You're Not the One (9781101558959) (36 page)

In the end I take both, plus lots of other things that don't go together, and jump into the waiting cab and drive straight to the airport. As Manhattan whizzes by outside, I look at the rest of the travel documents. My return flight isn't until Friday morning. Friday?! That's ages.

Well, it's not really—it's only two days away—but it
feels
like ages because I'm not going to be able to see Adam until then.

Adam
.

As he pops into my head, I think about last night. Gosh, that was a close shave. For a moment there I thought I'd completely blown it because of Nate's stupid bloody boxer shorts, but thankfully I managed to rescue the situation. Though I'm not sure for how much longer. Feeling a beat of anxiety, I dig my phone out of my pocket and text Adam:

 

Thanx for last night.

 

I pause. I think about adding more, about what a lovely evening I had, how I'd like to see him again. I start texting, then stop. Argh, no, I can't put that. It looks far too keen, I decide, quickly deleting that bit. I stare at my phone, agonizing. Texting is so hard. It's as if every single word is loaded with all this meaning and then you've got the whole decision about whether or not to put a kiss at the end or not.

I look back at my text and add an
x
. Well, I don't want to appear unfriendly. And I do want to kiss him. Even if it's only in a text. Quickly I press Send before I can change my mind.

A few seconds later one beeps up from him.

I laugh to myself. By the speed of his response, he obviously didn't agonize over his text, I muse, hitting Reply.

Two seconds, then another text:

I feel a rush of delight.

I smile to myself and say 'bye, feeling more comforted. Perhaps it's actually a
good
thing I'm getting out of town for a few days, I reflect, looking at the positives. This way it will put some distance between me and Nate and I won't have to worry about bumping into him, or think about him. And I can concentrate on Adam.

Cheered by this thought, I turn and gaze out the window.

Hopefully by the time I get back on Friday, my relationship with Nate will just seem like a bad dream.

I arrive at JFK Airport and go straight to the JetBlue check-in desk, where I discover it's not a direct flight and I have to get a connection in Boston. But that's OK—Boston's only an hour away. I'll read my articles on Artsy, I decide, settling into my seat on the plane. Ooh, this is really nice: plush leather seat, comfy footrest, my own TV screen with lots of different channels. Ordering a glass of wine, I fasten my seat belt and settle back happily with my article. You know, I'm beginning to have a really good feeling about this trip.

The flight is so comfy I almost don't want it to end. I read my article, surf a few TV channels, and then before I know it we're landing in Boston and I'm wandering around the airport shops, killing time before my connecting flight. I love airports. There's something about them that makes me feel as if I've stepped into some parallel universe, where real life doesn't exist. All these people coming and going, the buzz of excitement, the sense of transience. It's as if nothing matters.

Like, for example, money, I muse, picking up an expensive moisturizer. Normally, in the real world, I would balk at the price, but somehow in Airport World ninety dollars is like Monopoly money. It doesn't seem to count, I reflect, cheerfully handing over my credit card. Ooh, and look at those cute little fridge magnets that say
Boston Red Sox
on them. Spying them by the register, I put a couple in my basket. I'm not exactly sure who the Boston Red Sox are, but Robyn might like those as souvenirs, as she's always sticking horoscopes, vegetarian recipes, and to-do lists all over the fridge. Speaking of souvenirs, what about that tea towel with the big red lobster on it for Mum?

I end up leaving the shop with two bulging carrier bags and am just wandering into another, which sells electronic gadgets (strangely I've never been even
slightly
interested in a vibrating neck massager or a sound machine to help you sleep, but here in Airport World they're fascinating), when I hear my name.

“Last call for Miss Hemmingway. Please make your way urgently to gate four B. Your flight is about to depart.”

And I look at my watch.

Fuck. Seeing the time, I feel my heart plummet. How did that happen? A whole hour and a half has suddenly vanished and now I'm late! I'm going to miss my flight!

Fuck, fuck, FUCK. Cursing under my breath, I charge through Departures, my carrier bags banging against my legs. Of course the gate has to be the farthest one away and by the time I get there I'm breathless and pouring with sweat.

“Miss Hemmingway?” A member of the ground crew in a fluorescent orange jacket is waiting for me. She has a walkie-talkie and a very cross-looking expression.

“Yes, that's me,” I pant. My heart is thumping against my rib cage and I feel as if I'm going to collapse.

“Hurry! The flight is about to depart,” she reprimands, snatching my boarding pass.

“I know, sorry—” I begin apologizing, but she quickly ushers me through the turnstile.

“The bus is waiting to take you to your plane.”

I glance out the glass doors at the little minibus. “Thanks,” I gasp, then pause. “Em . . . where's the plane, exactly?” I'm scanning the concourse for a jet like the one I just flew in on, but there's nothing, apart from a tiny little propeller thing.

“Right there,” she barks, as if I'm stupid, and points.

To the tiny little propeller thing
.

Still, now is not the time to feel nervous, I tell myself firmly, as I hurry onto the waiting minibus and it sets off swiftly across the concourse. The flight is only thirty minutes. How bad can it be? I'll be up and down before I even know it.

The propellers are already whirring loudly as I clamber up the metal stairs. Gosh, it's even tinier inside than it looks outside, I realize, getting to the top of the staircase and glancing in through the door to see only a handful of seats. And so noisy! Ducking down so I don't bang my head, I climb in through the doorway, where a flight attendant in a pair of headphones is waiting impatiently to grab my shopping bags from me and hurry me to the one remaining seat, before rushing back to close the door.

Flustered, I quickly sit down and fasten my seatbelt, just in the nick of time. I've barely had a second to catch my breath or take in my surroundings before the engines grow even louder and suddenly we're off, accelerating down the runway. I close my eyes tightly, listening to the propellers whirring, feeling the wheels juddering on the tarmac, and then the nose of the plane tips up and we're in the air, climbing steadily.

I feel a beat of relief. Great, the worst part is over.

“Would you care for a refreshment?”

I open my eyes to see the flight attendant, minus her earphones, standing next to me.

“Just some water, thanks.” I grab the in-flight magazine from the seat in front of me and start flicking through.

“And for you, sir?”

“Nothing for me,” he says gruffly.

I freeze mid-flick.
I know that voice
.

Up until now I've only been vaguely aware of a person in the seat next to me, as I haven't so much as glanced in that direction, but now every single cell in my body is on full alert and is plummeting downward as if I've just jumped out of a plane without a parachute. Actually, that's not a bad idea. At least that would be one way to finally escape.

Instead I continue staring at my magazine, willing it not to be true. Willing the person sitting next to me
not
to be the person who I know is sitting next to me. In fact, by not even thinking his name to myself, I can pretend it's not real. I'm hallucinating. Or having some kind of lucid dream, and any moment I'm going to wake up and find myself back in my apartment in New York, and not twenty-five thousand feet in the air, on a tiny nine-seater plane, sitting next to—

“You've got to be kidding me.
Lucy
.”

Bang
goes my lucid dream.

Having slunk lower and lower behind my magazine in an attempt to hide, I look up from behind its parapet. “Oh, hi, Nate,” I say, trying not to meet his eye, as if somehow I can still act like this is not really happening.

I mean, seriously.

THIS CANNOT REALLY BE HAPPENING.

But of course it is.

“Jesus, it is you!”

This flight is only thirty minutes. We must have done five already. Briefly I consider trying to ignore him for the next twenty-five.

“What on earth are you doing here?”

Only it's not that easy when he's sitting inches away, staring at me aghast, and is insistent on talking to me.

“Flying to Martha's Vineyard,” I deadpan, finally turning to face him. “How about you?”

He frowns. “That's not funny, Lucy.”

“Trust me, I know,” I agree. “Do you see me laughing?”

We both stare at each other. I've never actually seen Nate lost for words before, but now he genuinely seems at a loss for what to say or do. I know how he feels.

“There you go.” The flight attendant reappears with my water.

“Oh, thanks.” Grateful for the interruption, I take a large gulp and console myself that at least this will soon be over. And turning to gaze out the window, I stare at the sea of white clouds.

Twenty-five minutes and counting . . .

N
ate and I don't talk for the rest of the flight, and after touching down, we mutter our good-byes—“See you around,” “Yeah, you too,” while both fervently hoping that's not the case—and grabbing my bags, I go outside to get a taxi.

“Mermaid Inn, please,” I say to the driver, as I climb inside and roll down the window.

It's a lovely, warm evening and I turn my face to the sunshine. It's the magic hour. Everything is bathed in a honey-colored light, and after the frenzy of New York, the island feels quiet and sleepy. As if the pace of life has slowed down, I muse, as we drive down country lanes bordered by handcrafted stone walls and fields filled with wildflowers, past clapboard houses and quaint village stores that remind me of
The Waltons
.

According to the driver, I'm staying “up island,” which is the more remote side of the island and where Artsy has his studio. It's also much wilder, I decide, as we pass white windswept beaches with grassy bluffs and a lighthouse standing proud up on the cliff.

After thirty minutes we arrive at the small ramshackle fishing port of Menemsha—blink and you'd miss it—and the cab pulls into a gravel driveway. At the end is a pretty inn with a pitched roof, white-framed windows, and a wooden porch complete with a rocking chair on which is curled a big fat ginger tomcat, fast asleep.

As I pass him with my bags, I tickle his tummy and he stretches out like a draft stopper and yawns languorously.

“Welcome to Mermaid Inn.” A stout, ruddy-cheeked woman greets me with a huge smile when I walk into reception. “I'm Sylvia.”

“Hi. I'm Lucy Hemmingway. I'm checking in for two nights.”

“One moment, please.” She taps cheerfully at her computer. “Ah, yes, we've got you in the Shell Room. That's one of my favorites. It's just down the corridor in a separate annex. It has an uninterrupted view of the ocean.”

“Super.” I smile happily. Despite the shaky start, I'm really looking forward to my time here on the Vineyard. It really is like turning back the clock, I note, glancing around at the vast stone fireplace, the framed black-and-white photographs of fishing boats, the grandfather clock ticking quietly in the corner.

“Oh dear.”

I turn back to Sylvia. Her smile has slipped slightly.

“Is anything wrong?”

“Well . . .” She's still tapping at the computer keyboard. Only now she's not so much tapping cheerfully as jabbing frantically. “I'm afraid we have a slight problem.”

I get a twinge of apprehension. I don't like how she used the word “we.”

“Problem?”

“We seem to have double-booked the Shell Room.”

“Oh.” I feel a beat of disappointment. After her big sell on the room I was looking forward to staying in it. Still, I suppose it doesn't matter; I'm only here for two nights. “Well, never mind. I'm sure all your rooms are lovely,” I say placatingly. “What else is available?”