You're the One That I Don't Want

by Alexandra Potter

  He looks over and stops. He doesn’t look best pleased. ‘You again.’

  I bite my tongue. Think mature. Think Bruce and Demi. Think one more night and then it’s all over. ‘Did you sleep well?’

  Pushing his sunglasses up on to his forehead, he shoots me a look. ‘I’ve had better nights,’ he says with irony. ‘What about you?’

  My mind flicks back to last night, in that bed, being on tenterhooks and waking up every five seconds terrified I’d mistakenly spooned him in my sleep. ‘I’ve had better nights too.’

  ‘So we can agree on some things.’ He smiles, despite himself. ‘How was your day?’

  ‘Pretty good.’ I nod. ‘And you?’

  See. We’re being so civil to each other. It’s incredible.

  ‘Pretty good.’ He pauses. ‘What was it you said you were doing here again?’

  I didn’t. I was too busy belching, picking my nose and throwing Tampax around the bathroom, I think guiltily. ‘I was meeting with an artist.’ Well, better not say too much.

  If I’m worried Nate is going to ask me questions, I don’t have to worry.

  ‘Oh,’ he says, but more out of politeness than any genuine interest. Nate never was particularly interested in my work. It was always his career we talked about.

  ‘What about you?’ I bounce the question back to him.

  He waves some brochures he’s holding. ‘Looking at real estate.’

  ‘You’re buying a place here?’ I gasp. Being curious, I peeked in a few estate agents’ windows earlier just to see, and trust me, it is not cheap.

  ‘Thinking about it.’ He shrugs casually. ‘For the summer.’

  ‘Wow.’ God, he really is loaded, isn’t he? A rented penthouse in New York, a summer house in the Vineyard. For a brief second I imagine my life if things had worked out differently. Me and Nate at our stunning hideaway beach house, with our own private beach, just the two of us.

  ‘Well, I’m going to take a walk back into town.’

  ‘Yeah, me too.’ I nod.

  Actually, the way things are going, that might yet still happen, I think with a stab of fright.

  We start making our way up the main high street. Lined with souvenir shops, art galleries and tourists, it reminds me of the Cotswolds. Everywhere you look there’s someone eating fudge, or taking a photograph of something twee, or simply staring aimlessly into shop windows selling painted china cats, terrible art, antique jewellery . . . I watch a couple hover by the small bowed window, their arms wrapped round each other’s waists, her leaning in, him pulling away.

  And have an idea.

  ‘Hey, look over here,’ I pipe up, grabbing Nate by the elbow and steering him towards the store.

  ‘Huh? What?’ Regardless of the fact there’s hardly any phone reception on the island, Nate has found a weak signal and is chatting away to his realtor about uninterrupted views and under-floor heating.

  ‘What do you think?’

  The couple has now moved away and we have the whole window to ourselves. It’s just as I thought: it’s a whole window of antique rings. Antique engagement rings.

  ‘Sorry, Jennifer, one minute.’ Slapping his hand over his iPhone, he turns to me in confusion. ‘What have you dragged me over here for?’

  ‘What about the pink sapphire with the baguette diamonds?’

  God, I can’t believe I know all this stuff. Baguette diamonds? Where did I get that from? Females must just absorb this stuff through osmosis.

  ‘Yes, very nice,’ he says, not even looking before going back to his phone call. ‘Hi, Jennifer. Sorry – you were saying about the under-floor heating?’

  This is harder than I thought. ‘Maybe you could buy it for me?’ I say loudly, and gaze beseechingly at Nate.

  A sharp crevice splits down his forehead. ‘You want me to buy it?’ he asks, incredulous.

  ‘Well, that’s the idea.’

  ‘Sorry, no, Jennifer, I wasn’t talking about the Chappaquiddick house.’ He glares at me. ‘Look, can you give me a few minutes? I’ll call you right back.’ He gets off the phone, his face furious. ‘Jesus, Lucy,’ he gasps. ‘What’s got into you? Why the hell should I be buying you a ring, for Christ’s sake?’

  I widen my eyes pointedly. ‘Why do men usually buy women rings?’

  He stares in bewilderment. Then suddenly the penny drops. ‘What the . . .?’ He pauses, trying to contain himself. ‘Have you gone insane?’

  ‘No.’ I shake my head. ‘It’s just . . .’ The words stick in my throat and I swallow hard. OK, come on, Lucy, you can do it. Screwing up all my courage, I think about the Strategy. It was Kate’s second suggestion. She said it couldn’t possibly fail . . .

  I screw my hands into tight fists and dive off the edge.

  ‘I’m in love with you,’ I blurt.

  Nate looks at me like I’ve suddenly got two heads. The colour seems to drain from his face and a million different emotions flash across his features – shock, disbelief, horror, scepticism, before finally settling on suspicion.

  ‘What are you up to?’ Narrowing his eyes, he peers at me.

  ‘Up to?’ I feign innocence. Badly.

  ‘You and I both know that’s not true,’ he says simply. ‘I mean, please, those granny panties?’ He pulls a face. ‘No woman would wear those in front of a man she was in love with.’

  I feel my cheeks flush. ‘No, but . . .’ I’m about to argue, but what’s the point? It’s not going to work. He doesn’t believe, and who can blame him? ‘OK, so you’re right. I’m not in love with you.’

  ‘Good. Because as you might have guessed, I’m not in love with you either.’

  ‘I guess that’s something else we agree on, then,’ I say, feeling rather foolish after my outburst.

  He throws me a withering look. ‘Believe me, I’m as horrified as you are that we’ve been thrown together these past couple of days. When you sat down on the plane next to me, my heart just sank.’

  ‘It did?’

  ‘Are you kidding me? Like a rock.’ He nods. ‘It was bad enough bumping into you the whole time in New York, but trapped on an island together? I have to confess I thought you were stalking me.’

  ‘Me?’ I look at him with indignation. ‘Stalking you?’

  ‘Well, c’mon, there’s coincidence and there’s coincidence.’ He raises his eyebrows. ‘I thought you were trying to find a way to get back with me.’

  I’m speechless. Totally speechless.

  ‘A friend of mine said it was obvious. I mean, all those calls.’ He throws me a pointed look. ‘Apparently that’s what girls do.’

  ‘That’s what girls do?’ I repeat. I can’t believe I’m hearing this.

  ‘He said you were probably a psycho ex.’

  I glare at him in disbelief. ‘Me? A psycho ex?’ Oh my God, wait till I tell Kate.

  ‘For a moment I almost believed him.’ He pauses, as if steeling himself, then adds in a low voice, ‘Until I saw those panties.’

  He makes a scary face, but the corners of his mouth twitch in amusement and I can’t help smiling.

  ‘It’s been hell for me too, you know,’ I protest.

  ‘I’m sure.’ He nods. ‘It’s not pleasant for either of us.’

  ‘You know, maybe we can end up being friends,’ I say, as we move away from the jewellery shop.

  ‘Hey, steady on,’ he replies sardonically.

  ‘OK, well, what about acquaintances? Our only contact can be a Christmas card every year,’ I suggest. ‘Unless of course I forget.’

  ‘Or I delete your address. By accident, of course.’

  I feel a shift, as if we’ve entered a new phase in our relationship, an understanding.

  ‘Sounds perfect.’ I grin.

  ‘Doesn’t it?’ He grins back.

  We end up staying in town and having dinner together. It goes fairly smoothly, apart from when I snap at him for making a fuss about wanting to taste their wine list (I mean, really. We’re in Pappa’s Pizza. T
hey have two wines: house red and house white), and he snaps at me for using my fingers to eat the calamari starter we’re sharing.

  Then there’s the bit when he tells me off for glancing at a text that beeps up from Adam – Looking 4ward 2 tomorrow x – and texting a reply – Me 2 x – and I accuse him of being a hypocrite for using his iPhone at the table, which results in him doing that thing with his hand where he tries to shush me for talking too loudly and I get infuriated and tell him to sod off loudly.

  Followed by several long sulky silences from both of us.

  All in all, though, it’s pretty civil, and although it’s not an experience I’d want to repeat, we both emerge alive, which, considering there were sharp implements of cutlery at the table, is saying something.

  After the meal, Nate offers to give me a lift back to the inn in his rental car, which is lucky, as on leaving the restaurant, we discover it’s started raining heavily.

  ‘Probably a storm coming,’ comments Nate, pausing in the doorway to put up his collar. ‘You get some pretty big ones here in the summer.’

  ‘Big storms?’ I repeat. ‘How big?’

  ‘Oh, pretty big.’ He shrugs, then dashes out into the blackness, holding his blazer above his head. ‘C’mon, run!’

  Fuck. Bracing myself, I race after him across the car park. A few seconds is all it takes, but by the time I get in the car I’m drenched.

  ‘Didn’t you have a jacket?’ he says, stating the obvious.

  ‘If I had, I’d be wearing it,’ I gasp, slamming the door closed behind me and peeling off my soaking cardigan. I glance across at Nate. He’s totally dry. ‘You know, a gentleman would have lent me his.’

  ‘Why should I lend you my blazer?’ he remarks, putting the car into gear and heading out of the car park. ‘It’s your fault if you’re not sensible enough to bring a jacket. That’s the problem with you, Lucy. You’re never sensible.’

  My jaw sets hard. ‘How was I supposed to know there was going to be a storm?’ I reply, trying to stay calm.

  ‘Didn’t you check the weather report?’

  ‘No, Nate, I didn’t check the weather report,’ I fire back.

  ‘Well, there you go,’ he says smugly. ‘Let that be a lesson.’

  Argggghhh! He’s so patronising I want to hit him over the head with his bloody weather report, but instead I take a couple of deep breaths and, ignoring him, sit on my clenched fists and stare out of the window.

  Outside it’s pitch-black. The island isn’t like New York – there aren’t a million lights illuminating the sky – and we head out of town and start driving down a small road, into thick, velvety darkness. Nate puts on his high beams, but rain is pelting against the windscreen, making it impossible to see.

  ‘Be careful,’ I say after a moment. ‘You need to slow down. You’re driving too fast.’

  ‘I’m not driving too fast,’ he replies. ‘It’s fine.’

  ‘Don’t you know what happened to Teddy Kennedy?’ I reply. ‘In fact . . . are you related?’

  He tuts impatiently. ‘Just quit it, OK?’

  My patience snaps. ‘No, I won’t quit it,’ I cry above the sound of the windscreen wipers, which are beating furiously. ‘Slow down!’

  ‘Jesus, I’d forgotten what a nag you are!’ he grumbles.

  ‘And I’d forgotten what a bad driver you are!’ I mutter, my mind flicking back to when we were teenagers and Nate drove me from Venice to Florence for the weekend and nearly crashed because he insisted on racing the Italian drivers.

  He swerves to avoid a giant puddle spilling across the road and I’m thrown back into my seat by my seatbelt.

  ‘Are you trying to kill me?’ I shriek.

  ‘Well, that would be one way of getting rid of you,’ he yells, glancing sideways at me.

  ‘What are you doing? Keep your eyes on the road!’ I yell back.

  ‘My eyes are on the road!’

  ‘And slow down!’

  ‘Lucy, am I driving or you?’

  ‘You are, but you’re going too fast.’

  ‘I am not going too fast!’

  A huge bolt of lightning splinters the sky, illuminating the inky darkness, followed by a deafening crack of thunder. Every nerve ending jumps and I grip the seat with my fingers. Shit, we’re really in the eye of the storm now. Rain is lashing down, pummelling the car and flooding the road. I feel the back wheels skidding.

  ‘Be careful. You’re going to hydroplane!’ I roar over the din.

  ‘Of course I’m not going to hydroplane!’ he roars back.

  ‘Nate, be careful. Look where you’re going.’

  ‘Argghhhh!’

  Everything happens so fast. All I’m aware of is our voices sounding in stereo, me shrieking, him yelling, as suddenly he loses control of the wheel. Now we’re being flung across the road. The car is spinning out of control. We’re veering off into the blackness . . . I hear the tyres screeching . . . see flashes of fields, bushes . . . feel the sensation of being thrown forwards.

  And then . . . boom!

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Dazed, I open my eyes and am immediately blinded by bright lights. Oh my God, so this is it. It’s all over. I’m in heaven. Any minute now I’m going to hear piped musak, arrive at the pearly white gates and see my grandma, waiting for me with a big pile of her homemade coconut macaroons.

  ‘Shit!’

  I swivel sideways, but instead of Grandma and her coconut macaroons, it’s Nate.

  Seriously, there is no getting away from him. Not even in the afterlife.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘OK?’ I round on him in disbelief. ‘You’ve killed me!’

  ‘Oh, stop being a drama queen,’ he snaps. ‘You’re fine. We hit a tree, that’s all.’

  There’s a brief silence as I register this information. I’m not dead. Then . . .

  ‘That’s all!’ I exclaim. ‘You drive like a crazy man in a storm and crash into a tree and nearly kill both of us and that’s all! I’ve probably broken my arms and legs because of you!’

  ‘Well, have you?’

  I wiggle my arms and legs. ‘No, but that’s not the point.’

  ‘That’s totally the point,’ he replies, rubbing his forehead in agitation. Letting out a deep sigh, he hugs the steering wheel.

  Reluctantly I feel a beat of concern. ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘Fine, no damage done,’ he says stiffly. ‘Not sure about the car, though.’

  Following his gaze, I stare out through the windscreen towards the bright lights. Only now I realise, slightly shamefacedly, that they’re just headlights, and they’re shining brightly at the trunk of a large tree. Up against which the bonnet is completely scrunched.

  ‘Well, it still starts,’ he mutters, firing up the engine. ‘That’s something.’

  Relief washes over me. Thank God. Soon I’ll be back at the inn safe and sound, tucked up in bed.

  I scratch that image. I’ll stick with just being back at the inn.

  Rain is still drumming hard on the roof of the car as Nate sticks it into reverse and puts his foot on the accelerator. My relief is short-lived. There’s the high-pitched sound of the wheels spinning, but we don’t move. He revs harder. The wheels scream louder.

  ‘Fuck.’ Slamming his fists on the steering wheel, Nate flings open the door and disappears round the back of the car. He returns a few seconds later, soaking wet. ‘We’re stuck in the mud.’

  Images of the warm, snug inn quickly start receding. ‘Who are you calling?’ I ask, as Nate pulls out his iPhone. Please don’t tell me it’s the studio. Or his real-estate agent.

  ‘AAA. We need a tow-truck.’

  ‘But how will they find us?’

  He looks at me like I’m a complete idiot. ‘It’s got GPS. I’ll be able to locate exactly where we are.’ He starts jabbing away at the screen.

  ‘Oh, right . . . great!’ The whole time I’ve hated that dratted iPhone, but now I take it all back. I feel a swell of gra
titude. Thank God for Nate’s iPhone!

  ‘Except there’s a slight problem.’

  ‘Problem?’ I look at him warily.

  Peering at the screen, his jaw sets. ‘There’s no signal.’

  After twenty minutes walking along an empty road, in the pouring rain and pitch-dark, we make out distant lights. My heart soars as we trudge towards them and I spot a sign: ‘O’Grady’s Irish Tavern.’ Never have I been so happy to see an Irish pub. Pushing open the door, we stumble inside, soaking wet and freezing cold, and are greeted by warmth, light and ‘Fisherman’s Blues’ playing on the jukebox.

  Spotting a payphone, Nate dives over to it, while I make my way, squelching, to the bar. The tavern isn’t very big. At the far end are a few tables and chairs, around which are gathered what look like locals – I’m beginning to recognise their uniform of yellow sailing jackets and beat-up khakis. Running along one side is a well-stocked bar, behind which are wallpapered hundreds of faded Polaroids. No doubt taken on previous St Patrick’s Day celebrations, I note, as everyone’s wearing green and there are lots of four-leaf clovers. The luck of the Irish.

  I could do with some of that luck right now, I think, wearily hoisting myself on to a barstool, where a puddle rapidly starts forming around me.

  ‘Little wet out there, huh?’ The moustachioed barman, a fifty-something Hell’s Angel with a cut-off T-shirt and tattooed forearms, pauses from chewing a toothpick.

  ‘Just a bit.’ I sniff, resting my elbows on the bar.

  He reaches underneath the bar and holds out a bar towel. ‘Here you go.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Smiling gratefully, I wipe my face, then tip my head upside down and start towel-drying my hair.

  ‘It’s going to be a while.’

  Hearing Nate’s voice, I flick my head back up. He’s standing next to me, looking like he’s just taken a shower fully clothed. Even his blazer couldn’t keep him dry, I think with a beat of satisfaction. I’m half tempted to let him drip-dry, but I take pity and pass him the towel. ‘How long?’

  ‘Apparently there’ve been a lot of accidents,’ he grumbles, rubbing his face roughly, ‘and there’s only one frigging tow-truck.’ With a face like thunder he slides on to the barstool next to me.