You're Not the One (9781101558959) (21 page)

“Not just any movies,” he says, sounding offended. “From one of the greatest directors. I mean, the man's a genius, the way he shoots, his camerawork, the way he explores film.”

“But this is the MoMA,” I gasp.

“So?” He shrugs.

“So you're telling me you haven't even so much as
looked
at Dalí, or Rothko, or Pollock?”

He stares at me blankly.

“They're painters,” I deadpan.

“Oh, that figures.” He smiles sheepishly. “Well, seeing as you know so much about them, why don't you be my tour guide?”

His request catches me by surprise. It feels almost like a dare. “And if I don't?”

“I'll probably go home, catch up on some shut-eye.” He yawns and stretches.

I waver. Part of me wants him to leave. I'm having a nice time on my own, and the last thing I need right now is having to show him around. Another part of me, however, can't let him leave without looking at any of the wonderful paintings. It would be a crime.

Let's make this clear, though: That's the only reason. It's got nothing to do with his strange mixture of geekiness and cockiness. Or the way he's kind of intriguing. Or those huge blue eyes of his with the crazy long eyelashes.

This is just about art. End of story. Period.

“OK, follow me.”

“This is called
The Persistence of Memory
and is his most famous surrealist work, as it introduced the image of the melting watches, which symbolize the irrelevance of time.” Standing in front of the painting by Salvador Dalí, I turn to my eager student. Otherwise known as Adam, he reminded me, in case I'd forgotten.

I hadn't.

“Wow, pretty impressive.”

“I know, it's brilliant, isn't it?” I say, my eyes flashing.

“You really love this stuff, huh?”

I feel my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “OK, I admit, sometimes I can get a bit carried away.”

“A bit?” He grins.

I smile sheepishly.

“So how come you know so much about art?”

“It's something I've always loved, ever since I was little and I used to finger-paint. My choice of canvas back then was my parents' living-room walls.” I grin at the memory.

“So did you go to art college?”

I nod. “It was amazing. For once I was doing something I was good at, something I understood, you know?”

“I know.” He nods in agreement. “So what happened after college?”

“I moved to London to be a painter, but that didn't work out, so I got a job in a gallery,” I say blithely.

“But you don't miss it? Painting, I mean.”

“Every day,” I say quietly, before I can stop myself. “It all worked out for the best, though,” I add quickly, and yet even while I'm saying it, I feel as if I'm trying to convince him. Or is it, in fact, me?

I look across at Adam. He's studying me hard, an expression of thoughtfulness on his face, and feeling self-conscious, I suggest brightly, “Why don't we go look at some Rothkos?” and start moving briskly away from the Dalí.

“You know, you should follow your passion. If your heart's in painting, you'll never be happy just working in a gallery.”

I feel a stab of defensiveness. “It's not
just
working in a gallery,” I reply shortly. “I happen to love my job.”

“I know, I didn't mean . . .” he begins apologizing. “Look, I'm sorry, I guess I overstepped.”

Now it's my turn to apologize. “Oh, no, don't be silly.” I shake my head. “It's me. I'm just being oversensitive.” I smile awkwardly. “Anyway, I still can't believe you hadn't looked at any art,” I say, flicking the focus back onto him.

“Film's art,” he replies evenly.

It brings me up short. I hadn't thought about it like that. “So are you a big film buff?”

“Just a little.” He smiles. “I'm a film student at NYU.”

As we move into the next room, I shoot him a sideways glance. “Really? Gosh, that sounds interesting.”

“It is, very.” He pauses for a beat. “I love it there.”

“Wow.” I look at him with newfound intrigue, then peer at him quizzically. “Aren't you a little old to be a student?” I tease.

“Probably, in the traditional sense.” He nods. “But I figure you're never too old to learn. That's when you become old, when you stop being fascinated by things, when you stop wanting to learn and explore. . . .”

As he starts talking, his face becomes animated and I'm suddenly reminded of someone.

“. . . Especially when it's something you have a great passion for, and for me that's film.” His face scrunches into a grin. “I did it the opposite way you did. I went straight from college into a job working at a magazine. I did the film reviews. It was a really good job. I got to see all the new movies, go to all the press junkets, interview the actors. I still do a lot of freelance stuff for them now. Just recently I did an on-camera interview for their website with Angelina.”

“You did not!”

“See, that got your attention, didn't it?” He laughs. “No, not really. It was an interview with this awesome new Mexican director, but somehow I didn't think that would have the same effect.”

“It might have,” I protest, pretending to be offended.

“Are you interested in film?” He looks at me with interest.

“Of course. Everyone likes films.”

“So who's your favorite director?”

I pause. “Um . . .” My mind's blank. I don't know the names of any directors, do I? Oh God, I must. Quick, think of one. “Scorsese,” I blurt. It's the first director's name that comes into my head. It's the
only
one.

“Wow, really?” He looks impressed. “I would never have put you down as a Scorsese kind of girl.”

I feel both relieved and unexpectedly pleased.

“Which film do you think is his best work?”

“Well . . . um . . . there's so much work to choose from,” I say vaguely. “I mean, it's hard to pick a favorite. . . .” I'm hoping I can trail off and leave it unclear, but he's still looking at me, his face filled with interest. He's waiting for an answer.

Oh crap.

Frantically I rack the part of my brain that has “Films” written on it, but it's filled with sappy rom-coms starring Jennifer Aniston, and some really bad foreign-language films a long-forgotten ex used to make me watch. OK, forget that, try to do that association thing. Scorsese's a man. He's Italian . . .

“
The Godfather
!” I say triumphantly. See! I knew I knew it.

“That's Coppola,” says Adam, with a flash of amusement.

My triumph is short-lived. “Oh, is it?” I am beyond embarrassed.

“But I can see how you thought it was. Italian, Mafia, violence . . .” He's talking earnestly, but his mouth is twitching. “I mean, it's kind of easy to get two of the greatest directors in the world mixed up.”

“OK, OK.” I smile ruefully. “I know I deserve it for giving you a hard time about art, but I know nothing about film, apart from renting DVDs and going to the movies. Even then I'm happy to see whatever. I'm usually more interested in the popcorn.”

“Maybe we should trade.”

I glance at him, not quite understanding.

“You teach me about art and I'll teach you about film.”

“Well, I don't know about that. . . .”

“OK, so tell me, what's your favorite film?”

“Oh, that's easy.” I grin. “Anything with Daniel Craig in it.”

He throws me a look of horror. “You've got to be joking! That's your criteria for going to see a film? If it stars Daniel Craig? Who, by the way, is not a great actor. The last Bond was pretty dismal.”

“I'm not looking at his acting.” I smile and Adam rolls his eyes in despair.

He takes off his baseball cap, his shock of black hair springing out. He scratches his head in disbelief. “So let me get this straight. You haven't seen any of the classics. What about
Annie Hall
,
The Thin Red Line
, anything by the Coen brothers?”

I'm looking at him blankly.

“Jeez, I'm going to have my work cut out for me.”

“You?” I say with indignation. “What about me? What do you know about Cubism, conceptual art, Impressionism?”

Now it's his turn to look blank.

There's a pause and then we both break into a smile. “OK, deal,” I say with a nod.

“Deal.” He grins as we shake hands.

“So now I've given you your first art lesson, when do I start to learn about film?” I ask.

“When are you free next week?” He looks at me eagerly. “I'll take you to a great movie, one of my favorites. But the deal is, you have to get the popcorn.”

He laughs and smiles at me, but I pause. Put like that, it sounds like we're going a date, and for a moment I consider telling him I have a boyfriend. That just makes me look really arrogant, though, as if I think he fancies me, which I don't,
obviously
.

“Actually, I'm not sure,” I reply. Well, that's the honest answer, isn't it? I'm
not
sure. I was planning on spending most of my free time with Nate, but then we had the row.

The row
. Suddenly I realize I haven't thought about it all day. This is followed by another thought: I haven't thought about Nate all day either.

“In other words, you've got a boyfriend.” He smiles and I blush beetroot.

“Sort of,” I hear myself saying before I can stop myself.

Sort of?
Er, hang on a minute, Lucy. This is Nate, the love of your life, you're
sort of
talking about. Since when did he become your sort-of boyfriend?

I feel a twinge of surprise and guilt, all mixed up together. I quickly try to backtrack. “What I meant to say—”

My voice is suddenly drowned out by a wailing siren and a loud announcement saying the gallery is closing.
Already?
I glance at my watch in shock. The day has flown by.

“Well, I better rush,” says Adam, interrupting my thoughts.

“Oh, yeah, me too.” I nod, but it's as if the easy mood has been broken by an awkwardness that wasn't there before.

“Bye.”

“Um . . . bye,” I murmur.

He strides away across the gallery. I watch as he turns briefly, waves, and then disappears. And suddenly it hits me. I know who he reminded me of back there. It was me.

W
hen I switch on my phone, I discover I have eight missed calls and one, two, three—I start counting as all those little yellow envelopes come beeping in—six texts.

All from Nate.

As texts go, it's a bit like going from the beginning of a relationship—polite and friendly—to the middle, madly-in-love bit and ending up at the angry, pissed-off and arguing part. My emotions follow the same arc. I start off feeling pleased and relieved and thinking, Aw, isn't Nate wonderful? But by the time I've reached text number six, I'm back to being annoyed and indignant. Which makes two of us, I muse, listening to one of his cross-sounding voice-mails.

I call him straight back.

“Why haven't you been answering your phone?” he demands as soon as he picks up.

I bristle. “I turned it off. I was at the MoMA.”

“All day?” He sounds disbelieving.

“Well, I had no other plans,” I can't help replying. Then, not wanting to argue, I add, “Anyway, I'm sorry I didn't get your calls.”

There's a pause, and then he replies, “Yeah, me too,” his voice softening. “So how was the MoMA?”

“Amazing,” I gush, then catch myself. I don't want to sound like I had too good a day. “I mean, the art was amazing, not the actual day.”

“I really missed you,” he says, sounding contrite. “Did you miss me?”

“Of course,” I answer automatically. I feel a stab of guilt. I haven't thought about him all day, but that's only because I was surrounded by such incredible paintings and I just lost track of everything, I tell myself firmly. It had nothing to do with Adam.

Adam?
His name catches me by surprise. Why did he just pop into my head? What's he got to do with anything?