You're Not the One (9781101558959) (20 page)

Oh, who the fuck am I kidding? It's horrible. I feel terrible.

An hour or so later I'm striding down Fifth Avenue trying to make sense of this sudden turn of events. Having finished clearing up the kitchen until there wasn't a splash of beetroot or a speck of green pulp left and the marble worktop was spotless, I showered, dressed, then left the apartment. I didn't even hang around to dry my hair, I muse, glancing at my reflection in the windows of a store.

And immediately wishing I hadn't. My fringe has already gone
ping!
in the heat and I've got bits sticking out all over. And it's true. It does kind of look purple. Dismayed, I sigh miserably and look quickly away.

Nate didn't even say good-bye. He was on the phone when I left and he just nodded. And it wasn't a nice, friendly “love you, babe” nod—it was a dismissive “whatever” nod. I'd never really thought much about nods before. I'd always assumed that one nod is pretty much the same as another. Until then. And trust me, that was not the kind of nod that is positive in a relationship.

Fighting back angry tears, I continue stalking down Fifth Avenue. Normally I'd be looking in all the glossy shops, reveling in a bit of window-shopping and thinking, Look at me, I'm in New York! But now they barely merit a glance. Instead I'm just vacantly staring down at the sidewalk, mulling over the argument in my head and thinking, Please don't look at me. I've just had an argument with my boyfriend and I think I might start crying at any moment.

No, you won't, Lucy, I tell myself sharply. You're angry, remember, and you need to stay angry.

Roughly wiping my eyes, I take a few deep breaths. Nate was behaving like such a smug, patronizing, sanctimonious prat, standing there lecturing me while he was wearing those criminal pineapple boxer shorts! Clumsy, indeed! It was all that machine's fault.

Still, perhaps I shouldn't have left the lid off, I reflect, feeling a seed of doubt. I try to ignore it and keep walking, but it quickly grows into a prickle of regret. I mean, that
was
my fault. I push it briskly out of my mind, but it's rapidly turning into guilt. God, the kitchen was a right old mess.

In fact, by the time I've reached the southern edge of the park, all I can feel is full-blown remorse. I pause at the entrance and rest against the railings. I'm completely to blame. If I weren't so bloody useless and pigheaded, we'd be looking forward to enjoying a lovely Saturday together picnicking in the park. Instead I'm standing here on my own, looking at all the other couples on the grass doing just that, I think miserably.

I'm not sure how long I would have remained there, feeling sorry for myself, if someone hadn't walked past sipping a coffee. As I catch a whiff, my taste buds immediately spring into action.

No wonder I'm feeling miserable, I realize, catching sight of a coffee shop across the street and dashing off in its direction. I haven't had my morning coffee. In fact, this whole week I've gone without, as I've been staying at Nate's and he doesn't drink it. I haven't felt any better, though. In fact, quite frankly, I've had a nagging headache all week. Nate says that's because I'm addicted to caffeine and I'm going through withdrawal, that I just have to persevere and I'll feel like a new me.

Which is fair enough. Except, the thing is, I don't really want to feel like a new me. I want to feel like the old me, who used to drink coffee and didn't have a nagging headache.

“A latte with two extra shots, please,” I say, smiling broadly at the woman behind the counter. I've come to the conclusion there are two types of people in this world: those who drink coffee and those who don't. And I'm not sure you can ever put the two together, I reflect as she taps in my order. On second thought . . . I feel a secret twinge of defiance. “Make it three shots.”

Fifteen minutes later I'm walking down the street sipping my coffee. I feel loads better. The sun is shining, it's a beautiful day, and I don't have to go to work.

OK, so now what?

It's still early and I can feel the whole day stretching ahead of me. I could go home, but Robyn's at her drumming circle and I don't feel much like sitting in an empty apartment: me, Simon and Jenny, and piles of my hand-washing. I could call my sister, but she'll be either at the gym or at the office, or both. Or I could . . .

I draw a blank.

This is ridiculous. I'm in New York! The Big Apple! The city that never sleeps! There's masses to do. I've been so busy since I arrived that I haven't got round to doing any of the real touristy stuff yet. I could go up the Empire State, take a boat ride past the Statue of Liberty, go to Times Square.

All the things I wanted to do with Nate.

Suddenly my defiance takes a bit of a dip and for a split second I think about calling him, or maybe texting him. Then I change my mind. I know, perhaps he's texted me. Perhaps I just didn't hear it beep. Hope flickers and I quickly tug out my phone and glance at the screen.

Nope. No text message. No missed call. No nothing.

For a moment I stare at my phone, feeling upset. Then impulsively I turn it off. Otherwise I'll just keep checking it all day. Shoving it firmly in my bag, I take a big gulp of coffee. I need to do something that will cheer me up, like brown-paper packages tied up with string did for Julie Andrews. Only in my case my favorite thing's not raindrops on roses; it's art galleries. As soon as I walk through the door, it's impossible to feel sad or depressed. Surrounded by all those ideas, all that imagination, all that creativity, I lose myself and my problems seem to fall away. It's like being a kid again.

When I was living in London, I lost count of the number of hours, days, weeks, probably, that I spent at the National Portrait Gallery, and Tate Modern. And before that, growing up in Manchester, the city's Art Gallery was my refuge as a teenager. I go to galleries when I'm happy and when I'm sad, when I'm feeling lonely and when I want to be alone. Not to mention they're the perfect heartbreak cure. Forget Carrie and her Manolo Blahniks—give me a Rothko any day.

Like today, I suddenly decide, feeling galvanized. Today is the perfect day to lose myself in a gallery, and where better than here in New York? The city is stuffed full of them. I've already visited quite a few since I've been here, but I haven't even
begun
to scratch the surface. Plus I was saving the best for last: The Museum of Modern Art is arguably the best modern art gallery in the world.

I feel a buzz of excitement. Yes, that's what I'll do. Great idea! Invigorated, I start striding off. Then a thought hits me: I don't know where it is. Followed by a second thought: I have absolutely no clue where I'm going.

I stop dead in the middle of the pavement and rummage around in my handbag. Digging out my pocket tour guide, I look up the address: 11 West 53rd Street, between Fifth and Sixth avenues. OK, well, that's easy. Sort of.

I pause uncertainly. I think it's that way . . . but then it could be that way . . . or even that way. Shit. I think about doing my Never Eat Shredded Wheat rhyme, then think again. Well, look where that got me last time.

“Spare any change?” A voice next to me interrupts my thoughts and I glance sideways and see a homeless man sitting on a piece of cardboard, drinking a beer. He holds out a tattered old polystyrene cup containing a few quarters.

“Oh, yes, of course.” Emptying my pockets, I find a couple of dollar bills and stick them in his cup. “Would you happen to know the way to the Museum of Modern Art?”

OK, I know it's a long shot, but still.

He peers at me from underneath his shaggy eyebrows, then grunts, “You mean the MoMA?”

“Oh, er . . . yeah, the MoMA.”

That will teach you to judge, Lucy Hemmingway.

“Let me see . . .” He scratches his long, bedraggled beard.

“Is it that way?” I ask hopefully, pointing across the street.

He looks at me as if I'm slightly barmy. “No, that way,” he rasps, and points in a completely different direction. “Couple of blocks, turn right, and it's in the middle of the block.”

“Brilliant. Thanks.” I grin.

“No problem.” He nods, then calls after me, “Hey, lady.”

Walking down the street, I turn round.

He takes a swig of beer, then flashes me a toothless smile. “Check out the Rothkos. They're incredible.”

Wow.

That's pretty much all I can think from the moment I spot the three huge red banners emblazoned with “MoMA” fluttering in the summer breeze.
Wow
. To walking into the striking modern glass building and seeing its amazing light-filled lobby, huge open-plan staircase, and walls made entirely of windows.
Wow
. To the five floors filled with paintings, sculptures, drawings, prints, photographs, and all kinds of amazing things.
Wow
. It's like being in another world. Stepping from the bustling street outside into the cool white open spaces inside is like stepping into Narnia. It's a world where time stands still and nothing else matters. Not even rows with your boyfriend.

I spend the rest of the day wandering from room to room just drinking it all in. One room is completely round and holds a circular light-changing exhibit that you step inside to watch the ever-changing colors. It's beautiful and fun, and it makes me laugh to see even a baby in a stroller enjoying it, his eyes filled with wonder as the blues turn to green, to yellow, to red, and then letting out a loud approving gurgle.

Another room is entirely covered in scribbled cartoons, another with soft white feathers, another with a whole city made out of recycled cans. Then there are all the paintings: the Matisses, Pollocks, Dalís, Rothkos . . . I stop in front of one and smile. The homeless guy was right; they are incredible.

Lost in my own world, I lose track of time, until suddenly I look up and notice how busy it's become. When I arrived, it had just opened and it was empty, but now there are all kinds of people: crowds of schoolkids, a little old lady, some mothers with their babies, a punk with his Mohawk, a gaggle of Japanese tourists with their obligatory cameras, a couple of students sketching . . .

Then there's him again.
The gallery crasher
.

I stop dead. What's he doing here? There's no free food or booze. I watch him for a moment, trying to work out what he's doing, when unexpectedly he turns round and sees me, and looks right at me.

Fuck.

I dive behind a large sculpture of two cubes balancing on top of each other, but it's too late.

“Hey, it's you again.”

I pretend I haven't heard him and focus on examining the sculpture, as if I'm so engrossed in this amazing piece of artwork I haven't heard him. Hopefully he'll just go away.

He comes right up to me and prods me.

Or maybe not.

“Excuse me?” I turn and look at him, affronted. He's wearing the same baseball cap and the same jeans with the two big rips in the knees, but he's switched his T-shirt from the green one to a plain white V-neck.

Not that I really noticed what he was wearing last night or anything.

“From the gallery last night. You threw me out.”

“Really?” I frown and peer at him as if I haven't a clue who he is, then I pretend to do a sort of slow register. “Oh, yeah . . .”

Honestly, my acting is dreadful. Annie was my only good role.

“Well, you can't throw me out this time.” He grins, and digging in the pocket of his jeans, he waggles a ticket at me.

“You bought a ticket to get in here?” I stare at it for a moment. Sure enough, it looks real. “You spent twenty dollars to get into an art gallery ?” I'm impressed. Maybe I got him wrong. Maybe he's not all about the freebies.

“I didn't say I
bought
a ticket,” he corrects. “I said I had a ticket.”

“You didn't pay for it?”

“No, it was free. A friend lent me his membership card.”

“Aha, I should have known,” I reply, it suddenly making sense. “You know there isn't any free food or drink here,” I can't help adding.

He looks slightly insulted. “I'm not just looking for free food and drink.”

“What, you've actually come to look at some art?” I say sarcastically.

“Actually, no. I came for the free films.”

“Free films?” For a moment I think he's got the wrong place.

“There's a special Tim Burton exhibition. They're showing some of his earlier work. You know, like
Edward Scissorhands
,
Ed Wood
,
Big Fish
. . .”

I'm looking at him aghast. “You came here to watch movies for free?”