You're Not the One (9781101558959) (18 page)

I suppress a tug of disappointment. He's been on the phone to the studio all evening and I've hardly spoken to him. Still, I suppose that's what it's like being some hotshot TV producer, I tell myself. Seeing me, he throws me an apologetic look and I throw a “no worries” one back. It's fine. I've got lots to do, anyway.

Turning, I go back inside the gallery. It's still pretty busy, and I do a bit of mingling, chat to a couple of journalists, shake lots of hands.

Organizing events isn't one of my strengths, and, OK, I admit a couple of my e-mails bounced back because I'd sent them to the wrong people, and then there was the mix-up with the waitressing company. Well, I say mix-up, but it wasn't my fault. How was I to know that At Your Service wasn't a waitressing company? When I looked it up on the Internet, I read about “servicing your every need,” so I sent them an e-mail asking for their price list and I got a
completely
different menu of services than the one I was expecting.

Still, I have to say I've done a pretty good job here. Though a lot of them are more interested in the free food and alcohol than the artwork. Sometimes it's as if they don't even notice it, I muse in disbelief, looking around in wonder at the amazing brushwork and kaleidoscope of colors we have displayed on the walls and feeling a familiar longing to paint again, to create, to let my imagination run away with my paintbrush.

But that's just me being silly, I think, sweeping the thought away quickly. After all, I tried that, remember, and look where it got me: broke and on the dole. No, this is much better. This way, I get to work in an amazing gallery in New York and organize events like this. I mean, how lucky am I?

I scan the crowd with a feeling of satisfaction. Pretty much everyone we invited is here. There's Mr. and Mrs. Bernstein, who are friends of Magda and huge art buyers; that supermodel who was on the cover of this month's
Vogue
; a journalist from
Time Out
. . . Wait a moment, who's that?

My eyes land on a guy with a baseball cap, out of which is sticking a shock of dark, curly hair. He's wearing a baggy green army T-shirt and a pair of jeans with rips in both knees. I look down at my guest list and scan the names, but everyone's ticked off, apart from Jemima Jones, and he doesn't look much like a Jemima Jones.

I observe him for a few minutes. He's walking around gobbling up meatballs like Pac-Man and downing glasses of champagne. I watch as he drains one glass and takes another from a passing tray, eating and drinking all the freebies without even a passing glance at the artwork.

I feel a stab of annoyance. I know his type. Forget wedding crashers—this is a gallery crasher.

“Excuse me.” As I tap him on the shoulder, he jumps, spilling his champagne, and turns round as if he's been caught doing something he shouldn't be doing. Which he has.

“Uh, yeah,” he replies, his mouth full of meatball.

“I'm sorry, but I don't think I've ticked you off the guest list.” I smile politely.

“The guest list?”

“Yes, of all the people invited,” I say pointedly, and wave my clipboard.

He doesn't say anything. He just stares at me as if he's thinking about something.

I fidget uncomfortably. “And your name is . . . ?” I prompt.

“Hey, haven't I seen you somewhere before?” Narrowing his eyes, he waggles a finger at me.

I step back and look at him sideways. There is something vaguely familiar about him, yet . . . “No, I don't think so.” I shake my head dismissively.

There's a pause and then—“Little man!” he says triumphantly, spitting a meatball crumb at me.

I remove it from my dress. “Excuse me?”

“You told me not to cross until I saw the little man.” He grins.

“I don't know what you're—” I break off as I suddenly remember.

Oh God, it's him. Last week. When I was rushing to meet Kate and Robyn in the bar. The man when I was crossing the street. The man with the furry microphone and video camera. The man I recited my stupid saying to, Never Eat Shredded—OK, enough. I cringe at the memory. How uncool.

“Oh, yeah, I remember,” I say, trying to sound all nonchalant.

“I thought it was.” He's full-on grinning at me now, and his eyes are crinkling up and flashing. I notice he's got very bright, very blue eyes, and the longest eyelashes I've ever seen. Like a girl's, I think, realizing I'm staring, then looking sharply away.

“Hi. My name's Adam.” He sticks out his hand.

I ignore it and glance down at my clipboard. “There isn't an Adam on the list.”

“I know. I was just passing.” He shrugs apologetically.

“Well, this is a private exhibition. By invitation only.” I stress those words, but he simply smiles, as if this is all really amusing.

“You're throwing me out?”

I falter. I suddenly feel like a bouncer. “Well, if you want to put it like that.”

“OK, OK, don't worry, I'm going.” Polishing off his last meatball, he drains his glass. “Compliments to the chef. Great meatballs.” Dabbing his mouth with his napkin, he puts down his glass. “But by the way, next time you should get real champagne.”

I glare at him. The cheek of it!

“See you around.”

“I don't think so,” I mutter under my breath, watching as he turns and saunters off through the crowd.

“Who was that?” A voice in my ear makes me jump and I turn to see Nate standing next to me.

“Oh . . . um . . . no one,” I say, feeling flustered. “Just some guy.” I quickly change the subject. “How are you? Everything OK?”

“Bit of a nightmare at the studio, but it's sorted out now.” He smiles, sliding his arm round my waist. “How about you?”

“Oh, fine.” I nod distractedly. I feel jittery. Though that's probably to be expected. After all, not only is it a big night for the gallery; it's Nate's and my first official outing as a couple.

“Only fine?” he asks, his brow furrowed, and as I look into his eyes, I suddenly remember all the years I've spent dreaming about him, thinking I'd lost him, wondering what would happen if I found him again.

And now we're back together and he's standing here with his arm round me.

And I'm saying I'm fine
. Am I
completely
bonkers?

Smiling, I reach up and give him a kiss. “No, everything's perfect.”

W
ell, perhaps not
everything
.

To be frank, I would have preferred it if Nate's iPhone hadn't kept jingling every five minutes for the rest of the evening, and he hadn't had to keep disappearing off to take calls from the studio.

And it was a bit annoying when afterward we all decamped to a little Chinese restaurant round the corner and Nate wouldn't eat any of the dim sum that I'd ordered for both of us. Or the sweet and sour chicken. Or the fried rice. Something about MSG and additives, apparently, which was a bit of a shame, as his steamed mixed vegetables didn't look nearly as delicious.

Anyway, it's not like it was a big deal; I'm just saying. Like it said in my fortune cookie, “Nothing will ever come between you and your lover.” What's a couple of phone calls and a few plates of dim sum between soul mates?

We all sat around a large table—me and Nate, Kate and Jeff, Robyn and Magda, who brought along her son, Daniel. Thankfully, it's apparent as soon as I meet him that he's one of those people who aren't photogenic, as in the flesh he looks nothing like Austin Powers.

Well, I wouldn't say
nothing
like, but put it this way: You wouldn't meet him and think he's going to yell, “Yeah baby,” and have a closet full of velvet suits and frilly shirts.

On learning Robyn's single and Jewish, Magda immediately rolls up her matchmaking sleeves, and before you know it, Robyn and Daniel are sitting side by side while Magda keeps everyone entertained with her outrageous stories, including the one about husband number two and a tube of superglue, despite her son turning bright red and begging her to stop. It would seem that there
is
something a Jewish mother loves more than her son, and that's embarrassing him. At one point it was all he could do to stop her from getting naked baby pictures out of her purse and showing everyone “what a beautiful baby he was. It was unbelievable!”

And then, before you know it, it's late and we're saying our good-byes. Nate and I catch a cab back to his place, even though my apartment is within walking distance, but like he says, why stay in my tiny shared apartment when we've got his penthouse all to ourselves? This way, it's just us.

Plus about a million packing boxes, I note, stepping out of the elevator and coming face-to-face with another huge one that's just been delivered. I swear as soon as he unpacks one, another appears.

“Oh good, it's here,” he says.

“What on earth's in it?” I gasp, squeezing past the large cardboard monolith that's wedged in the hallway.

“My elliptical,” he says, as if I should know what an elliptical is.

And of course I do. Sort of. Not. “Oh, right,” I say breezily, nodding. “Great.”

Putting his keys and phone on the table, he takes off his jacket and hangs it over the back of a chair. Meanwhile I slide off my shoes and rub my sore feet. Normally at this point we'd be ripping each other's clothes off, but I'm exhausted. It's been a long day.

“Sleepy?” Nate catches me rubbing my eyes.

“Um . . . just a little bit.” I smile and stifle a yawn. Well, I don't want to put him off completely, do I? Who knows, I might get my second wind in a minute. Nate seems to have that effect on me. This past week I've practically turned into a nymphomaniac.

Pulling off my dress, I pad into the bathroom in my underwear to brush my teeth. A few seconds later Nate joins me in his boxer shorts, and for a moment we stand side by side brushing. Like a proper couple, I think, feeling a beat of contentment as I look at us reflected in the mirror above the sink.

Which is when I notice Nate's boxer shorts reflected back at me.

No, surely not . . . ?

Until now I've been so busy ripping them off that I haven't given them a second glance, but now I do.

And they have pineapples on them.

“They're not pineapples; they're guavas,” he corrects when I tease him about them.

“Where did you get them?” I ask, giggling.

“I don't know.” He shrugs, rinsing out. “Beth bought them for me.”

I feel a sting. Beth is Nate's ex-wife. “She bought you novelty boxer shorts?” I say, all jokingly, but my voice comes out a bit higher than usual. I don't know which is more horrifying—that his wife bought them or that he's wearing them.

“She bought all my clothes. She took care of that stuff.” He wipes his face on a towel and starts removing his contact lenses.

“Well, I think it's about time you bought some new ones,” I suggest, trying to sound light and breezy while plotting how to get rid of the ones he's wearing. “What about some nice Calvin Kleins?”

“Why? These are comfy,” he grumbles.

Sliding my arm round his waist, I nuzzle the back of his neck. “You'd look really sexy in a pair of Calvins,” I murmur suggestively.

“What's wrong with these?”

“Nate, they have cartoon pineapples on them.”

“Guavas,” he corrects sulkily, disentangling himself and padding into the bedroom.

I let it drop and finish up in the bathroom, but there's a distinct change in the mood, and when I climb into bed next to him, he doesn't wrap his arm round me and pull me toward him, and I don't snuggle up and rest my head on his chest.

And there's not even a sniff of sex. Instead we lie on separate sides of the bed and pretend everything is normal.

“I'm really tired. I think I'm going to crash,” he says after a moment.

“Me too,” I say, even though now I'm wide awake.

“OK, well, night, then.”

“Night.”

Then he rolls over and turns out the light, and the room falls into darkness. And just like that, things don't feel so perfect anymore.

I must have fallen asleep, because the next thing I know I'm being woken by a strange whirring noise.

Uh, what's that?

Groggily brushing my hair away from my face, I tip my head slightly on the pillow to try to hear better.

Whirr, thump. Whirr, thump. Whirr
. . .

Where's it coming from? Muffled and monotonous, it's like some strange kind of backing track. For a moment I think it's the neighbors upstairs. In my flat in London mine used to come in from clubbing on Friday night and crank up the rave music. I bet that's what it is, except . . .