
“Ha, ha, very funny.”
“Well, c’mon,” he tuts. “Do you seriously expect me to believe that?”
“Of course not.” I shrug. “You never believe anything I say.”
He nods as if to say, Yes, that’s true, then winces and clutches his forehead. Taking out a blister packet of ibuprofen, he pops out two pills and swigs from his Evian bottle. “Why the hell did you have to start me on those vodkas?”
“Why did you have to crash the car?” I retort, grabbing the water and tablets from him, and taking another two. That makes six already and my hangover is still throbbing.
“By the way, I’d prefer it if you don’t mention to anyone about me, you know”—he lowers his voice—“doing karaoke.”
“Oh, you weren’t that bad,” I tease.
He glowers and has opened his mouth to retaliate when his iPhone starts ringing. “That’s my driver,” he says, glancing at the screen. “He’s outside.”
“’Bye.” I raise my hand in farewell. “I hope I don’t see you later.”
“You won’t,” he says determinedly. “I’ll make sure to forget to send you a Christmas card.” He throws his bag over his shoulder, then turns sharply and strides off, swallowed up in the bustle of people.
I watch for a moment, barely daring to believe that this is it, he’s really gone for good. Vanished, like a magic trick. I feel a beat of hopeful excitement. After so much false hope, so many false starts, it’s hard to believe he could finally leave me alone. He’s like the boy who cried breakup. But no, he really has disappeared, I reassure myself, looking into the crowd. He’s not coming back.
My body sags with relief. Maybe Nate is right—maybe I was getting carried away with the legend, with all this magic stuff, and spells, and hocus-pocus. Feeling optimistic, I grab my bag from the baggage carousel and with a spring in my step head outside to catch a cab back home. Maybe, finally, this really is the end.
Arriving back at the apartment, I open the door and bump straight into Robyn, who’s rushing manically around the kitchen.
“Hey! You’re back.” She grins, giving me a bear hug. “How was it?”
“Interesting,” I reply, dropping into a chair and kicking off my flip-flops. “You’ll never guess what—”
“Shoot, have you seen my keys?” she interrupts.
“Um . . .” I glance around the kitchen, my eyes flicking over the countertop. “No.”
“Darn,” she gasps, tapping her foot impatiently.
Her stiletto-clad foot.
I look at it in astonishment. I’ve never seen her wearing anything other than her Havaiana flip-flops, of which she has a dozen pairs in all the colors of the rainbow. She’s so tall and skinny she always says she doesn’t feel the need for heels, but tonight she’s wearing a fabulous pair of gold peep toes that are to Havaiana flip-flops what a Matisse is to a paint-by-numbers.
“Are you going out?” I ask in surprise. Glancing up from her feet, I take her in for the first time and realize she’s all glammed up. Wearing a long tie-dyed dress, which shows off her impressive cleavage, she’s piled her hair on top of her head to show off the most amazing choker. It’s obviously from one of her exotic far-flung travels, and it’s made from hundreds of tiny stones, which glitter and twinkle under the kitchen spotlights.
And there’s me wearing a necklace from Laila Rowe.
“Wow, you look amazing,” I gasp.
She stops rushing around for a moment and stands still in front of me for my approval. “Do you think so?” Nervously she fiddles with her hair. “I was thinking maybe it’s a bit much.”
“No, you look great,” I say. I’ve never understood why Robyn covers up her figure in baggy clothes, but tonight there’s no mistaking she’s working it. “Very sexy.”
Her cheeks flush. “Thanks.” She grins, then, remembering her hunt for her lost keys, darts across to the countertop and picks up a pile of mail. “Darn it, where can they be?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll hide my set.” Spotting a bag of Kettle Chips, I take a handful. “I’ll put them under the potted plant on the landing.”
“You will?” She throws me a grateful look. “Oh, thanks, you’re an angel.” She rushes for the door.
“Hey, but you still haven’t told me where you’re going—” The door slams behind her, sending something toppling from the top of the fridge with a crash. Bending down, I pick it up. It’s her vision board.
“Or who with,” I murmur, staring at the pasted pictures of dark, handsome strangers and cut-out letters that spell the words “soul mate” and “Harold.” Something tells me it’s sure as hell not with him.
Propping it back up on the fridge, I reach for my bag. I need to get ready for my date with Adam, though I still don’t know what the surprise is, or where we’re meeting, I reflect, feeling a flutter of nerves. Digging out my phone, I check again to see if I’ve got a text and notice the battery is completely dead. Damn, where’s my charger? By the toaster, where I left it, I notice, hastily plugging it in. Instantly a message beeps up. It’s from Adam.
It’s a time and a place. I feel a thrill and glance at the clock on the microwave. Oh, no, it’s that time already?
Dashing into the bathroom, I jump in the shower and spend the next thirty minutes do
ing what I call the “transformation.” Out go the frizzy hair, sweaty face, baggy T-shirt, and leggings, and in come natural-looking makeup, a vintage thrift store dress that’s a bit tight under the arms but that makes me look like I’ve got a flat stomach, and hair that, OK, will never rival Jennifer Aniston’s, but won’t rival Amy Winehouse’s either.
All done, I glance at myself in the mirror. Now I know how Jesus must have felt. Talk about performing miracles. So he made water into wine? Big deal. I can make a hungover mess into something vaguely presentable. Maybe even a little sexy, I think, giving myself the once-over and feeling a tingle of excitement.
A thought zips through my brain, and dashing into the bedroom I rummage in my chest of drawers and pull out my “special” underwear: a lacy thong and push-up bra that cost an absolute fortune from Agent Provocateur. I went shopping there last year after the office Christmas party, when I was a bit drunk, and ended up spending far too much on sexy lingerie that I’ve barely worn.
The problem is, I’m worried I might look a bit, well, up for it. Looking sexy is one thing, but premeditated is another. As if I’m expecting to have sex with him. I want to look like I’ve just thrown this on, as if it’s my usual underwear, I decide, swapping out my regular underwear and wriggling into it. I glance at myself in the mirror.
Oh, please. As if I usually wear a pink and black satin balconette bra that’s squeezing my boobs together and hoisting them upward into impressive cleavage. I wear comfy flesh-colored T-shirt bras that go with everything. But I can’t wear one of those, I think with horror, looking at the T-shirt bra discarded on the bed, like a beige jelly mold. It is the most unflattering thing you’ve ever seen.
I stare at it for a few seconds, an internal bra battle raging inside me, then make a decision. Nope, I cannot, repeat cannot, wear my jelly-mold bra on my surprise date. A man would never understand the excuse of comfort and that it doesn’t show any seams. In fact, I remember once mentioning that very reason to an old boyfriend and he looked at me in bewilderment. “What, you have to wear an invisible bra?” Which wasn’t the point at all, but still.
You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter Page 29