You're the One That I Don't Want

by Alexandra Potter

  ‘Don’t go,’ I call out after him, but even as I’m saying the words, I know it’s useless. He’s already gone.

  For a moment I stand motionless in the kitchen, staring at the empty doorway. Then slowly I become aware of Nate’s presence. I raise my eyes to meet his, but if I’m expecting to see some kind of satisfaction, I’m wrong.

  ‘I’m sorry. I was upset about Beth.’ He looks at me with dismay. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  ‘I know.’ I shake my head wearily. My lovely evening with Adam is lying in tatters and yet there’s no point blaming anyone. Nate’s suffering too. He’s probably lost Beth again now, just like I’ve lost Adam.

  A sob rises in my throat. It’s all such a mess.

  Nate and I don’t say any more; there’s nothing left for either of us to say. He leaves, and closing the door behind him, I lean against it and sink to the floor.

  And only then do I cry.

  I cry my bloody heart out.

  Chapter Thirty-One

  ‘I’ve called a dozen times and left messages, but he won’t return my calls.’

  The next day I’m sitting in a café on the Upper West Side, having lunch with my sister. Over Eggs Florentine I’ve been telling her all about what happened, about Martha’s Vineyard, about last night, about everything.

  ‘I’ve tried emailing, texting, you name it, but nothing. I just don’t know what else to do.’ I heave a deep sigh and slump down into my seat. ‘I can’t believe Nate. He completely sabotaged everything with Adam. To think I did all those things on the Strategy.’ I give a little shudder. ‘It’s like nothing works.’

  I stare dolefully into the dregs of my latte. Last night, after Nate left, I went to bed but couldn’t sleep. I spent the whole night tossing and turning, and woke up this morning still feeling horrible. ‘But I’m not blaming Nate. I mean, it can’t be nice for him either. Apparently he’s trying to get back with his wife and give it another try, and now that’s ruined too.’ I heave an even deeper sigh and sink down further into my chair. ‘It’s all such a mess. We’re doomed to be together for ever.’

  ‘Lucky you.’

  ‘Excuse me?’ I glance up from my coffee cup to look at my sister. She’s barely said a word since we met and has hardly touched her salad Niçoise. Instead she’s spent the whole time staring off into space, as if her mind’s on other things. Most likely mergers and acquisitions or her marathon training.

  ‘Some people would love to be together for ever. I wish Jeff and I could be so lucky.’

  ‘Aren’t you the same person who called marriage a life sentence?’ I remark. ‘And you get your sentence shortened for good behaviour?’ I look at Kate, expecting her to laugh, but her face remains passive.

  ‘Jeff has cancer.’

  Boom. Just like that.

  I look at her in disbelief. ‘What?’

  ‘Testicular. The doctor’s finally figured out why he’s been losing weight and feeling so unwell. He’s got to have a chest X-ray and blood work to see if it’s spread.’ She says all this very matter-of-factly, in the same tone of voice she used to discuss what to have for lunch. ‘He’ll have his ball chopped off, of course, though that’s OK – you can manage perfectly fine with just one.’

  I’m staring at Kate and listening to her calmly talking, but I can’t compute what I’m hearing. ‘Oh my God, Kate, I can’t believe it,’ I manage finally. ‘I had no idea.’ I reach out across the table for her hand, but she pulls it away. I feel dreadful. There’s me jabbering on about Nate and Adam and the whole time Kate’s been sitting here with this awful news.

  ‘I know, neither did I. I thought all he needed was antibiotics.’ She falters momentarily – a blink of an eye and you’d have missed it – then, regaining her composure, quickly carries on. ‘The good news is that there’s a strong chance we’ve caught it early enough and the cancer hasn’t spread, and by getting rid of the tumour, you get rid of it all. We don’t know for sure yet, but they’re running tests, so we’ll know soon enough.’ Affording a tight smile, she takes a sip of water. ‘According to the oncologist, it’s the best cancer to have. I didn’t know there was a top ten of cancers you most want to have, but I guess you learn something every day.’

  ‘And what if—’ I stop myself. I don’t want to ask the question, but Kate asks it for me.

  ‘What if it’s spread?’ she says evenly.

  I look at her mutely, almost shamefully. I feel disloyal for even thinking such a thing.

  ‘Well, we have to deal with that if it happens,’ she says pragmatically. ‘We’ll have to go through the motions – radiotherapy, chemotherapy. I’ve been reading up on everything, but even for me, with my medical background, it’s a whole new learning curve.’ She’s being incredibly calm. Spookily so.

  ‘You’re being so calm about everything,’ I say to her in amazement.

  She shrugs. ‘There’s no point bringing emotions into this. We need to deal with the facts. When it comes to medical matters, the body is like a car that’s broken down and we need to figure out the best way to try to fix it.’

  ‘But this isn’t a car we’re talking about – this is Jeff,’ I say passionately.

  ‘I’m acutely aware of that, Lucy,’ she snaps, the strain showing for the first time.

  I fall silent. I’m not sure what to do or what to say to try and comfort her. I know she’s upset, but she refuses to show it. She refuses to put down the big, strong sister act and let anyone in, least of all me. It’s so frustrating. I feel so helpless.

  ‘How is Jeff dealing with it?’ I say after a moment.

  ‘He’s been better. Obviously. His main concern seems to be that after the operation he’s going to be flying solo.’ She raises an eyebrow. ‘But the doctor explained to him that you can get an implant.’

  ‘An implant?’

  ‘Apparently. I don’t know if they come in different sizes like with breasts. My husband with the double-D testicles.’ She smiles ruefully, attempting a joke. ‘I’ll be calling him “Jordan” next.’

  We both laugh, but it’s a hollow sound. This is cancer we’re talking about, this is Jeff, and this is something that threatens the rest of their lives together, but she’s refusing to go there, and so I don’t go there either.

  After lunch I leave Kate insisting she’s OK. ‘Don’t fuss,’ she protests. ‘Everything’s going to be fine.’

  ‘I know, of course,’ I say hurriedly. ‘I didn’t mean . . . Look, if you need anything, anything at all. If you want me to come with you to the hospital, keep you topped up with bad vending-machine coffee . . .’

  ‘I’ll call you.’ She nods curtly, in a way that says she has no intention of calling me, or anyone for that matter.

  She hitches her bag on to her shoulder and is about to turn away when instinctively I reach over and give her a big hug. I can’t help myself. Despite her steely demeanour, she feels tiny and fragile beneath her cotton jacket.

  She stiffens and awkwardly pulls away. ‘Oh, and, Lucy, don’t mention anything to Mum and Dad. You know how they worry about stuff.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I nod, thinking how that’s so typical of Kate. Never wanting to be any trouble. Always determined to handle everything herself. ‘I won’t breathe a word.’

  We say our goodbyes and I walk back to the subway and begin descending the steps, then pause. I don’t feel like going back to the apartment, I feel like walking, and so, turning round, I climb back up again. I’ve no destination in mind, no clue where I’m heading. I just start walking aimlessly, paying no attention to my surroundings, the people who walk by, the shops that I pass, the neighbourhoods that I enter. Staring at the ground, I focus on putting one foot in front of the other, the rhythm propelling me forward, like a musician with his metronome.

  I think about Jeff and Kate. About my sister’s stoicism, her flippant remarks, the sarcastic humour that hides the true depth of love she has for him, but couldn’t hide the shadow of fear I saw in her eyes. About Jeff
and how he must be feeling. I try to imagine it, but of course I can’t. How can I? This is life or death we’re talking about. Not some silly legend about soulmates. I feel a stab of shame. Talk about putting things into perspective.

  I’m not sure how long I walk for, but after a while I become vaguely aware that my legs are beginning to ache. As I slow down, I find myself outside a large art gallery: the Whitney, on Madison Avenue. It feels fortuitous. Galleries are where I always go to seek comfort. They never fail to make me feel better. They’ve never let me down yet. Right now I need them more than ever.

  Seeking solace, I walk, as if on autopilot, in through the doors, eager to immerse myself in the art. To lose myself and block out everything else. Only today the paintings don’t make me feel better; the sculptures don’t lift my spirits; even Rothko’s Four Shades of Red doesn’t work its usual magic.

  I think back to the last time I was at a gallery. It was after the row with Nate, when I bumped into Adam at the MoMA. As my mind flicks to him, I feel a tug in the pit of my stomach. What wouldn’t I give to turn a corner and see him now? I reflect, as I wander from room to room, each time hoping to glimpse him, each time feeling a thump of disappointment as I realise he’s not here.

  I leave when the gallery closes. It’s early evening, the clear sky is now a purplish bruise, and for the first time I can feel summer nudging into autumn. As if while I was inside the gallery there was a shift, a change, a coming to an end. I set off walking. My feet are sore and I’m not sure exactly where the subway station is, but somehow the feeling of being lost suits my mood.

  I’ll just keep walking until I come across one, I decide, zigzagging blocks, meandering past the park.

  Until before you know it I’m in the Village and the streets are lined with busy restaurants and bars, and people are milling around outside on the pavement, smoking cigarettes and chattering, their voices filling the evening air. I keep walking, absently catching snippets of conversation, until all at once I stumble across another gallery.

  I slow down. Sounds of glasses clinking, the hum of conversation, wafts of perfume and aftershave float towards me. Outside the gallery are gathered a small crowd of people.

  For a moment my heart races. It’s a gallery opening. Maybe Adam is here.

  With my breath held tight in anticipation, I glance around, my eyes skimming the crowd.

  Then I see a figure. He has his back turned to me, but he’s wearing a T-shirt, baggy jeans, and he’s got dark, floppy hair . . . My heart races. It’s him. It’s Adam.

  It’s like a shot of adrenaline. A jumble of thoughts shoots through my brain as I step towards him: relief, apprehension, hope, fear.

  ‘Adam.’ I hear an urgent voice say his name and suddenly realise it’s me. ‘I need to explain.’

  He stops talking and turns round.

  Only it’s not him. It’s a stranger with a passing resemblance to him. He looks at me questioningly.

  ‘Oh.’ I feel a crash of disappointment. ‘I thought you were someone else.’

  ‘Who would you like me to be?’ he jokes good-naturedly, and his friend laughs.

  I try to smile, but my face won’t quite do it. Abruptly I feel tears prickling. ‘I’m sorry. I made a mistake,’ I stammer, and turn away sharply.

  If only I could say that to Adam. But I’ll probably never get the chance, I realise, with a heavy clunk of dismay. There are over eight million people living in New York – what’s the likelihood of ever seeing him again?

  And fighting back tears, I hurry away.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  I arrive back late to the apartment with a giant bag of Kettle Chips and a bottle of Pinot Grigio. Usually they’re my fail-safe, cheer-up, get-out-of-a-crap-mood card, but tonight not even New York Cheddar Cheese can make me feel better, I reflect, letting myself into the kitchen and putting the half-eaten packet on the table.

  Maybe the wine will do better.

  I screw open the top. I once read an article about why winemakers have started using screw-tops in the twenty-first century. It said something about being a better way of sealing the wine, as corks can go mouldy, apparently. Personally, I think that’s a load of rubbish. Screw-tops are in demand because of all the heartbroken single girls who need to get the wine faster.

  Pouring a glass, I glug half of it back, then pick up my discarded Kettle Chips in a resigned ‘OK, let’s try again stance,’ like a weary couple giving things another shot, pad into the living room and flick on the light.

  ‘Aaarrgh.’

  I hear a strangled yelp and spot a couple lying entwined on the sofa. At exactly the same time they see me and spring apart in a flurry of adjusting bra straps, fiddling with belts and hastily brushing down hair.

  ‘Oh, er, hi, Lucy,’ murmurs Robyn. Face flushed, she smoothes her dress. ‘I didn’t think you’d be back so early.’

  ‘Um, no, I guess not,’ I say, frozen in the doorway. Now I know how my dad must have felt when he blundered in on me and Stuart Yates in the conservatory when we were fifteen.

  ‘You’ve met Daniel before.’ She gestures to Daniel, who’s now sitting bolt upright on the sofa as if he’s about to have tea with the vicar.

  ‘Yes, of course.’ I nod. ‘Hi, Daniel.’

  ‘Hi, Lucy.’ He stands up to shake my hand politely and I can’t help noticing his flies are undone.

  ‘Um . . .’ I gesture downwards with my eyes.

  He looks puzzled and glances down. Seeing his zip, he turns beetroot. I’m not sure who’s more embarrassed, him or me. Or Robyn, who’s now vigorously plumping cushions like my mother when the relatives are coming.

  ‘We were just watching a DVD,’ she says briskly.

  I glance at the TV. It’s turned off.

  ‘Great.’ I nod, playing along.

  ‘So did you have a nice day?’ she asks brightly.

  The conversation is so stilted it’s like we’re in a bad amateur dramatics play.

  ‘Oh, you know . . .’ I consider telling her about my sister and Jeff and Adam, but decide against it. Now’s hardly the time to unburden myself. ‘How about you two? How was your day?’

  ‘Amazing,’ beams Daniel enthusiastically.

  ‘OK,’ says Robyn, speaking over him with forced nonchalance.

  Glances fly between them and I feel the air prickle as if there’s a lot going on under the surface. I take this as my cue to leave.

  ‘Well, I think I’ll probably go to bed. It’s late.’ I start backing out of the doorway.

  ‘Oh, don’t go on our account,’ she says breezily. I notice she’s still plumping the same cushion. As does Daniel, who prises it from her gently.

  ‘Actually, I’m exhausted,’ I say, and throw in a yawn for good measure. Which is true, I suddenly realise. It’s been quite some day. ‘Night.’

  ‘Night,’ they say in stereo, from opposite ends of the sofa, where they’re standing awkwardly as if to prove there’s nothing going on between them.

  Proving that without any doubt there is something going on between them.

  I go into my bedroom, flick on a couple of lamps and turn on my fairy lights. That’s always a sure-fire way to make me feel better. I don’t know why it is, but there’s something about their soft, twinkly glow that never fails to lift my spirits.

  Except for tonight. Tonight they have zero effect, I think glumly. Lighting an aromatherapy candle, I put on some cheery music, but it’s hopeless. Not even my ludicrously expensive Diptyque candle, which I only burn on special occasions, and the Mamma Mia soundtrack Mum bought me can make a dent in my black mood.

  Giving up, I resign myself to feeling miserable and ensconce myself on my bed with my wine, Kettle Chips and laptop. Maybe Adam’s replied to my message on Facebook, I tell myself. Maybe now he’s had time to think about things . . . Hope flickers, like the flame on my candle, and for a brief moment I feel a tiny pulse of anticipation, a ray of possibility. Maybe, just maybe.

  Taking a large slurp of win
e for courage, I check my emails. I have three. One from my mum asking me if I’ve spoken to Kate, as she can’t get hold of her, and that it’s ‘boiling hot here. Everyone is wearing T-shirts.’ Ever since I moved to New York, Mum and I have had an ongoing weather battle. For some reason she’s determined to prove Manchester is hotter than Manhattan. ‘You wouldn’t believe how sunny it’s been since you left!’

  Quite frankly no, Mum, I wouldn’t, I think, clicking off her email and on to the next one, which is an engagement party evite from a friend in London. ‘Brilliant. Congratulations,’ I type with two fingers, while glugging back wine. ‘Sorry I can’t make it.’ Am in New York, becoming an alcoholic, I add mentally, pressing send.

  The last one is from eBay, reminding me that the online auction for my spare theatre ticket is about to end tomorrow and that I’ve had several bids. I feel slightly cheered. Well, at least that’s something.

  And that’s it. No email from Adam. I stare at my empty inbox, my mind turning, then log into Facebook. You never know, there could have been an error and his reply never got forwarded. That happened to a friend of mine once. Well, not an actual friend, a friend of a friend, or maybe it was in an article I read. I can’t remember. The most important thing is, it did happen.

  Not to me, though, I realise, looking at my profile page. No new messages. Nothing, apart from a status update from Nathaniel Kennedy:

  This time I don’t even bother trying to defriend him. After all, what’s the point? I think resignedly, logging out. Somehow it doesn’t seem to matter so much any more.

  My mind jumps back to this lunchtime and Kate’s comment about wishing she and Jeff would be tied together for ever. Reminded, I feel a clutch of anxiety and take a sip of wine, trying to shake off the sense of foreboding that’s threatening to envelop me like a heavy overcoat. Jeff’s going to be OK, I tell myself firmly. Kate said it was the best cancer to have, and she trained to be a doctor, so she should know. Kate knows everything. She never gets it wrong. Why should now be any different?