You're the One That I Don't Want

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Yes, I can. Almost,’ I say sulkily, thinking back to yesterday and mine and Nate’s first lesson with Yani, our yoga instructor. He had long, dark hair and wore flowing white robes and reminded me a bit of Jesus. Especially when he kept talking about enlightenment, and spirituality, and discovering your inner soul. Unfortunately the only thing I discovered is that I have a body that does not bend. But like Yani says, it’s all about the practice.

  ‘Anyway, yoga’s about the mind, not the body. Maybe you should try it,’ I suggest, shooting Kate a look.

  My sister looks back at me as if I’m an alien. ‘Er, hello, can this robot who’s stolen my sister please give her back?’

  ‘If you’re just going to make fun the whole time—’

  ‘Well, c’mon, Luce.’

  ‘No, there is no “C’mon on, Luce”,’ I snap hotly. ‘We’re back together again, and this time for good, and that’s all there is to it.’

  I break off, flushing, and Kate falls silent. ‘Look, I’m not trying to spoil things for you,’ she says, her tone much kinder, ‘but are you sure about this?’

  ‘I’ve never been more sure,’ I say determinedly. Then I just can’t help myself and gasp excitedly, ‘Oh, Kate, this is it. The real deal. He’s the One. He always was the One.’

  I feel like when we were little and used to huddle excitedly together beneath the bedcovers, sharing our secrets.

  But there’s no flash of excitement across Kate’s face this time. Instead she just looks at me, totally deadpan, and opens her mouth to say something, then thinks better of it and sighs. ‘I’m just worried, that’s all.’

  ‘Well, don’t be.’ I reach for her hand. ‘I’m really happy, Kate. Look at me. When did you last see me this happy?’

  She pauses thoughtfully, then raises an eyebrow. ‘When you got your picture taken with Daniel Craig?’

  ‘You know I still have that as my screensaver.’ I grin, thinking about the time I bumped into him outside Prêt-à-Manger on the King’s Road in London and Kate took a photo of us on her phone. Me grinning like a loon. Him just looking jaw-droppingly sexy. ‘It alternates between that and the shot of him coming out of the sea in his swimming trunks.’

  ‘Lucky you. My screensaver’s Jeff.’ She smiles grudgingly. ‘Though thankfully not in swimming trunks.’

  I laugh. Unlike my sister, Jeff has zero willpower when it comes to diet and exercise. He likes to describe himself as cuddly. Kate, however, describes him as a lazy sod and is forever nagging him to join the gym. ‘How is Jeff? Is he here?’

  ‘Yeah, over there.’

  My eyes swivel to the other side of the gallery, where I see Jeff hovering by White Noise, an abstract painting by one of our new artists, and peering at it unsurely. He’s obviously been instructed to wait there until the coast is clear.

  ‘Gosh, he’s lost weight,’ I say with surprise, as Kate waves him over.

  ‘Has he?’ She peers at him as he starts walking towards us, then shrugs. ‘He looks the same to me.’

  ‘No, he’s definitely slimmer. What happened? Did you finally get him to join the gym?’

  Kate snorts with amusement. ‘Hardly. Jeff’s idea of exercise is reaching for the remote. Isn’t it, darling?’ she says as he joins us.

  ‘Totally.’ He grins, having learned a long time ago to agree with whatever Kate says. Giving her a kiss on the cheek, he turns to me. ‘Great exhibition, Lucy.’ He hugs me. ‘Though I’m afraid I don’t know much about art. Just looks like a bunch of meaningless squiggles to me.’ He shrugs apologetically.

  ‘It’s abstract,’ I laugh. My sister and I might not agree on a lot of things, but one thing we do agree on is her choice of husband. If you had to look up ‘good guy’ in the dictionary, you’d see a picture of Jeff, an Irish-American with a heart of gold.

  ‘Oh, so that’s what it’s called.’ He smiles good-humouredly.

  ‘Loozy! So there you are!’

  We’re interrupted by Magda, who’s sporting a leopard-print dress and a beehive that appears to have taken on skyscraper proportions especially for the evening. She looks like a miniature Bet Lynch, albeit one with diamonds flashing on every appendage.

  ‘This is Mrs Zuckerman, who runs the gallery,’ I explain to Kate and Jeff, who are looking at her with slightly bewildered expressions. ‘My boss,’ I mouth over the top of her hairdo.

  ‘Hi. So nice to meet you.’ They both jump into action and go to shake her hand, but it’s full of meatballs. A whole tray of them. True to her word, she’s spent the whole week making them and is serving them up along with fake champagne.

  Quite literally, I muse, watching her sticking the tray under their noses. Forget mingling with the guests, Magda has rolled up her leopard-print sleeves and is intent on serving up food like a good Jewish mother.

  ‘Meatballs?’ She beams, though it’s more of an instruction and less of a question.

  ‘Oh, no, thank you. We’re going to go for dinner after—’ begins Kate, but Magda interrupts.

  ‘Nonsense. They are the perfect appetiser. Try some.’ With characteristic pushiness, she thrusts them at her.

  Kate shoots me a look. It’s probably the only time I’ve ever seen her seem scared of anyone. Mutely she takes one.

  ‘And you, you are far too skinny,’ continues Magda, turning to Jeff.

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that.’ He laughs, looking bemused as he’s handed a napkin piled high. ‘Wow, that’s a large helping.’

  ‘They are unbelievably delicious,’ she says, throwing her arms around and almost upsetting her tray. ‘Are they not unbelievably delicious, Loozy?’

  ‘Oh, yes, unbelievably delicious,’ I repeat, nodding hastily.

  ‘Aren’t you hungry, Luce?’ pipes up Kate.

  That’s my sister for you, absolutely no loyalty.

  ‘Well, actually . . .’ I stall. So far I’ve managed to avoid the famous meatballs by constantly flitting around and being busy, and for a split second I think my time is up, I can escape no longer, when I’m saved by the sight of more people arriving. ‘Ooh, look, more guests!’ And waving my guest list like a get-out-of-jail-free card, I quickly make a dash for it.

  Of course, I can’t go back until the coast is clear and so once I’ve ticked the new guests off my list, I go looking for Nate. I find him pacing up and down, gesticulating in the air, and talking to himself. At least, I think he’s talking to himself, until I notice a tiny blue light flashing on his ear and realise he’s wearing his Bluetooth headset and he’s on the phone.

  Still.

  I suppress a tug of disappointment. He’s been on the phone to the studio all evening and I’ve hardly spoken to him. Still, I suppose that’s what it’s like being some hot-shot TV producer, I tell myself. Seeing me, he throws me an apologetic look and I throw a ‘No worries’ one back. It’s fine. I’ve got lots to do, anyway.

  Turning, I go back inside the gallery. It’s still pretty busy, and I do a bit of mingling, chat to a couple of journalists, shake lots of hands. Organising events isn’t one of my strengths, and OK, I admit a couple of my emails bounced back because I’d sent them to the wrong people, and then there was the mix-up with the catering company.

  Well, I say mix-up, but it wasn’t my fault. How was I to know that Finger-Licking Fun wasn’t a catering company? When I looked it up on the Internet, it talked about ‘catering for your every need’, so I sent them an email asking for their pricelist and I got a completely different menu of services than the one I was expecting.

  Still, I have to say I’ve done a pretty good job here. Though a lot of them are more interested in the free food and alcohol than the artwork. Sometimes it’s as if they don’t even notice it, I muse in disbelief, looking around me in wonder at the amazing brushwork and kaleidoscope of colours we have displayed on the walls and feeling a familiar longing to paint again, to create, to let my imagination run away with my paintbrush . . .

  But that’s just me being silly, I think, sweeping th
e thought away quickly. After all, I tried that, remember, and look where it got me: broke and on the dole. No, this is much better. This way, I get to work in an amazing gallery in New York and organise events like this. I mean, how lucky am I?

  I scan the crowd with a feeling of satisfaction. Pretty much everyone we invited is here. There’s Mr and Mrs Bernstein, who are friends of Magda and huge art buyers, that supermodel whose name I can’t remember, a journalist from Time Out . . .Wait a moment, who’s that?

  My eyes land on a guy with a baseball cap out of which is sticking a shock of dark, curly hair. He’s wearing a baggy green army T-shirt and a pair of jeans with rips in both knees. I look down at my guest list and scan the names, but everyone’s ticked off. Apart from Jemima Jones, and he doesn’t look much like a Jemima Jones.

  I observe him for a few minutes. He’s walking around gobbling up meatballs like Pacman and downing glasses of champagne. I watch as he drains one glass and takes another from a passing tray. Eating and drinking all the freebies without even a passing glance at the artwork.

  I feel a stab of annoyance. I know his type.

  Forget wedding crashers. This is a gallery crasher.

  ‘Excuse me.’

  As I tap him on the shoulder, he jumps, spilling his champagne, and turns round like he’s been caught doing something he shouldn’t be doing.

  Which he has.

  ‘Er, yeah,’ he replies, his mouth full of meatball.

  ‘I’m sorry, but I don’t think I’ve ticked you off the guest list.’ I smile politely.

  ‘The guest list?’

  ‘Yes, of all the people invited,’ I say pointedly, and wave my clipboard.

  He doesn’t say anything. He just stares at me as if he’s thinking about something.

  I fidget uncomfortably. ‘And your name is . . .?’ I prompt.

  ‘Hey, haven’t I seen you somewhere before?’ Narrowing his eyes, he waggles a finger at me.

  I step back and look at him sideways. There is something vaguely familiar about him, but yet . . .‘No, I don’t think so.’ I shake my head dismissively.

  There’s a pause and then—

  ‘Little man!’ he says triumphantly, spitting a meatball crumb at me.

  I remove it from my dress. ‘Excuse me?’

  ‘You told me not to cross until I saw the little man.’ He grins.

  ‘I don’t know what you’re—’ I break off as I suddenly remember.

  Oh God, it’s him. Last week. When I was rushing to meet Kate and Robyn in the bar. The man when I was crossing the street. The man with the furry microphone and video camera. The man who I recited my stupid saying to, Never Eat Shredded— OK, enough. I cringe at the memory. How uncool.

  ‘Oh, yeah, I remember,’ I say, trying to sound all nonchalant.

  ‘I thought it was.’ He’s full on grinning at me now, and his eyes are crinkling up and flashing. I notice he’s got very bright, very blue eyes, and the longest eyelashes you’ve ever seen.

  Like a girl, I think, realising I’m staring and looking sharply away.

  ‘Hi. My name’s Adam.’ He sticks out his hand.

  I ignore it and glance down at my clipboard. ‘There isn’t an Adam on the list.’

  ‘I know. I was just passing.’ He shrugs apologetically.

  ‘Well, this is a private exhibition. By invitation only.’ I stress those words, but he simply smiles, as if this is all really amusing.

  ‘You’re throwing me out?’

  I falter. I suddenly feel like a bouncer. ‘Well, if you want to put it like that.’

  ‘OK, OK, don’t worry, I’m going.’ Polishing off his last meatball, he drains his glass. ‘Compliments to the chef. Great meatballs.’ Dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he puts down his glass. ‘But by the way, next time you should get real champagne.’

  I glare at him. The cheek of it!

  ‘See you around.’

  ‘I don’t think so,’ I mutter under my breath, watching as he turns and saunters off through the crowd.

  ‘Who was that?’ A voice in my ears makes me jump and I turn to see Nate standing next to me.

  ‘Oh . . . um . . . no one,’ I say, feeling flustered. ‘Just some guy.’ I quickly change the subject. ‘How are you? Everything OK?’

  ‘Bit of a nightmare at the studio, but it’s sorted now.’ He smiles, sliding his arm round my waist. ‘How about you?’

  ‘Oh, fine.’ I nod distractedly. I feel jittery. Though that’s probably to be expected. After all, not only is it a big night for the gallery, it’s mine and Nate’s first official outing as a couple.

  ‘Only fine?’ he asks, his brow furrowed, and as I look into his eyes, I suddenly remember all the years I’ve spent dreaming about him, thinking I’d lost him, wondering what would happen if I found him again.

  And now we’re back together and he’s standing here with his arm round me.

  And I’m saying I’m fine. Am I completely bonkers?

  Smiling, I reach up and give him a kiss. ‘No, everything’s perfect.’

  Chapter Thirteen

  Well, perhaps not everything.

  To be frank, I would have preferred it if Nate’s iPhone hadn’t kept jingling every five minutes for the rest of the evening, and he hadn’t had to keep disappearing off to take calls from the studio.

  And it was a bit annoying when afterwards we all decamped to a little Chinese restaurant round the corner and Nate wouldn’t eat any of the dim sum that I’d ordered for both of us. Or the sweet and sour chicken. Or the fried rice. Something about MSG and E numbers, apparently, which was a bit of a shame, as his steamed mixed vegetables didn’t look nearly as delicious.

  Anyway, it’s not like it was a big deal, I’m just saying. Like it said in my fortune cookie, ‘Nothing will ever come between you and your lover.’ What’s a couple of phone calls and a few plates of dim sum between soulmates?

  We all sit around a large table – me and Nate, Kate and Jeff, Robyn and Magda, who brings along her son, Daniel. Thankfully, it’s apparent as soon as I meet him that he’s one of those people who isn’t photogenic, as in the flesh he looks nothing like Austin Powers.

  Well, I wouldn’t say nothing like, but put it this way, you wouldn’t meet him and think he’s going to yell, ‘Whoa, baby,’ and have a closet full of velvet suits and frilly shirts.

  On learning Robyn’s single and Jewish, Magda immediately rolls up her matchmaking sleeves, and before you know it, she and Daniel are sitting side by side while Magda keeps everyone entertained with her outrageous stories, including the one about husband number two and a tube of superglue, despite her son turning bright red and begging her to stop. It would seem that there is something a Jewish mother loves more than her son, and that’s embarrassing him. At one point it was all he could do to stop her getting naked baby pictures out of her purse and showing everyone ‘what a beautiful baby he was. It was unbelievable!’

  And then, before you know it, it’s late and we’re saying our goodbyes. Nate and I catch a cab back to his, even though my apartment is within walking distance, but like he says, why stay in my tiny shared apartment when we’ve got his penthouse all to ourselves? This way, it’s just us.

  Plus about a million packing boxes, I note, stepping out of the elevator and coming face to face with another huge one that’s just been delivered. I swear as soon as he unpacks one, another appears.

  ‘Oh good, it’s arrived,’ he says.

  ‘What on earth’s in it?’ I gasp, squeezing past the large cardboard monolith that’s wedged in the hallway.

  ‘My elliptical,’ he says, as if I should know what an elliptical is.

  And of course I do. Sort of. Not.

  ‘Oh, right.’ I nod breezily. ‘Great.’

  Putting his keys and phone on the table, he takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. Meanwhile I slide off my shoes and rub my sore feet. Normally at this point we’d be ripping each other’s clothes off, but I’m exhausted. It’
s been a long day.

  ‘Sleepy?’ Nate catches me rubbing my eyes.

  ‘Um . . . just a little bit.’ I smile and stifle a yawn.

  Well, I don’t want to put him off completely, do I? Who knows, I might get my second wind in a minute. Nate seems to have that effect on me. This past week I’ve practically turned into a nymphomaniac.

  Pulling off my dress, I pad into the bathroom in my underwear to brush my teeth. A few seconds later Nate joins me in the bathroom in his boxer shorts, and for a moment we stand side by side brushing. Like a proper couple, I think, feeling a beat of contentment as I look at us reflected in the mirror above the sink.

  Which is when I notice Nate’s boxer shorts reflected back at me.

  No, surely not . . .

  Until now I’ve been so busy ripping them off that I haven’t given them a second glance, but now I do.

  And they have pineapples on them.

  ‘They’re not pineapples, they’re guavas,’ he corrects, when I tease him about them.

  ‘Where did you get them?’ I ask, giggling.

  ‘I don’t know.’ He shrugs, rinsing out. ‘Beth bought them for me.’

  I feel a sting. Beth is Nate’s ex-wife.

  ‘She bought you novelty boxer shorts?’ I say, all jokingly, but my voice comes out a bit higher than usual. I don’t know which is more horrifying – that his wife bought them or that he’s wearing them.

  ‘She bought all my clothes. She took care of that stuff.’ Rinsing, he wipes his face on a towel and starts removing his contact lenses.

  ‘Well, I think it’s about time you bought some new ones,’ I suggest, trying to sound light and breezy while plotting how to get rid of the ones he’s wearing. ‘What about some nice Calvin Klein’s?’

  ‘Why? These are comfy,’ he grumbles.

  Sliding my arm round his waist, I nuzzle the back of his neck. ‘You’d look really sexy in a pair of Calvin’s,’ I murmur suggestively.

  ‘What’s wrong with these?’

  ‘Nate, they have cartoon pineapples on them.’

  ‘Guavas,’ he corrects sulkily, disentangling himself and padding into the bedroom.