“I know, I’m sorry,” I apologize briskly, giving her a kiss on the cheek. “You know me—I’m useless with directions.”
“And timekeeping,” she reminds, hitting Send with her thumb, then turning to me.
She looks pale, despite the fact that it’s sunny and seventy-five degrees outside. Kate rarely gets outside. During the week she’s always at her desk in her air-conditioned office, and at weekends—
Well, she’s usually at her desk then too.
“Guilty as charged.” I nod, pulling a remorseful expression. “What do I get? Two years? Five?”
She smiles, despite herself. “Well, this isn’t my legal field of expertise, but let’s see.... No prior convictions? Mitigating circumstances?” She drums her fingers on the bar. “You’d probably get away with a warning and a good-behavior bond.”
“That’s it?” I’m laughing now.
“Plus a fine,” she adds, raising an eyebrow.
“A fine?” I frown. “How much?”
“Hmm . . .” She taps the tip of her nose with her forefinger, like she always does when she’s thinking. “Three drinks. At ten dollars a drink. I reckon thirty bucks should do it.” My sister smiles at me slyly. “Plus tip, of course.”
She’s nothing if not a tough negotiator. Now I know how she wins those multimillion-dollar cases.
“Hang on—three drinks?”
“You, me, and Robyn,” she explains.
“Oh, she’s here?” I say in surprise, looking around for her.
“She went to the bathroom.” Kate gestures to the back of the bar, where at that moment I see a tall girl with wild, curly hair and wearing a tie-dyed caftan appear from the ladies’. Her face splits into a huge grin as she spots me.
“Honnnneeeeyyyy,” she shrieks, waving manically as she rushes over, seemingly unaware of the people she’s knocking into as she makes a beeline for me. She’s like the human form of a heat-seeking missile.
I watch in amusement. A slightly different welcome from my sister’s, then.
Throwing her arms out, she envelops me in a haze of patchouli oil and a jingle-jangle of silver bracelets, which are stacked up her freckled forearms like Slinkys.
Anyone watching Robyn greet me would think we were lifelong friends, but we met only a week ago, when I answered her ad for a roommate. I move in this weekend. After a few weeks of my sister’s house rules—“1) Usage of electric toothbrush not permitted after 10 p.m.” Apparently it wakes her up, as she likes to be in bed by nine thirty so she can get up at five a.m. to go to the gym. Yup, that’s right. Five in the morning—I knew it was time to move out and get my own space.
Well, maybe “space” is something of a misnomer. “Broom cupboard” would be a more accurate description. New York might be exciting, but it comes with a hefty price tag and on my salary I can only afford a tiny room in a fourth-story walk-up on the Lower East Side.
Still, the most important thing is it’s all mine. Well, Robyn’s, really. Plus, guess what? I can see the Empire State Building from my window!
Well, sort of. It’s not actually from my bedroom window. The view from my bedroom window is a brick wall, a fire escape, and some pretty interesting graffiti. You can see it from Robyn’s bedroom, though. If you sort of hang out of the window and squint a bit. It’s definitely there. Promise.
“I didn’t think you could make it,” I gasp, finally breaking free.
“My last client canceled,” she explains, still grinning.
Americans, I’ve noticed, spend a lot of time grinning, but I haven’t yet worked out if they’re really happy or if it’s an excuse to show off their teeth. Robyn has perfect straight white teeth. Like piano keys.
“Said he was afraid of needles. Which made things a little problematic, what with me being an acupuncturist.”
“What is it with men and little pricks?” quips Kate.
I stifle a giggle, but Robyn is oblivious to my sister’s sense of humor. “I don’t know,” she says earnestly, her face falling serious. “I think perhaps men have a much lower threshold when it comes to pain. Women endure the agony of childbirth, menstrual cramps—”
“Brazilian bikini waxes,” interjects my sister.
“Not to mention the emotional pain women suffer,” continues Robyn, ignoring her and chattering on regardless. “We just feel things so much more deeply—like, for example, the other day I was watching Oprah and there was this whole section about comfort eating . . .”
I glance across at my sister. Eyebrows raised, she’s staring at Robyn with a mixture of horror and disbelief. I feel a pang of concern. My sister’s not the kind of person you talk to about emotions. She doesn’t really get emotional. The only time I’ve seen her look slightly perturbed was when she scored ninety-nine percent on a chemistry exam.
“Her husband had run off with her best friend and she gained two hundred pounds by eating cupcakes. Can you believe it? She was so devastated she used cupcakes to try to block out the pain. There were red velvet cupcakes for breakfast, double-chocolate fudge cupcakes for lunch, lemon butter cupcakes for—”
“OK, so what are we drinking?” I ask, butting in and changing the subject before we all die of thirst.
“Whiskey sour,” says my sister without a moment’s hesitation.
“Robyn?” Having got the attention of the barman, I turn to her expectantly.
“Um, wow, I have no idea,” she gasps, drawing breath for the first time in five minutes. “Now let me think. What do I feel like . . . ?” Tilting her head, she winds a brown curl round her finger thoughtfully. “Something sweet . . .”
“A cosmo?” suggests the barman, smiling broadly.
She wrinkles her nose. “ . . . But not too sweet.”
“Well, in that case, what about a mojito?”
“Ooh!” She gives a little squeal of excitement. “I love mojitos!”
“Great.” The barman reaches for a handful of mint and grabs the bar muddler and shaker.
“But not tonight,” she adds after a moment, shaking her head decisively.
The barman puts down the muddler, his jaw clenching.
“Tonight I feel like something a bit different,” she continues cheerily. Behind us a queue is forming, but she’s chattering on, completely oblivious.
“Maybe a martini?” The barman passes her a menu. “We have lots of different kinds. Like the ginger martini.”
“Mmm, that sounds yummy,” she coos.
The barman flashes a look of relief.
“But so does the pomegranate one,” she says, reading from the menu. “Gosh, there are so many and they all sound delicious. Oh, look, what about the one with lychees? What does that taste like?”
“Lychees,” deadpans my sister.
Robyn looks up, startled. “Actually, you know what? I think I’ll just have a glass of wine,” she says hastily, passing the barman the menu. “Anything white. I’m not fussy,” she adds, avoiding my sister’s glare.
“And I’ll have a beer.” I smile. I’ve never been one for cocktails. I get way too drunk on them.
“Coming right up.” The barman reaches for a cocktail shaker.
“Oh, just one more thing . . .” On tiptoe, Robyn suddenly leans across the bar and studies the barman under the lights. “What’s your name?”
I’m taken aback. Crikey. I’ve heard American women are confident when it comes to asking men out, but this is so, well, brazen.
“Brad.” He grins, showing off by doing a little impersonation of Tom Cruise in Cocktail with the shaker. “Why, do you want my number too?”
Robyn’s face falls in disappointment. “No, thanks.” Leaning back from the bar, she gives a little sigh. “Not unless your name’s Harold.”
“Who’s Harold?” I ask, confused.
“I dunno.” She shrugs. “That’s the problem.”
“If you’re looking for a missing person, I’ve got some great contacts at the NYPD,” suggests Kate helpfully.
“My s
ister’s married to a cop,” I explain.
“Really?” Robyn’s eyes go wide. “How exciting!”
“Not really,” laughs my sister. “You haven’t met Jeff.”
“Or Harold,” reminds the barman, who’s been earwigging. He looks vaguely put out that he’s been passed over for a total stranger with a name like someone’s aged uncle.
“Not yet, but I know he’s out there,” says Robyn with complete conviction. “A psychic told me.”
“You went to see a psychic?” Kate looks at her in disbelief.
“About a year ago,” Robyn says with a nod, her face serious. “She said I was going to meet my soul mate and I have to be on the lookout for a Harold.” She reaches for the large pink crystal pendant hanging from her neck and clasps it tightly. “When it comes to love, I just have to put my faith and trust in the power of the universe.”
I glance at my sister. She’s struggling to contain her cynicism.
“Did she say what this Harold looked like?”
Robyn pauses and glances furtively around the bar, then whispers conspiratorially, “Tall, dark, and handsome.”
Out of the corner of my eye I see the barman puff out his chest.
“Well, there’s a surprise,” remarks Kate drolly, rolling her eyes.
“There you go, ladies,” interrupts the barman, placing three drinks on the bar in front of us. “That’ll be twenty-eight bucks.”
“I’ll get this,” I say, reaching for my bag. “It’s my round.” Big bags might look fashionable, but in reality you just end up carrying around a load of junk. I’m just tipping the bag to one side to get a better look when it suddenly topples over onto the floor, spewing out its contents.
“Oh shoot, let me help,” cries Robyn. Bending down, she scrabbles around, helping me pick up my stuff. “Ooh, what’s this?”
I glance over to see her holding up the magazine I was reading on the train. “Oh, nothing,” I say, reaching for it, but it’s too late—she’s already turned to the quiz.
She starts reading it out loud. “‘Everyone is looking for their soul mate. Take our Love Test and find out: Is he the One?’” She looks up at me, her eyes wide with excitement. “Oh wow, I love these things!”
“Why does that not surprise me?” says Kate, paying the barman for me.
I throw her a grateful look. “It’s just a bit of silly nonsense,” I say, feeling my cheeks flush with embarrassment.
“But you filled it in!” counters Robyn, waggling it as evidence.
Oh God. Now I feel like a complete idiot.
“I was bored on the subway; you know what it’s like.” I’m trying to keep my voice casual while not looking at my sister. Once, when I was a teenager, she caught me secretly reading my horoscope and that of Ricky Johnston, whom I’d had a crush on forever. She teased me about it for months afterward.
Years later nothing’s changed.
“Give it to me. I’ll throw it away.” I laugh lightly and hold out my hand, but Robyn is poring over it, head bent, eyes narrowed in concentration.
“So what was your score? Was he the One?” She looks up, her face eager with expectation.
“Look, I hate to break this to you, but there’s no such thing as the One,” my sister says dismissively. “It’s bullshit.”
Robyn’s face drops like that of a six-year-old who’s just been told the tooth fairy doesn’t exist. “But you’re married,” she protests urgently. “What about your husband?”
“What about him?” replies Kate evenly. “I love Jeff, don’t get me wrong, but I wouldn’t call him my soul mate.”
“You wouldn’t?” asks Robyn in a hushed voice.
“No.” My sister shrugs nonchalantly and takes a sip of her drink. “I call him plenty of other things, though,” she adds, and laughs throatily.
Robyn looks stricken. “What about you, Lucy?” She turns to me desperately. “What do you think? You believe in the One, don’t you?”
I hesitate. “Well, um . . .”
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” Robyn suddenly claps her hand to her forehead. “I’m being so insensitive.” She looks at me, her face full of remorse. “Your sister mentioned you’d broken up with someone recently. I didn’t think.”
“You mean Sean? Oh, he wasn’t anything serious,” I reassure her quickly.
“He wasn’t the One?” she says knowingly, refusing to look at my sister.
My mind flashes up a picture of Sean in his purple Crocs. Even if things had been perfect, those Crocs would have always come between us. “No, he wasn’t the One,” I laugh, but deep down I feel that familiar twinge.
“Well, don’t worry,” she encourages me, patting my hand. “I’m sure you’ll find him.”
I smile ruefully. “That’s the thing. I already did.”
There’s a loud groan from Kate. “Oh God, not the Bridge Guy.”
“His name was Nathaniel,” I retort, shooting my sister a look.
She rolls her eyes impatiently. “Lucy, when are you going to forget about him and move on?”
“I have moved on,” I snap back defensively. “I’ve had loads of boyfriends.”
“You’re still hung up on that guy.”
“No, I’m not!”
“So why are you doing some stupid quiz?”
“So what? It doesn’t mean anything!”
“Not much!”
Robyn’s head is flicking back and forth between me and Kate as if she’s watching tennis. “Whoa, you guys!” she cries, holding out her silver-ringed hands to break up what is in danger of turning into one of our sisterly quarrels.
Trust me, that’s something we’re both good at.
“Would someone mind filling me in?”
We exchange glances. Sheepishly Kate turns her attention back to her drink.
Which leaves me. I hesitate.
“Well?” Robyn looks at me expectantly.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” I mutter dismissively.
“It sure as hell doesn’t sound like nothing,” remarks Robyn, raising her eyebrows. “C’mon, I want all the juicy details.”
I think about resisting, but the beer is weaving a warm path inside me and I can feel my defenses weakening.
“Do I have to remind you that I stick needles into people for a living?” She fires me her most threatening look, which couldn’t be less threatening, but still.
I swallow hard, my mind flicking back. “It was the summer of 1999. I was nineteen and studying art in Venice, Italy.” I start talking quickly, the words tumbling out. I’m keen to get it over and done with. “His name was Nathaniel and he was twenty and an American on the Harvard summer program, studying the Renaissance painters. Afterward I went back to England and he went back to America—”
“You’ve missed out the bit about the bridge,” interrupts my sister.
My momentum broken, I throw her a furious glance, but she’s pretending to focus on her drink as if she never said anything.
I turn back to Robyn. “Sorry, I’m getting ahead of myself. First I should tell you how it all started.” As the memory comes flooding back, my stomach starts whooshing giddily and I take a deep breath to steady my voice. “Let me tell you about the legend of the Bridge of Sighs. . . .”
Chapter Three
“Wow, how romantic.” Robyn lets out a loud sigh.
As I finish telling the story, I zone back to the bar. Elbows leaning on the counter, chin cupped in her hands, Robyn’s got a strange, dreamy expression on her face, as if she’s in some kind of trance.
She’s not the only one, I realize, noticing several people along the bar who have stopped their conversations and are leaning in to listen. Seeing my captivated audience, I feel a prickle of self-consciousness and glance around awkwardly, only to see a group of girls sitting at a table behind me, waiting expectantly.
“So did you kiss underneath the bridge?” asks one of them, mascaraed eyes wide.
I can feel my cheeks burning with embarrassment. I’ve n
ever been much of a public speaker and now suddenly here I am, orating to an entire New York bar.
“Well?” coaxes her redheaded friend, clutching her martini glass to her cleavage with anticipation.
My mind wanders back to that evening, all those years ago. “We didn’t have enough money. We were totally broke in those days.”
There’s an audible groan of disappointment.
“But Nathaniel bribed a local gondolier with some pot,” I finish, laughing at the memory of the young Italian in his stripy shirt, stoned and giggly.
“So did he take you?”
I turn toward the male voice to see a burly banker type, shirt unbuttoned, tie loosened. The hope on his face is tangible.
“Stop interrupting. Let her tell the story,” someone else shushes him loudly.
“So we met at sunset,” I continue, an image of the tangerine sky popping into my mind. It was such an amazing sunset. Multicolored streaks lit up the sky in a blaze of color, bathing the ancient buildings of Venice in a fiery glow. I’ve seen many sunsets before and since, but none has ever seemed as special. “And he rowed us out onto the canal.”
I can see Nate’s hand helping me into the gondola, feel his arm round my shoulder as we snuggle together on the worn velvet cushions, hear the water lapping against the banks of the canal.
“Just as the bells started ringing, we reached the bridge.”
For a brief moment I’m right back there. The distant echoes of Venetian life fill the warm evening air and I’m looking at Nate and he’s brushing the hair out of my face and we’re laughing like a couple of love-struck teenagers. Because that’s what we are: a couple of love-struck teenagers.
“So do you think this is really going to work?” he’s asking, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiles.
Catching the laughter in my throat, I gaze up into his pale blue eyes, at the dark gray flecks outlining his irises, the light blond eyelashes. I want to absorb every detail. I don’t want to forget a single thing.
“I hope so.” I smile back, nuzzling my nose against his neck and inhaling the soft, warm scent of old T-shirt and secondhand suede jacket. Despite the heat of the evening, he insisted on wearing it, like always.
“You don’t think it’s some scam by the old man and we’re going to get mugged under the bridge?”
You're Not the One (9781101558959) Page 3