You're Not the One (9781101558959) (14 page)

“Oh, wow, Lucy!” she shrieks. “I can't believe it! Well, actually, I can,” she says quickly, as if arguing with herself. “It's the power of the universe bringing you guys together. I just knew when you told me that story—you and Nathaniel are meant to be together. It's kismet.” Clutching at the crystal round her neck, she continues breathlessly, “So come on, tell me, what happened?”

And so I tell her, in all the wrong order, and she asks me millions of questions, trying to fill in the gaps, as I jump into the shower, then out, and start getting ready.

“Hang on a minute, so he's no longer married?”

“Separated, getting divorced,” I explain, twisting my hair into a towel and padding into my bedroom. I flick on the tangle of fairy lights around my wardrobe and light my aromatherapy candle.

“And he's moved to New York?”

“From L.A., yes. He's filming some TV shows here. He's a producer.”

“What does a producer do?” asks Robyn, trying to clear a space on the bed to sit down, then giving up and sitting down anyway.

“Um . . . produce.” I shrug, reaching for my moisturizer. I have no idea what a producer does, but it sounds impressive. “Oh God, Robyn, it was just amazing,” I sigh, daubing little dollops of cream on my cheekbones. “
He
was amazing.”

“Wow, it's so romantic.” She sighs dreamily.

“I know.” I nod, tugging off my towel and pulling on my bobbly old robe. “You know, he asked me if I believed in soul mates.”

“He did not!”

“He did.”

We exchange glances. Robyn looks as if she's died and gone to heaven. “Oh jeez, Lucy!” she exclaims, her face flushed with happiness. “I told you, you just have to believe. That's all you need to—” She breaks off and wriggles uncomfortably. “Ouch, I think I'm sitting on something sharp.” Grimacing, she reaches underneath the embroidered bedspread. “What's this?”

“I don't know. What is it?” I say distractedly, without even looking. Having unearthed a pair of tweezers from my underwear drawer, I'm making a start on my eyebrows.

“Um . . . it's some kind of pendant, I think.”

“Oh, just chuck it with all my other jewelry.” I motion vaguely to my dressing table, which is strewn with nail polishes, loose change, a couple of sketchbooks. I make a mental note to add it to the list of things to clear up when I have a minute. Only I never seem to find that minute.

“It's made from a piece of a coin.”

In the middle of tweezing, I freeze. Hang on a minute, it can't be . . . “Where is it?” I gasp, twirling round, my heart pounding.

Robyn sees my expression and suddenly the penny quite literally drops. “Oh wow, is this . . . ?”

“My necklace,” I gasp, catching it as it falls from her fingers. In disbelief I trace the broken edge with my thumb. “I thought I'd lost it years ago. Where did you find it?”

“Right here, on the bed.”

“But that's impossible.” My mind goes helter-skelter. I only moved to New York six weeks ago and there's no way it was in my suitcases. I would have noticed a necklace that went missing years ago. Especially
this
necklace.

Bewildered, I look up at Robyn, expecting her to appear as baffled as I am, but instead her eyes are shining with excitement. “Don't you see? It's the legend,” she gasps, her face splitting into an ecstatic grin.

“The what?” I frown in confusion, not comprehending.

“The legend of the Bridge of Sighs,” she responds impatiently. “It's coming true!”

As she says it, a warm gust of wind blows in from the open window, causing the flame of the aromatherapy candle to flicker and billowing out the length of red and gold sari fabric acting as a curtain. As the golden threads shimmer and dance, a shiver suddenly runs up my spine, and for an infinitesimal moment my imagination ignites.

Then just as quickly the gust of wind stills and my imagination is snuffed out. “Don't be silly,” I retort. “It's me being messy, never knowing where anything is. I'm always losing things.”

Inside, though, I feel jittery. Seriously, what has got into me? You're just nervous about tonight, I tell myself firmly. That's what it is. Nerves make you think all kinds of silly things.

“Anyway, on to more important matters,” I say, briskly shoving the coin pendant into my bag.

“Ooh, you mean like his star sign,” enthuses Robyn. “Don't tell me. I bet he's an Aries.”

“No,” I gasp, grabbing a jumble of clothes. “Like what am I going to wear?”

An hour later I've tried on everything that's hanging in my wardrobe, which isn't very much, as I seem to have an aversion to hangers and instead prefer the back-of-the-chair approach to hanging up clothes. And I've tried on everything that's lying crumpled on my bed, for when the back of the chair gets full. Plus everything that belongs to Robyn, even though she's about six inches taller than I am and a fan of all things tie-dye.

And I'm still in my robe.

“Oh God, what am I going to wear?” I wail desperately for the umpteenth time.

“What about this?” replies Robyn brightly.

Honestly, the woman is amazing. Even in the face of defeat she remains amazingly upbeat.

“It looks great with leggings.”

I glance over. She's holding up a vicious purple tie-dyed smock thing that looks like every other item of clothing she's already shown me from her wardrobe.

“It's nice, but . . .”

“But what?”

“I'm not sure about tie-dye,” I say carefully. Or the fact that it looks like a shapeless purple tent, I think.

“What's wrong with tie-dye?”

What's
right
with tie-dye?
I want to reply, but I have to be tactful. Unlike most Americans I've met, Robyn spends her holidays traveling to far-flung corners of the globe, and her wardrobe stands testament. Forget the high street—hers is an eclectic mix of embroidered silk tunics from tiny hill villages in China, woven jackets from a tribe in Africa, and baggy fisherman trousers from Thailand. And lots of tie-dye from India. The other day I caught sight of her underwear on the airer and saw even
that
is tie-dyed.

“You've got to be a really special person to wear it. I mean, it looks amazing on you,” I gush, and see Robyn flush at the compliment, “but I think I need something that's a bit more . . .” I search for the right words. “Of a statement.”

“Right, I see,” says Robyn, nodding thoughtfully. Sitting cross-legged on the bed, she wrinkles up her nose in concentration, the tiny stud in her nostril twinkling under the fairy lights. “What kind of statement?”

“I'm not sure. Something that's feminine but not girly.” In desperation I start attacking the heap of garments on the back of the chair again.

“Something sexy,” she says with a wicked grin.

“But not tarty,” I add quickly, feeling a beat of panic. “I want him to think, Wow.”

“He already thinks, Wow,” she reassures me.

I shoot her a grateful smile.

“Seriously, he loves you the way you are!” she exclaims. “You could wear a trash bag and he'd still think you look amazing.”

“Actually, that's not a bad idea,” I groan, holding up a pair of black leggings that have gone all baggy at the knees. “Do we have any of those?”

In the end, I opt for a lilac silk dress I bought on eBay last year. It's made of crumpled silk (so it's
supposed
to be creased), and I cinch in the waist with an amazing belt I borrow from Robyn.

“It's from the Amazon,” she says, fastening the strands of multicolored beads round my waist.

“Have you been to the Amazon too?” I ask, impressed. God, Robyn has been everywhere.

“No, Chinatown,” she says matter-of-factly. “They sell everything there.” Standing back, she looks me up and down appraisingly.

“How do I look?” I ask, angling my body into the mirror above my dressing table. I can see my torso and not much else.

“You look perfect,” she says, her face splitting into the whitest, toothiest smile. “Just perfect.”

“Not too dressy?”

“Lucy, he's taking you to one of the best restaurants in Manhattan!”

“Argh, don't!” I feel a beat of excitement and alarm. Nate texted me the name of the restaurant earlier, and when I told Robyn, she just looked at me agog and whispered, “Oh, wow, Lucy,” over and over until I begged her to stop because she was making me nervous.

“What time is the reservation?”

“Um . . .” Picking up my mobile, I scroll through the texts. Nate sent me dozens today, every one of which has been duly read and analyzed by Robyn to much approval. “Nine thirty,” I say, finally finding the right one.

“But it's twenty after now,” says Robyn, glancing at my alarm clock.

“
What?”
I shoot a panicked look at the same clock. “It can't be.”

I watch the digital numbers flick to 9:21. “Shit, I'm going to be late!”

“You'll be fine. Jump in a cab,” she says calmly.

“I can't. I'm broke. I'm still trying to pay off that Visa bill.” Scrambling around, I grab my bag.

“Lucy! This is your destiny!” she gasps. “You can't make it wait while you catch the freaking subway.”

Actually, put like that . . .

“Here's twenty bucks for the fare,” she says, digging a bill out of her little embroidered purse. “And I'm not going to take no for an answer.”

I give her a grateful hug. “Thanks. What would I do without you?”

“I have no idea. Now, go have fun,” she calls after me as I dash out of the bedroom.

Then I dash back in again. “I forgot my shoes,” I explain breathlessly. Snatching up my favorite pair of heels, I run barefoot out of the apartment, down the stairs, and onto the street to hail a cab.

A
ccording to my New York tour guide, there are thirteen thousand registered yellow taxicabs in Manhattan. In addition there are all those other private-hire vehicles, limos, and black cars—I'm not sure exactly how many, but it's a lot. Which means that basically there's literally tens of thousands of taxis prowling the city.

And yet I can't bloody find one of them!

Fifteen minutes later I'm still standing on the pavement. Waiting. OK, don't panic, there must be a cab somewhere, there just must be, I tell myself, waving desperately at every passing vehicle in hopes that one of them might be a cab.

Oh look, one's stopping! Finally! Brilliant! I feel a jolt of relief swiftly followed by something else.

Er, actually, no, it's not brilliant. It's not a cab at all. It's some creepy man in a car. And now he's making a rude gesture.

Urgh. Jumping away from the curb, I march quickly in the other direction—not so easy in three-inch heels—and continue scanning the traffic for a yellow light. But nothing. The knot in my stomach tightens a notch. Shit. I'm going to be really late. Like, really,
really
late. Like, my-romantic-dinner-with-Nate-is-going-to-be-ruined late.

No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I see a flash of yellow. Hang on a minute,
is that
. . . ?

Out of nowhere a cab appears and swerves up bedside me. Oh my God, where did that just come from? For a moment I stare frozen in astonishment as it drops off its passengers next to me on the curb and flicks on its light. I mean, how can that be? One minute it wasn't here and then the next . . .

Lucy, for God's sake, just get in.

“Fifth and Fifty-seventh, please,” I say to the driver, jumping inside. Gosh, listen to me—I sound like a proper New Yorker. Then, smiling happily to myself, I can't resist adding, “And step on it.”