Quinoa? What’s that? I read the packet. ‘An ancient grain, filled with goodness and nutrition.’
Crikey, whoever lives here is seriously healthy. Where’s the chocolate? The takeaway leftovers? The Diet Coke?
Er, in your fridge, Lucy.
Feeling a stab of guilt, I hastily close the door. I’ll buy some ancient grains next time I go shopping, I tell myself firmly. Still, chocolate isn’t unhealthy. I once read an article in a magazine about how it’s filled with iron and . . . I draw a blank. Well, anyway, it’s ages since I read the article.
Exiting the kitchen, I wander back towards the living room to resume my position on the sofa. Boredom gnaws at me. I haven’t found anything very interesting and the novelty of the penthouse is beginning to wear off. Plus I’m pretty tired. It’s been a long day. I’d quite like to go home now, get in the bath and curl up on the sofa with tonight’s episode of Oprah and the man who thinks he’s a grizzly bear that Robyn’s recorded. I laughed when Robyn told me about it, but now it’s beginning to seem quite appealing.
Letting out a yawn, I’m padding back down the hallway when I notice a bookcase. I didn’t see it before, but like everything else in the flat, it’s still empty. Next to it are a couple of half-opened cardboard boxes. No doubt filled with books, I muse, kneeling down and lifting up the cardboard flap to take a look.
Not that there’s anything much to see. Like I thought, just piles of books. Absently I leaf through a couple of political autobiographies, several travel guides, a couple of dog-eared John Grishams, a book on Renaissance painters . . . I pause, my interest piqued. It’s quite a heavy hardback, and tugging it out, I lie it on my lap and start flicking through the pages. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli . . .
My eyes flick over each painting. It’s like looking over photographs of old friends. On some I think the brushwork is amazing; others it’s the light; some I find a little too sentimental, or too religious.
As I turn the page, my heart skips a beat.
Portrait of a Musician by Titian.
I stare at the face looking out at me, my mind leaping back to the very first time I saw this painting. I was nineteen years old and wandering around the Gallerie dell’Accademia in Venice with a guidebook and the obligatory pair of earphones that didn’t work when I’d stumbled across it, tucked away in a darkened corner.
It had been love at first sight.
With long, dark, messy hair swept away from his face, a beard, brooding eyes, soulful expression, strong forehead and unwavering gaze, he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever laid eyes on.
And a musician too! Which was just so typical of me. I’ve always had a thing about musicians. Show me a man with facial hair and a guitar and I’ll show you a major full-blown crush. Evan Dando from the Lemonheads, the tragic Kurt Cobain, even Radiohead’s Thom Yorke, they all leave me weak at the knees.
My mind spools back. I can remember it as if it’s yesterday, standing in a little patch of sunlight, staring at him transfixed and thinking I’d found my ideal man, and what a shame he wasn’t real. It was part of my course in art history – not the lusting bit – but the reason I was in Italy for the summer. I’d only been there a few days but already I’d fallen in love about a million times – with the huge plates of black truffle pasta, the faded ochre-coloured buildings and stunning piazzas, the sound of the water lapping gently against the banks of the canals . . .
And now with this painting.
‘Bit of a cool dude, huh?’
It had been hearing a voice behind me that had finally caused me to drag my eyes away. Otherwise, who knows how long I’d have remained standing there, marvelling at Titian’s skill as a painter and relishing the delicious coolness of the gallery after the baking midday heat outside. Those few words, spoken in an American accent, had made me realise I wasn’t alone and I’d turned round, expecting—
Actually, to this day I’m not quite sure what I was expecting. Nothing really. Just another tourist with a camera and a guidebook. After all, the city was filled with millions of them. If anything, I was probably a bit irritated about being interrupted from daydreams.
And that’s when I first saw Nathaniel.
Long, messy hair. Blond. Jeans and a T-shirt. Converse All-Stars.
And I just knew.
In the split second it had taken for my eyes to sweep over him, standing in the shadows, just a few feet away, with his hands in his pockets and a lazy smile on his face, I’d been hit with something so unexpected, so sudden, so unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was like a lightning strike. A sense of certainty so powerful it had sent me reeling.
The Italians call it colpo di fulmine. Love at first sight.
This was it. He was the One.
What’s that noise?
Abruptly zoning back, I look up from the book. I can hear a humming sound. A sort of high-pitched whining . . . Puzzled, I cock my head on one side, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. It’s down that way, towards the hallway, I decide, glancing at the crates of paintings stacked up against the wall and the elevator at the far end.
Oh shit.
The elevator.
That’s where it’s coming from.
No sooner has the thought struck than I see the light next to it ping on.
I feel a flash of panic. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. That must be him. The client. He’s back!
Jumping up, the book falls from my lap to the floor with an almighty thud and I scrabble for it, while at the same time tugging at my skirt and trying to tuck my hair behind my ears. I want to look suitably professional and composed, and not like someone who’s been snooping around the apartment for the last hour.
Shoving the book hastily back in the box, I turn to see the doors sliding open. OK, don’t panic. Everything’s cool. Just act normal. Right, yes, normal.
Only the problem is, there’s nothing even remotely normal about being in a stranger’s penthouse apartment while they rock up in the private elevator.
I glimpse the doorman first, the familiar flash of his dark green uniform, and then a figure appears from behind him. Tall, receding slightly, wearing a suit and sunglasses, he’s looking down at some mail in his hand as he steps out of the elevator. I watch as the doorman goes back down in the lift, then glance back at the owner of the penthouse.
‘Hi,’ I quickly introduce myself, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel. ‘I’m from the gallery.’
Suddenly aware of my presence, he looks up and slides the sunglasses on to his head. As he does, I see a flash of surprise in his eyes. Pale blue eyes with grey flecks around the irises.
It’s like a ten-ton truck just crashed into my chest.
Oh my God, it can’t be.
It just can’t be.
Nathaniel?
Chapter Eight
‘Lucy?’
For the briefest of moments I think I’m going to faint. As my mind goes into freefall, I try telling myself I’ve made a mistake. It’s not him; it’s a trick of the light. I mean, there must be a million people who have eyes with similar grey flecks around the iris, right?
Right?
But there’s no mistaking that voice. It’s the same voice I heard that day in the gallery. It was that voice that made me turn round and fall in love at first sight.
‘Oh wow, Lucy, is that really you?’
It was also that voice that dumped me over the telephone.
‘Hello, Nathaniel.’
I was aiming for cool, calm and collected, but it comes out a bit wooden and schoolteacher-ish. Still, they’re words at least. Spoken out loud. Which is better than being utterly speechless with shock, which is how I’m really feeling.
Actually, I take that back. I’m not sure I can feel anything. It’s as if my whole body’s suddenly gone numb and I’ve got this weird floaty feeling, like the time I had my tonsils out and the anaesthetist told me to start counting backwards.
‘It is you! I thought for a m
oment I was seeing things.’ His face is breaking into a smile, creasing up the corners of his eyes.
Those are new, I can’t help thinking to myself. He didn’t use to have creases before. And his hair – it’s so much shorter, and it’s started to recede at the temples.
‘I was, like, No way, it’s impossible!’
I can hear him speaking, see him gesticulating, but it’s as if we’re separated by an invisible barrier, a sort of impenetrable shield between us, and instead I’m staring at this grey-suited figure in front of me with a certain detached disbelief.
He looks different. Older. Gone are the thrift-store suede jacket and the long, messy blond hair, and his teenage puppy fat has disappeared to reveal razor-sharp cheekbones and a much squarer jawline. But it’s still Nathaniel. Still Nate.
As the thought fires across my brain, my heart gives a little leap. I quickly squash it back down. No, you don’t, I tell myself firmly. Don’t you go getting any ideas.
‘Sorry, I haven’t let you get a word in, have I?’ he laughs, putting down his mail and scraping his fingers through his hair. ‘So tell me, how are you? What’s going on? What are doing here?’
I suddenly realise that despite the expensive designer suit and air of the successful businessman, he’s nervous. Well, it must be a shock for him too, walking in from work and seeing me standing in his hallway after ten years. Like a ghost from his past.
‘I brought your artwork,’ I manage.
‘My what?’ Confused, he glances distractedly to the crates stacked neatly in the corner, not seeming to register.
‘The Gustav collection,’ I continue, keeping my voice steady. God, it’s so bizarre. It’s like a robot has taken over my body and I’m standing here stiffly, talking in some weird automated voice about art, when instead the real Lucy is flinging her arms up in the air and shrieking, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, on a loop.
For a moment he seems to stare in total bewilderment at the paintings. Then suddenly his brow unfurrows and he turns to me in a sort of ‘eureka’ moment. ‘You work at the gallery,’ he says quietly, and I can see everything starting to fall into place.
‘Yes, I just transferred from a showroom in London.’ I nod, still doing my R2-D2 impersonation. ‘I’m the senior coordinator.’
Well, it sounded impressive first time around on the doorman.
‘You are?’ Nathaniel looks slightly dazed.
‘It’s a really good job,’ I add quickly, suddenly feeling the urge to justify myself. ‘I organise exhibitions, work closely with new artists, deal with clients . . .’
‘But what happened to your own painting? I thought—’
‘Oh, that’s a long time ago,’ I say dismissively, cutting him off and looking down to study my feet, which have suddenly become really interesting. ‘Anyway, what about you?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘What are you doing these days?’
What are you doing these days? Oh my God, Lucy, what kind of lame question is that? You sound as if you’re hanging over the garden fence, passing the time with your next-door neighbour. Not talking to your first love, whom you haven’t seen for ten years but have never stopped thinking about.
OK, I did not just think that.
‘Oh, you know, this and that,’ he says, his mouth twitching. His eyes flash with amusement as they search out mine and I feel something stir deep inside me. Like ice cubes when they start to melt. Shifting, splintering, thawing.
‘Well, this and that must be pretty successful,’ I reply, gesturing around me at the penthouse.
‘Oh, this.’ He shrugs modestly. ‘It’s just a rental.’
‘Oh, really?’ I say, trying to sound nonchalant, as if renting huge fuck-off penthouses in Manhattan is something I do quite regularly myself. When I’m not busy renting a room in a tiny shoebox downtown, of course.
Inside, though, I can’t help feeling a stab of insecurity. God, he’s obviously some major high-flyer, while I’m still broke at the end of each month.
‘I’ve been living in LA, but now I’m moving here for work,’ he adds in explanation.
‘Don’t tell me, you’re in the movie business,’ I say with a rush of excitement, before feeling my cheeks redden. ‘I saw the magazines.’ I motion vaguely towards the living room.
‘TV.’ He looks almost apologetic. ‘I’m a producer.’
‘Gosh, that’s great.’ I try to sound convincing, though I haven’t a clue if that’s great or not. Still, it sounds impressive. Everyone always wants to work in TV, don’t they? Well, apart from me. Art’s only ever been my thing.
‘Yeah, it’s pretty cool . . .’ He nods, then trails off.
There’s an awkward pause and for a moment we just stand there in the hallway, looking at each other. I can feel the space between us thick with questions and emotions.
‘Wow, sorry, I just realised, I haven’t even offered you a drink or anything,’ he starts apologising and rubbing his temples.
‘Oh, don’t worry,’ I say hastily.
‘I’m afraid I don’t have much in, apart from some Evian.’
And that funny quinoa stuff, I think, remembering the packet in the fridge.
‘Look, why don’t we go out and get a drink?’ he suggests all of a sudden. ‘Catch up properly?’
I’m taken aback. Go for a drink? Me and Nate?
‘Oh, er . . .’ Flustered, I start trying to stall. ‘I’m not sure . . .’
‘There’s a great little place on the corner,’ he continues eagerly. ‘Come on, how about it?’
He’s looking at me expectantly, a big smile on his face, and out of the blue I feel a snap of indignation. My God, I can’t believe it. He thinks I’m just going to trot off to a bar with him for a cosy chit-chat. After what happened? I should tell him to sod off.
I should, but of course I’m not going to.
‘Let me just grab my bag.’
I’ve imagined this moment a million, trillion times: bumping into him again. What I’d say, how I’d look, exactly what it would be like. I’d look fabulous, of course. I’d be wearing my thin jeans. I’d be having a good hair day (well, I don’t really have good hair days. I have at-least-it’s-not-frizzy and phew-my-fringe-hasn’t-kinked-yet days). Oh, and I’d have some amazing man on my arm.
Not that I believe you need a guy to make you feel good about yourself, but come on, enough of the feminist principles. You bump into the love of your life who married someone else, trust me, you don’t want to be single and wearing your frumpy work clothes, or a pair of flip-flops that make your legs look completely dumpy.
Sitting on a barstool, I rub my legs self-consciously. Ugh, they feel all bristly. Which is when I remember that I forgot to shave them.
‘I mean, what are the odds?’
Tugging down my skirt, I look across the bar at Nathaniel. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he’s sitting opposite me, shaking his head in disbelief.
We’re in a little French bistro on the corner of his street drinking red wine. I don’t usually drink red wine. I don’t actually like it. It makes my tongue feel all funny, like when I eat rhubarb. But I did that thing you do when you’re a bit nervous and you say you’ll have what they’re having, so Nathaniel ordered a bottle.
Which took about twenty minutes, as he wanted to taste everything on the menu first, swirling each one round the glass and sniffing it. He obviously knows a lot about wine, unlike me. I don’t know the first thing.
‘It is a bit of a coincidence.’ I nod, taking a large gulp of wine.
I feel absurdly nervous. As if I’m on a first date.
Quickly I scrub that thought.
‘Just a bit.’ He nods, rolling his eyes. ‘It’s incredible. I’ve always wondered if I’d ever see you again.’
‘You have?’ My voice comes out in a squeak.
‘Well, yeah,’ he says, looking down at his wine glass self-consciously.
My chest tightens and my stomach does this funny swooping thing. He’s thought about me. During al
l this time he’s thought about me. I feel a surge of validation. All this time I always wondered. Always hoped.
‘Did you ever think about me?’ He raises his eyes and gives me a long, searching look.
My stomach does a loop-the-loop again.
‘Sometimes.’ I shrug, trying to sound casual.
OK, so that’s a fib, but I’m not going to admit the truth now, am I? That I can’t stop thinking about him.
‘Really?’ He looks pleased. ‘I thought you might have forgotten all about me.’
‘Trust me, I tried.’ I manage a half-smile and he blushes.
‘Yeah, I didn’t behave very well at the end, did I?’
‘Oh, I don’t know.’ I take another gulp of wine, relishing the feeling of it weaving its way down into my stomach, soothing my jittery nerves. ‘We were so young, and long-distance relationships never work out, do they? It was just one of those things. Inevitable, really. And breaking up with someone is never easy.’
Er, hello. Since when did I develop this super-mature attitude?
‘I was a jerk, let’s face it.’ He flashes me a rueful smile.
‘OK, you were a jerk.’ I nod in agreement.
He laughs, his face crinkling up, and despite myself I can’t help but laugh too. It’s strange, but after all this time, all the years, all the wondering, the old hurt seems to melt away and it’s just me and Nate sitting at the bar, like two old friends having a drink. Maybe it’s true that time is a great healer.
Or maybe it’s just the red wine.
‘So . . .’ he says.
I watch him fingering the stem of his wine glass, as if he’s thinking hard about something. Then I notice. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. It shoots out at me, like an arrow. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I vaguely remember Magda mentioning it, but I didn’t pay much attention – she was talking about a stranger. At least, I thought she was talking about a stranger.
I stare at his empty finger. Maybe he’s taken if off and forgotten to put it back on. Or he could have lost it. Or maybe he’s one of those guys who doesn’t wear one, like my dad, who told Mum when they got married that he’d never worn jewellery and he wasn’t going to start now. I think he even said the word ‘poof’, but the less said about that, the better.
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