You're the One That I Don't Want

by Alexandra Potter

  I notice the magazine that’s lying open in my lap. I took it from the dog-eared pile when I arrived and I’ve been absently flicking through it, but now suddenly I stop short. Because there, on the page, is a quiz. ‘Is He the One?’

  I inhale sharply.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ My sister stops arguing with Robyn and glances over. ‘Is it your cuticles? I always ask them not to cut mine.’

  I shake my head dumbly and hold up the magazine. ‘It’s that quiz,’ I say, my voice almost a whisper.

  Robyn’s eyes widen. Then, in the kind of voice they use for movie trailers, she says solemnly, ‘It’s a sign.’

  Kate glances between us, her face incredulous. ‘No, it’s not a sign!’ she says crossly. Leaning across, she snatches the magazine out of my hands roughly. ‘It’s an out-of-date copy of bloody Cosmo!’ Tossing it in the bin, she shakes her head in exasperation. ‘Honestly, you two!’

  ‘You need to stop the legend coming true,’ continues Robyn, ignoring Kate. ‘You need to break the spell.’

  ‘Spell?’ Kate snorts loudly.

  ‘It’s more like a curse,’ I mutter sulkily.

  ‘Whatever.’ Robyn clicks her tongue. ‘You need to be exorcised.’

  ‘Don’t we all?’ quips Kate, unable to resist the double-entendre.

  ‘I said exorcised, not exercised,’ says Robyn snippily.

  ‘Whatever,’ shrugs Kate. ‘Jeff’s not interested in either these days.’

  She laughs dryly, but my antennae pick up on something and I glance over. Kate often makes jokey, sarcastic remarks about her relationship, but today there’s something in her voice that’s different.

  ‘Is everything OK, Kate?’

  She meets my gaze and I can almost visibly see her put up her defences. ‘Yeah, fine,’ she says flippantly. ‘Why wouldn’t it be?’

  ‘With you and Jeff, I mean.’

  She stiffens. ‘Of course. He’s just still got this bug, that’s all. I reckon he needs some antibiotics, but you know what men are like with taking pills.’ She shrugs brusquely. ‘It’s nothing.’

  ‘Oh . . .OK.’ I quickly drop it. I know better than to try to push my sister. If a subject is closed, it’s locked, bolted and secured, and no one but no one is getting in.

  ‘Right, finished.’ One of the ladies doing my manicure and pedicure taps my leg lightly.

  ‘Gosh, they look amazing.’ I smile, wiggling my shell-pink fingers and toes in delight. They don’t look like they belong to me. I’m used to having hands that are chipped, chewed or paint-splattered, but now they’ve been transformed into groomed New York hands.

  I proudly waggle them at Robyn and Kate. ‘Look!’

  ‘Ooh, gorgeous, look at mine,’ gushes Robyn, waggling her glittery toes so that the tiny flowers catch the light.

  ‘Mmm, lovely,’ I enthuse, and we spend the next few moments comparing, before remembering Kate. ‘What about yours?’ I ask, turning to her, but she’s already putting on her sandals.

  ‘They’re fine.’ She nods briskly, fastening a buckle. ‘I just had clear polish, like usual.’

  My sister is no fun sometimes.

  ‘If you would like to pay . . .’ The owner of the nail bar, a matriarchal figure in flowery pinafore, who’s even tinier than all the other Vietnamese ladies, gestures impatiently towards the cash register and the long queue of women waiting for our chairs.

  ‘Oh, sorry, yes.’ Hastily I climb out of the chair and begin rummaging around in my bag. I fish out my purse. As I do, I hear a clink as something falls to the floor.

  Probably loose change, I muse, handing over a twenty-dollar bill. Twenty dollars for a manicure and pedicure! Oh, how I love New York.

  ‘Miss, you dropped this.’

  I see one of the Vietnamese ladies picking something up off the floor. She holds out what looks like a quarter.

  ‘Oh, thank you so much.’ I smile and go to take it from her, then abruptly realise it’s not a quarter. It’s a coin. In fact, it’s half a coin.

  My stomach goes into freefall.

  ‘That’s impossible.’ I stare at it dumbly in the flat of my palm, my mind reeling.

  ‘What is it now?’ Kate looks at me uncomprehendingly.

  ‘My pendant,’ I stammer, holding it out. The chain has gone, but there’s no mistake, it’s definitely my pendant.

  Robyn inhales sharply. ‘But I saw you throw it away . . .’

  ‘In the park,’ I finish. ‘I know, it’s impossible.’ I stare at the broken coin, my thumb running along the jagged edge. ‘There must be some mix-up. It must have got caught on my clothing . . . dropped into my bag accidentally . . . got lost somehow.’ I look back at both Robyn and Kate. For once my sister isn’t saying anything. Instead she’s staring at me, wide-eyed and silent with astonishment.

  I can’t ignore it any longer. I can’t persuade myself it’s not happening. Because as weird and incredible and crazy as it might be, there’s something going on here, something very weird. I don’t know what to call it, and I don’t understand it, but there’s no denying it: the legend is coming true.

  Despite the heat, a chill brushes over me and goose bumps prickle my arms.

  Oh God.

  What do I do now?

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Just like when we were kids, my big sister comes to the rescue.

  ‘You need a strategy,’ she instructs, drawing herself up to full lawyer mode.

  ‘Oh, you mean like reading her horoscope?’ suggests Robyn brightly.

  Kate throws her a withering look. ‘No, I mean a plan of action to achieve a particular goal,’ she explains briskly. ‘We use them all the time in law. We have to apply one to your situation by creating a systematic approach to solving this current problem and methodically working through the aims until the desired outcome is accomplished.’

  I look at her blankly. ‘Can you say that again, but in English this time?’

  She tuts impatiently. ‘It’s perfectly simple. You want to break up with Nathaniel, but something or someone appears to be preventing this from happening properly.’

  ‘Like the legend,’ pipes up Robyn.

  ‘Or Nathaniel himself,’ retorts Kate, who after a brief moment of astonishment has swiftly gone back to her original opinion.

  ‘Look, I don’t care what it is. I just want it to be over.’

  ‘OK, follow me. Let’s get to work. Magical legend or no magical legend, this will do the trick. Trust me, no one is going to stick around after this. And I don’t care what you say about your universe,’ she adds, throwing Robyn a stern look. ‘Universe schmooniverse.’

  Robyn looks offended. ‘You can’t alter the course of destiny,’ she says stiffly.

  ‘Just you watch me.’

  ‘It won’t work. The laws of our world have no bearing on the laws of the universe.’

  ‘So do you have a better plan?’ scoffs Kate. ‘What are you suggesting? Hocus-pocus? Crystals? Chinese herbs? We need to get aggressive and tough.’

  ‘I just think you’re being very closed off,’ says Robyn sulkily.

  ‘What do you expect? I’m a lawyer,’ she deadpans. ‘I’m not paid to have an imagination.’

  Kate doesn’t waste any time, and armed with a briefcase full of notepads, biros and her famous highlighter pens in every colour, she marches us to a nearby diner to prepare our case. I’ve never seen my sister in action before and I’m scarily impressed. Swiftly turning a red vinyl booth into an office, she rolls up her shirtsleeves, instructs the hapless waiter to ‘keep the coffee coming’ and starts talking tactics.

  Six intensive hours later, and buzzing with a heady cocktail of caffeine and exhaustion, she finally comes up with the Strategy. Underlined twice, and highlighted in fluorescent orange, it runs into a four-page, twenty-five-point document and is entitled ‘How to Get Rid of the One.’

  1. Take out a restraining order.

  This was Kate’s immediate suggestion – ‘Well, having a lawyer for
a sister and a cop for a brother-in-law has to count for something,’ she’d argued – before reluctantly conceding that the courts might take a dim view of our case: ‘My Honourable Judge, I’m here to request a restraining order to prevent the defendant, Lucy Hemmingway, being stalked by the accused, Nathaniel Kennedy, as her friend on Facebook, through his TV show Big Bucks and by their song, Bob Marley’s ‘No Woman, No Cry’, playing on the radio.’

  Exactly.

  Better is her idea that I turn up at his apartment unannounced and:

  2. Tell him you love him.

  A sure-fire winner if ever there was one. The plan being that I declare my undying love and – poof – watch him disappear for ever.

  Just in case extra ammunition is needed:

  3. Don’t shave your legs beforehand.

  So that I can turn up in a skirt.

  4. Grow your underarm hair.

  Better still, team it with a spaghetti-strap top.

  5. In fact, go the whole hog

  and grow your bikini line too.

  Then cross my legs Sharon Stone style.

  6. Leave off the deodorant.

  It doesn’t sound like much, but right now in Manhattan it’s ninety degrees. Sweaty armpits are one thing, but hairy sweaty armpits are quite another.

  7. Talk about periods.

  As in ‘Gosh, I’m so exhausted, but that’s because I’m on my period.’ Be sure to throw in lots of words like menstruating, bleeding, cramps, bloating, water retention, PMT and acne.

  8. Even better, use the loo and leave

  super-super-plus Tampax lying around.

  Men have a fear of Tampax. Like dogs are scared of thunder. It sends them cowering.

  9. On second thoughts, make that

  super-super-plus sanitary pads.

  Then tell him I’ve had ‘an accident’ and could he pop out to the store and buy the aforementioned large tampons. Pretty pleasey-weasey, pumpkin.

  Which brings me to:

  10. Give him a pet name, and speak in a baby-

  waby voice.

  11. Say you want to get married and suggest

  looking at rings.

  12. Start showering him with phone calls, emails

  and texts.

  Reason being, he’ll think I’m a bunny boiler and delete my number from his phone faster than you can say, ‘Fatal Attraction.’ Result: I’ll never get a misdialled call again.

  13. Ask him how many lovers he’s had.

  Then double the amount and say that’s how many I’ve had. No, triple it.

  14. Turn up at a sports bar when he’s there with

  his friends.

  15. Be wearing a fleece.

  Together with no make-up, hair scraped up in a bun and leggings. Make that unwashed baggy-at-the-bum leggings.

  16. Proceed to tell all his friends hilarious anecdotes about erectile dysfunction/premature ejaculation/small penises.

  Nudge, nudge, wink, wink.

  17. Be clingy.

  Think limpet. Think Posh with Becks.

  18. Fart.

  19. Belch.

  20. Pick your nose.

  21. And then eat it.

  OK, so it’s pretty revolting, but it’s like doing a Bushtucker Trial on I’m a Celebrity . . .Get Me Out of Here! Only in this case it’s I’m Lucy Hemmingway . . .Get Me Out of This Relationship!

  22. Coo at babies.

  23. Steal his iPod and put music on it.

  Suggestions: James Blunt’s ‘You’re Beautiful’, the Mamma Mia soundtrack, The Best of Take That.

  24. Cancel his pay-per-view for the big game.

  One of Robyn’s clients works for Direct TV and can hack – I mean ‘look into’ – customers’ accounts.

  25. Buy bridal magazines.

  And carry them with me at all times.

  Just in case I should ‘accidentally’ bump into him again, I muse, peering round a bookshelf to make sure the coast is clear and Nate’s not lurking.

  It’s the following Monday and I’ve popped into McKenzie’s, my local bookstore, on my way to work. Navigating my way through the aisles stuffed full of paperbacks and signed hardbacks piled high on tables, I head over to the magazine section.

  Gosh, I didn’t realise there were so many, I think, staring at a smorgasbord of wedding publications displayed on the shelves. Bride This, Wedding That . . . I grab a handful. Ooh, maybe I should pick up some baby ones too, I decide, pouncing on one with a picture of a pregnant woman, along with the caption ‘Broody!’

  Well, no, it doesn’t really say that, but that’s definitely what Nate will think if he sees it, I conclude, grabbing a copy. Fingers crossed the Strategy works. Kate is convinced that it will. ‘I’ve never lost a case yet,’ she’d said determinedly as she’d passed me a copy. At this point I’m so desperate I’m prepared to try anything.

  My phone starts ringing. I glance at the screen. Nate. Again. I’ve already had half a dozen missed calls from him this morning. He’s still insisting he’s not calling me on purpose, and it’s hard to know what to believe. I press reject. I sincerely hope this isn’t the first case my sister loses . . .

  ‘Hi. Have you found everything you’re looking for?’ A smiley-faced assistant interrupts my thoughts.

  ‘Yes, thanks.’ I smile back.

  ‘Getting ready for the big day?’ She gestures towards the bridal magazines.

  ‘Er, yes . . . something like that.’ I nod, clutching them tightly to my chest. The big day when I can forget all about Nate, I tell myself, feeling my phone buzzing in my pocket. Oh God, not again.

  This time I pick up.

  ‘Hi, Nate,’ I say wearily.

  ‘Lucy?’ he asks resignedly. Despite what Kate says, he doesn’t sound like a crazy stalker ex – he sounds as fed up as I am.

  ‘Yup.’

  There’s a deep sigh.

  ‘Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  I hang up. I don’t know what to think, or who to believe – Robyn or Kate – so I’m taking the belt-and-braces approach.

  ‘Well, if you need any help, my name’s Emily.’

  I turn back to the assistant. ‘Thanks.’ I start moving off towards the cash register, past the self-help books, when suddenly a section catches my eye: ‘Love and Romance.’ My eyes glide over the spines of the hundreds of books. There’s even a whole shelf about the One: How to Find the One, How to Keep the One, How to Know He’s the One, Is He the One?

  ‘Actually . . .’ I turn back to Emily, the smiley-faced assistant.

  She beams eagerly. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Do you have any books on how to get rid of the One?’

  Arriving at Number Thirty-Eight ten minutes later, I’m surprised to find the gallery closed. That’s odd. Where’s Magda? Standing on the pavement clutching my magazines and obligatory extra-shot latte, I stare, perplexed, at the electronic grilles, tightly laced over the windows. Not once in the whole time I’ve been working here has Magda not been here to greet me. I check my watch. Knowing me, I’ve probably got the time completely wrong. But no, it’s just a few minutes after 10 a.m.

  Puzzled, I balance my coffee and magazines in one hand, fish my set of keys out of my bag and unlock the front door. As I step inside the darkened gallery, the alarm starts beeping, counting down its twenty seconds or whatever it is for me to punch in the code. For an instant I panic. Shit, what is it? Then it comes to me in a flash. Of course, Magda’s date of birth – I remember her telling me once.

  One, nine, six, five.

  The alarm falls silent, and pressing the button for the window grilles, I flick on the lights. A blaze of colour bursts out of the shadows as the artwork is illuminated and I feel a rush of pleasure. There’s something magical about being alone in a gallery. Once, when I was little, I remember losing my parents in the Louvre in Paris and finding myself alone in a room filled with paintings. Most kids would have probably been scared, started crying, tried frantically to find their mum and dad, but I can stil
l recall that feeling of excitement, of being surrounded by all the different faces, characters, colours. It was like being lost in a world of imagination.

  Unfortunately my mum took a rather different view of it and I remember getting severely ticked off when she finally found me and being made to stick by her side for the rest of the trip.

  Scooping up the mail, I walk across to the reception desk and dump it, along with my magazines, on the counter. Sipping my coffee, I flick on the computer and check our emails. There’s nothing much of interest . . . a few press releases, an enquiry about an internship from an art student, an invoice from the caterer we used for the gallery opening, entitled ‘Unpaid. Urgent.’ I frown. I thought Magda had sent a cheque for that last week. I feel a slight twinge of anxiety, but I brush it aside. It must just be an oversight. The cheque and the email must have crossed, that’s all.

  I look up from the computer, but still no sign of a golden beehive, so I click on to Facebook. Well, I’ll only be a minute . . . Feeling a flicker of excitement, I log in. Over the past few days Adam and I have been exchanging emails. It’s all been very light and friendly. He sent me a few lines to tell me about the short film he’s been working on; I sent a few carefully constructed lines back about my week at work.

  Carefully constructed, as I want to appear keen but cool. Chatty but relaxed. Busy but not too busy. As in, if he wants to fix up a date to watch a movie, my diary isn’t that full.

  OK, the truth is, it’s completely empty, but I can’t let him know that. I can’t let him know that I’ve been agonising over every email I’ve sent him, trying to make sure I get it just right.

  God, it used to be so much easier when you just picked up the phone and spoke.