You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

by Alexandra Potter

  “You’re the man who sold me the pendant, who told me about the Bridge of Sighs.” I scan his craggy face for a sign of recognition. “Do you remember?” I look at him with eager anticipation, awaiting his reply. This could be it. This could be the answer I’ve been looking for. Hope swells inside and I hold my breath tight inside my chest.

  “I tell a lot of people that story,” he confesses, his eyes crinkling into a rueful smile.

  “You do?” I feel a curious stab of disappointment and look down at my lap so he can’t see it in my face. All these years I’ve imagined Nate and I were special, yet now, abruptly, I realize we were just one of hundreds of couples to whom he’s told the story. Foolishness prickles. There was me thinking that somehow he could hold the secret, that he could somehow give me the answer.

  “So did the legend work its magic?” I glance up to see him looking at me with an amused curiosity. “Are you still together?”

  “Sort of.” I shrug miserably.

  He frowns at my expression. “I’m sorry . . . my English.” He throws out his upturned palms. “I don’t understand.”

  “It’s a long story.” I smile apologetically.

  He looks at me for a moment, his eyes searching my face as if for clues. “You are both in love with someone else? Is this it?”

  “Yes, it is.” I nod, thinking about Nate. Earlier at the airport I heard him on the phone to Beth, still trying to convince her to give things another shot, and my heart went out to him. He’s clearly in love with her, and it’s even more clear that it’s only now he’s begun to realize it. Never has the old adage “you don’t know what you’ve got till it’s gone” seemed more true. But then, isn’t that true for a lot of people? I muse sadly, thinking about Adam.

  “And what about you?”

  I snap back. “Me? No,” I protest, shaking my head determinedly. “No, not in love.” The words catch in my throat as my mind thumbs through the snapshots of my brief relationship with Adam. It wasn’t love. Of course not. How could I be in love with someone I barely know? And yet . . .

  And yet you can spend a lifetime with someone and still be a stranger to him, but on the flip side you can meet someone briefly who can see inside your soul. Can you measure love by time? By anything? Or is it something inexplicable that has no rhyme or reason, no scientific explanation? Something that just happens. Like magic.

  As the thought hits, I suddenly realize that I’m not convincing anyone, least of all myself. “Yes, I am,” I say, turning to look at the old man. My voice is quiet but unfaltering. “I am in love with someone.”

  “Well, then, do not worry.” He smiles reassuringly. “The legend is indeed powerful, but do you know what is more powerful?” He looks at me, his dark eyes seeming even darker, and I feel goose bumps prickling my arms, just like all those years ago.

  “Love,” he says simply. “The power of love.”

  I look at him, a million questions racing through my head. “But—”

  “Good-bye, Lucy.” Before I can finish, he stands up, tipping his hat. “Say hello to Nathaniel for me.”

  “Yes, I will.” I nod absently, watching as he turns and walks away. Then a thought strikes. “How did you remember our names?”

  But he’s already gone, disappeared down an alleyway, leaving me with a jumble of thoughts and unanswered questions.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  I’m still sitting alone on the bench, trying to make sense of it all, when my phone rings. It’s Kate. I pick up.

  “How’s Venice? Got rid of him yet?” she says with characteristic bluntness.

  “Not yet,” I say blithely, but reminded of why I’m here, I feel a clutch of worry. “So, anyway, how are you?” I ask, sweeping it under my cerebral carpet.

  “Well, do you want the good news . . . or the good news?”

  “Huh?”

  There’s a pause and then: “We got the all-clear!” Jeff and Kate yell in stereo into the phone, their voices so loud I have to hold my mobile away from my ear.

  “Oh my God, that’s brilliant!” I gasp, feeling a tidal wave of emotions wash over me—relief, joy, delight . . . I want to punch the air, high-five a stranger, hug someone, but there’s no one here, just me, on a bench, in a tiny piazza in Venice, listening to my sister and Jeff chattering away into the phone, telling me all about the results. It was stage one and he doesn’t need chemo. “Just a holiday,” Kate is enthusing. “A bloody long holiday.”

  Listening to her speaking, I can’t stop smiling, and it’s not just because Jeff’s got the all-clear. It’s because of the change in my sister. Hearing her excitedly talking about taking a holiday, it’s as if she’s a new Kate. Gone is the sister who used to spend every spare moment she had in the office or the gym, who was so focused on making partner or running the marathon that she lost sight of who and what are important in life. She was left behind that day in the hospital, and somehow I don’t think she’s ever coming back.

  “We were thinking a safari, or maybe even diving on the Great Barrier Reef, or Jeff said why don’t we just go crazy and take sabbaticals from work and do both.”

  As she’s talking, I’m distracted by a couple who’ve wandered into the piazza. Absently I watch them taking each other’s photograph by the fountain, before the guy notices me and walks over.

  “Excuse me,” he begins, then, realizing I’m on the phone, falters. “Oh, sorry.”

  “It’s OK.” I smile. The glow from my sister’s good news is infectious. I mean, come on, here’s a couple in love, in one of the most romantic cities in the world, and they want a photo together. “Hang on, Kate,” I say to my sister, who’s now wondering if they should buy round-the-world tickets and take in the Pyramids as well. “I just need to take a photo.”

  “No worries. Let’s speak later,” she says cheerfully, saying her good-byes and hanging up.

  No worries? Astonished, I stare at my mobile for a moment. Something tells me this new sister of mine is going to take a bit of getting used to.

  “Thank you so much.”

  I turn back to see the girl in the couple smiling at me and holding out her camera. It’s one of those big proper ones, with the lens that you focus manually, not like my little digital one that just takes snaps.

  “Would you mind taking it over here, against the sunset?” she asks.

  “No problem.” I smile, taking it from her and looking through the lens.

  Then suddenly I pause. Rewind. Did she just say . . . ?

  “Sunset? ” I gasp.

  “Yes, isn’t it amazing?” Her face lights up as she gestures toward it. “Like the sky is on fire.”

  Her voice is drowned out by the sound of my own heart pounding loud and fast in my ears as I look up. And there it is, like a huge cinematic backdrop: a pomegranate sky streaked with pinks and reds and oranges, and the sun is a fiery orb slowly sinking down low behind the buildings.

  Oh my God. The legend. I have to meet Nate.

  I turn back. The couple are still smiling at me, their bodies posed for a photograph, but now I’m all fingers and thumbs. I can’t even see to focus. “I’m sorry, I have to go,” I gabble, quickly taking a picture and shoving the camera back at them. “I hope I didn’t cut your heads off.” I throw them an apologetic smile, and leaving them looking at me in confusion, I turn and start racing down the alleyway.

  I can’t be late. For once in my life I can’t be late. I have to be there on time. I have to—

  Shit, where I am going? I stop dead, my heart racing, my mind going helter-skelter. Suddenly, in all of this, I realize I haven’t a clue in which direction I’m supposed to be heading. I haven’t a clue where the Bridge of Sighs is.

  It gets worse. I haven’t even a clue where I am now. I’m lost. Without a map. And I can’t speak Italian.

  Panic rises a notch and for a moment I stand stock-still, like a rabbit caught in headlights. Even my Shredded Wheat rhyme isn’t going to save me now. Come on, think, Lucy, think. But I c
an’t think; my mind is blank, and in desperation I just set off running down twisting alleyways, past shops and restaurants, crowds of tourists and paparazzi.

  “Excuse me, do you know the way to the Bridge of Sighs?” I pant breathlessly to other tourists, but they shake their heads apologetically.

  I spot a bunch of men who look distinctly Italian. “Ponte dei Sos-piri ?” I gasp desperately.

  “Ah, sì, sì.” They nod and with a series of hand gestures point me in the right direction.

  Relief floods, and thanking them profusely, I set off running through the crowded streets. It’s really busy now. The film parties are gearing up for the evening and paparazzi and film crews are buzzing everywhere. The whole town is lit up. Even the canals, I notice, reaching the water and spotting a gondola up ahead, the bright lights of a film crew on board shining on some celebrity or other.

  And the bridge, I realize, looking past the gondola and seeing it arching across the canal. It’s the Bridge of Sighs. I feel a rush of anticipation and wonder. It’s so beautiful. The white marble is like a blank canvas, reflecting the colors of the sunset and the ripples of the water beneath, and for a moment I stare at it, transfixed. The effect is almost magical.

  I can’t stand here all evening, though. I’ve got to find Nate, and snapping back, I scan the crowds. I see him. A few hundred meters away upstream, he’s standing waiting by one of the smaller bridges from which you can catch the gondola. Even from this distance I can see the expression on his face and he doesn’t look pleased. Spotting me, he glares at me furiously and throws his arms in the air as if to say, Where the hell have you been?

  I rush toward him. Shit, I’m running out of time. The sun’s going to set. I’m going to be too late. Too late for what? pipes up a voice in my head. You still don’t have a plan. I ignore it. It’s not over yet. I’ve still got a few minutes, I tell myself frantically. There’s still time for a miracle.

  Excusing my way through the crowds, I head toward Nate, but it’s hard. There are so many people milling around taking photographs of the Bridge of Sighs, of the sunset, of the film crew on the canal.

  “Ooh, look, it’s that actor,” coos a voice as I push past.

  “He’s in a gondola,” cries another voice as I squeeze through a gap.

  I look fleetingly over to see who’re they’re talking about and snatch a glimpse of the gondola I saw earlier. It’s some pretty-boy Hollywood actor with bright lights shining upon him. A young guy in a baseball cap is interviewing him.

  Oh my God.

  The breath catches in the back of my throat. It can’t be....

  As the gondola glides past, I see his face.

  “Adam? ” Reeling with shock, I hear my voice call out his name. I see him glance up at me.

  “Lucy?” he gasps, bewilderment flashing across his face.

  Our eyes meet for a split second, and thrown off balance, I don’t look where I’m going and suddenly feel my foot slip. Stumbling, I throw my arms out to grab hold of something, but they clutch at thin air and I feel myself falling.

  I can hear someone scream as I hit the water. Or is it me screaming? I can’t tell. I think I’ve hit my head. Everything has gone woozy. Now I’m swallowing water and I’m trying to swim, but my arms are flailing and I’m going under. I can hear my heart pounding in my ears, feel the panic rising in my chest. Oh God, I’m going to drown. I’m going to—

  Suddenly, out of nowhere, a pair of arms grab hold of me and I feel myself being pulled out of the water and onto the gondola. Spluttering and coughing, I’m fighting for breath, but it’s as if everything has gone dreamy, as if I’m seeing the world through a blurry film of Vaseline. Around me I can see people’s mouths moving, hear muffled voices, but I can’t respond. My eyelids are growing heavy. My limbs don’t feel as if they belong to me. The world seems to be receding.

  “Fate la respirazione bocca a bocca! ” the gondolier is shouting over and over. “Fate la respirazione bocca a bocca! ”

  “The kiss of life,” translates a voice. “Give her the kiss of life.”

  Adam’s face flashes above mine, bathed in the golden glow of the sunset. I notice his wet hair, water trickling down his face, his urgent expression. I feel the gondola fall into shadow as we drift underneath the Bridge of Sighs. I’m so tired I want to go to sleep. Exhausted, I close my eyes.

  Suddenly I feel someone’s lips on mine, someone’s mouth pressed urgently against my own. Jolted awake, I snap open my eyes to see Adam. Relief flashes in his eyes and he breaks off from kissing me. For a moment we just stare wordlessly at each other, a million questions hanging between us.

  Then I hear them, in the distance, softly chiming. I listen harder. Is that . . . ? Could that be . . . ?

  “Bells,” I whisper, as Adam looks at me, not understanding.

  “Have you heard about the legend?” asks someone with a thick Italian accent, and we both turn to see the gondolier grinning at us.

  “What legend?” says Adam, still holding me tightly.

  I smile the biggest smile. “Oh, it’s a long story,” and wrapping my arms around him, I lean in for another kiss.

  Click here for more books by this author

  Epilogue

  Bundled up inside my thick winter coat, furry hat, and woolly scarf and gloves, I hurry along the snow-covered street, my breath forming white clouds, like steam puffing from a train. Dusk has fallen and it’s freezing. Icicles hang like chandeliers from the fire escapes, and snowflakes twirl around me, as if I’m in a real-life snow globe.

  Shivering, I wrap my coat tighter around me. I probably should have caught a cab, but I love to walk. I adore this time of year. New York has turned into a winter wonderland of festive decorations and lights twinkling in windows. Anticipation hangs in the frozen air. I can’t believe it’s going to be Christmas in just a few weeks. It seems like only two minutes since I was in Venice, I muse, my mind spooling back to the warmth of the Italian sunshine.

  It’s been three months since Adam kissed me under the Bridge of Sighs, and since then it’s not just the seasons that have changed. I still can’t believe he was there to rescue me when I fell into the canal. Afterward he took me back to his hotel to dry off and we stayed up for hours talking about everything.

  He told me how he’d got an invite at the last minute to fly to Venice to film some interviews. How he’d never stopped thinking about me. How he’d missed me so much he thought he’d conjured me up out of his imagination when he saw my face amid the sea of tourists. How he’d felt when he saw me fall into the canal. It all came pouring out.

  Then it was my turn. I had a lot of explaining to do, about why I was in Venice with Nate, what we’d been doing together in Martha’s Vineyard, and how no, we weren’t having an affair. He took some convincing. Three whole days in his hotel room in Venice, in fact. I had no idea convincing someone could be so much fun.

  My heel slips on an icy paving stone and I have to fight to keep my balance. That’s the problem with wearing high heels, I reflect, glancing down at my new red satin stilettos and feeling a rush of delight. Totally impractical, ridiculously high, and utterly gorgeous. But then I couldn’t wear wellies to a swanky exhibition featuring the works of renowned artist Artsy, now, could I?

  “Loozy, there you are!”

  Arriving at the gallery, I’m greeted at the doorway by a flash of paparazzi cameras and Magda, resplendent in head-to-toe Gucci, with Valentino tucked under her arm.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I gasp, giving her a hug.

  Then again, not everything has changed.

  Inside, the gallery is buzzing with an air of feverish excitement. Artsy’s first-ever exhibition has caused quite a stir and there are crowds of people, tons of journalists, and even a few celebrities milling around his artwork. The exhibition has been the talk of the art world and we’ve had tons of publicity. Magda has been interviewed in the New York Times, the gallery has been featured in Vogue, and there’s even a rumor Vanity Fair
might want to do a piece.

  Standing on tiptoe, I quickly scan the crowd. Crikey, is that Sarah Jessica Parker? I feel a leap of excitement, but I move swiftly past her, my eyes searching out a familiar figure. Then I see him standing in the corner, waiting for me.

  Adam.

  “Fancy seeing you here.” He smiles, slips his hand round my waist, and gives me a kiss.

  I feel a beat of pleasure. “So what do you think of the art?”

  “Hmm, well, I’m not sure about the dirty laundry”—he gestures to Artsy’s washing lines—“but I think these are amazing,” he says, moving toward a series of charcoal sketches hanging on the walls.

  “Really?” I study his face with interest. “And why’s that?”

  “I love the way they capture people’s expressions, their emotions, their hopes.” He points to a large one of a woman half-dozing in a hospital waiting room, rosary beads clasped tightly in her lap. “There’s a whole story, a whole history, and it’s been captured in one fleeting moment with just a few strokes of charcoal.”

  “You know a lot about art.” I nod approvingly, my mouth twitching.

  “I had a good teacher.” He grins, turning back to me. “Plus it helps when you know the artist.”

  Pride swells in me, and my face splits into the widest smile. Because, you see, those are my sketches hanging on the gallery wall. Tonight’s exhibition isn’t solely for Artsy, though of course he’s the main attraction. It’s also a chance to showcase new talent.

  New talent. My heart skips a beat and I almost have to pinch myself.

  It was Adam who encouraged me to follow my dream of being an artist, so when I came back from Venice, I started sketching again properly. It was as if I’d never stopped. Soon I didn’t go anywhere without my sketchbook, and evenings and weekends were spent exploring the city, capturing expressions, moods, moments. Until one day I plucked up courage and showed them to Magda, who threw up her arms, declared them wonderful, reprimanded me for being a dark horse, and offered me my first exhibition.