You're Not the One (9781101558959) (27 page)

“No, I've got things to do.”

“Like what?”

“Um . . . just things.” She looks guilty.

I eye her suspiciously. “Such as?”

“Such as planning for the future,” she says agitatedly. “It's important.”

“Oh, OK.” I nod. Wow, I didn't realize that Robyn is so sensible. “You mean like savings and pensions?”

“Yeah, something like that,” she says vaguely. “Anyway, what are you doing tonight?” she asks, deftly turning the subject back to me. Which again is a total giveaway. Robyn never, I repeat
never
wants to stop talking about herself.

“There's a new gallery opening not far from here. I thought I'd pop over after my workout.”

“Ooh, that sounds fun,” she enthuses.

“Are you sure you don't want to come with me?”

She immediately stiffens. “Um, no, I'm busy,” she says, avoiding my gaze. There's a sharp beep and she glances at the control pad of her exercise machine. “Oh look, I'm finished! Phew!” Her face flashes with relief as the machine starts slowing down. “I think I might hit the steam room now.” With wobbly legs she hastily climbs off the machine, tripping slightly. And this despite the fact she kept telling me earlier about how she'd climbed up to Machu Picchu, and “if you've hiked in that altitude for seven hours, everything else is a breeze.”

Yes. Quite. When the Incas built Machu Picchu, they'd obviously never been to Equilibrium.

“I'll meet you there,” I say, breathing heavily. “I just want to do a few extra minutes.” Which is a complete lie. I want to collapse on the sofa and eat ice cream, but the image of my stolen bottom is preventing me.

“OK, well, see you in a bit,” she says, and hurriedly grabbing her CD and tie-dyed towel, she staggers off. “Have fun.”

Fun?
This is supposed to be fun?

With my heart thudding in my chest like a jackhammer, I glare at the cross-trainer. I can think of many different words to describe my experience for the past twenty minutes, and “fun” isn't one of them. Torturous, agonizing, boring, please make it stop. Oh, no, that last one's four, isn't it?

Wiping away the beads of sweat that are beginning to trickle down my face, I grip the handles and ignore the fact that my chest feels as if it's about to explode. This is good for me, I tell myself firmly. It's healthy.

I glance at my reflection in the mirror opposite. I have a sweat helmet. My face is puce. My eyeballs are bloodshot and look as if they are about to burst from their sockets, like something out of a bad zombie movie. I don't think I've ever looked more unhealthy. Or more unattractive.

Thank God no one in here knows me, I think with a flash of relief. At least that's one good thing about being new in town. You're totally anonymous; you're not going to bump into someone you know.

No sooner has the thought fired through my brain than in the mirror I see someone climb onto the treadmill next to me. My stomach drops. Literally plummets, as if someone's just chucked me out of an airplane. Without a parachute.

Oh God, no. Please, no. It can't be.

But it is.

Nate
.

For a moment I think I'm seeing things. It's impossible. There's unlucky and there's
unlucky
. Stunned, I stare at him in his shorts and tank, my brain not really computing. Is someone playing a trick on me? Am I on
Candid Camera
? I glance around quickly, then realize what I'm doing and pull myself together. It's just a coincidence, remember? Unfortunate, admittedly, but still a coincidence.

Pretending I haven't seen him, I surreptitiously reduce the speed on my machine. With any luck I can sneak out and make my escape before he sees me.

Out of the corner of my eye I can see him limbering up, stretching out his calf muscles, flexing his arms, bending sideways, back and forward.

Oh, for God's sake, just get on with it. Show-off!

Then, unexpectedly, I feel a kick of stubbornness. Hang on a minute, why should I leave? I was here first! I've got as much right to be here as he has! This is followed by a swell of competitiveness. Right, I'll show him.

Straightening up, I stick out my chest and start striding breezily, my feet bounding on the pedals as if I'm talking a walk in the park, and isn't it wonderful? Next to me I can hear the machine starting up and feet pounding. I try not to look. I keep staring straight ahead, but that's even worse, as he's right in front of me, reflected in the mirror.

And there I am, right in front of him
.

As he catches sight of me, a look of shock flashes over his face, but he quickly recovers. “Wow, fancy seeing you here,” he says tightly, in a way that says there's no fancy about it.

“You too,” I say curtly, still striding out.

I feel like we're speaking in breakup language. There should be a phrase book,
Learn Breakup
, in which common phrases could be translated from English. For example, in breakup a phrase like “Fancy seeing you here” would be “What the fuck are you doing here?” Then “See you around” would be “Over my dead body.” A simple word like “Hi” would be “Fuck, fuck, fuck!” It would make things so much easier. You'd be speaking breakup in no time!

“So, I didn't know you were a member of this gym,” he says casually.

Also translated as “What the fuck are you doing here?”

As you can see, in breakup many of the common phrases mean the same thing. It's a bit like Eskimos have a million different words for “snow.” In breakup we have a million different words that all mean “fuck.”

“I'm just trying it out,” I say, aiming to sound nonchalant. “Seeing if it's up to my . . . er . . . usual standard.” I promptly jab a few buttons on the control pad in front as if I know exactly how it works. “What are you doing here? I thought you had your own machine.”

Translated: “Bugger off! I look like a big sweaty lump, I haven't got a clue what I'm doing on this dratted machine, which is now making a weird vibrating noise, and the last person on earth I want to see is you.”

“I like to mix it up,” he says.

“Oh, right, yeah, mix it up.” I nod, as if I'm always mixing things up.

There's a pause, and then: “Look, about the other day, I said a few things I shouldn't have. . . .” He trails off and his eyes sweep to my thighs.

I feel a stab of mortification. “Yes, well, we both did,” I say hastily. I stare determinedly ahead, but out of the corner of my eye I can't help noticing he's barely breaking a sweat, while I'm starting to look like a contestant in a wet T-shirt competition.

Taking a swig from my water bottle, I try to concentrate on my breathing—I remember reading an article about that once, though I'm not exactly sure what I'm supposed to be concentrating on. I mean, it's just in and then out, isn't it?

He's getting faster now, but I keep pace. See? I can do it. Though my legs are beginning to feel a bit like jelly. Did my knees just wobble? Oh shit, and now my machine seems to be starting to incline. Bollocks, what's going on? I glance down at my controls, trying to figure it out, then give up. It's too complicated. You'd have to be in Mensa to figure out all those buttons.

I can't believe it! Now he's sped up! Glancing up, I see Nate is springing along next to me at an alarming rate.

I take my eye off the ball for two seconds; infuriated, I jab at the arrow marked “Up.” Aha! Take that! I start striding harder—forward, back, forward, back—and swinging my arms. Only the funny thing is, the machine doesn't seem to be getting any faster, just sort of
higher
. Flustered, I jab more buttons. I'm not going to let Nate win. I'm determined !

Sweat is now pouring down my face in rivulets, but I forge ahead. I'm picking up pace. I'm getting faster and faster. My feet are pumping furiously on the pedals. My heart is thumping in my chest. Next to me I can see Nate bounding along rhythmically. It's like a face-off, a duel. I glance at his controls.

I jab at mine. Up, up, up . . .

Suddenly I'm aware that my machine has started making a loud whining noise. Hang on a minute. Alarm bells . . . now it's going really fast . . . like, really,
really
fast, like, about ninety miles an hour. Oh God, and it's still getting higher and higher. I feel a stab of panic—how do I make it slow down? How do I make it stop?

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my—

“W
ell, it's not broken.”

An hour later I've left the gym and am en route to the gallery I wanted to visit, my phone wedged underneath my chin, my ankle twinging painfully. I'm talking to my sister, who called to see how my workout went. “Oh, it certainly went,” I replied, limping out of the shower with an ankle the size of a watermelon. “It nearly went all the way to the emergency room.”

“Lucy, do you have to be so clumsy?” she's saying now, having spent the past fifteen minutes listening to how I went flying off the cross-trainer, landed in a tangled mess by the rowing machine, and had to be helped into the changing rooms by a very sweet personal trainer called Rudy, who advised against “trying to run before you can walk when it comes to fitness.”

The word “embarrassing” doesn't even come close to describing this situation.

“I'm not clumsy,” I refute hotly, pausing to check my pop-up map before continuing down a busy side street. “It was Nate's fault.”

“Nate? What's it got to do with him?”

Up until this moment I've avoided mentioning his involvement in my humiliating debacle. Partly because I'm feeling sorry for myself and want some sympathy from my big sister—which is akin to being a contestant on
American Idol
and hoping Simon Cowell might take pity on you—and partly because I haven't got round to that bit.

“Well, you're never going to believe it,” I gasp, “but he was on the machine next to me at the gym. God, it was so embarrassing. He even tried apologizing—”

“See! I told you!” She cuts me off, sounding triumphant. “He's trying to make amends and find a way to get back with you!”

Oh God, she's still banging on about that. “No way!” I refute her argument, wincing as another pain shoots through my ankle. “He looked as horrified to see me as I was to see him.” I pause to rub it. “How would he know I was at the gym, anyway?”

“He heard you talking about it in the sushi restaurant,” she fires back without missing a beat. “It's perfectly viable.”

Now I know why my sister is such a successful lawyer.

“Viable, yes. Realistic, no. Trust me when I tell you that Nate did not look like a man who wants to get back together.”

“Well, what other explanation do you have?”

I pause, my mind momentarily throwing up something Robyn said about the legend.

“Sorry, Luce, I've got a call on the other line,” Kate suddenly says. “It's the CEO. Speak later.” And before I can say anything, she promptly hangs up.

Five minutes later I arrive at the address of the gallery to discover a hive of activity. Swarms of people gather outside on the tree-lined street, and the balmy air is filled with the sounds of laughter, chatter, and the clinking of glasses. It's a sleek, expensive crowd, but then this is a sleek, expensive gallery.

Located in Chelsea, along with all the major blue-ribbon galleries, what used to be a garage is now this huge, lofty space that is home to big names like Damien Hirst and is famous for exhibiting large-scale installations.

Basically it makes Number Thirty-Eight look like my sitting room, I muse, making my way through the perfumed crowd and stepping inside to see huge white spaces. Huge, impressive pieces of art. Huge price tags. Glancing in my catalogue at the price of one particular painting, I do a double take at the number of zeros at the end. Nope, that's not a typo.

Tonight's opening is a showcase for a new rising star that I read about in one of the press releases we received at work; I was curious to come along. The artist is just a few years older than I am. I know because I did that thing I always do when I read about an artist: I check the date of birth. It's silly, but if the artist is older, it somehow gives me comfort that I still have time.

Time for what? To have my own exhibition?

I bring myself up sharply. Even now it's as if there's a tiny, secret part of me that's still clinging to that dream. As if I can't fully let go.

I start making my way around the gallery. That's one of the great perks of my job: I get to hear about all the shows and can usually bag an invite. Well, it was Magda who bagged me the invite, along with one for herself, but she wasn't able to come. She had to pay a visit to her elderly aunt, who recently moved into a nursing home.