You're the One That I Don't Want

  ‘No, Chinatown,’ she says matter-of-factly. ‘They sell everything there.’ Standing back, she looks me up and down appraisingly.

  ‘How do I look?’ I ask, angling my body into the mirror above my dressing table. I can see my torso and not much else.

  ‘You look perfect,’ she says, her face splitting into the whitest, toothiest smile. ‘Just perfect.’

  ‘Not too dressy?’

  ‘Lucy, he’s taking you to one of the best restaurants in Manhattan!’

  ‘Argh, don’t!’ I feel a beat of excitement and alarm. Nate had texted me the name of the restaurant earlier, and when I’d told Robyn, she’d just looked at me agog and whispered, ‘Oh wow, Lucy,’ over and over until I begged her to stop as she was making me nervous.

  ‘What time is the reservation?’

  ‘Um . . .’ Picking up my mobile, I scroll through the texts. Nate sent me dozens today, every one of which has been duly read and analysed by Robyn to much approval. ‘Nine thirty,’ I say, finally finding the right one.

  ‘But it’s twenty past now,’ says Robyn glancing at my alarm clock.

  ‘What?’ I shoot a panicked look at the same clock. ‘It can’t be.’

  I watch the digital numbers flick to nine twenty-one.

  ‘Shit, I’m going to be late!’

  ‘You’ll be fine. Jump in a cab,’ she says calmly.

  ‘I can’t. I’m broke. I’m still trying to pay off that Visa bill.’ Scrambling around, I grab my bag.

  ‘Lucy! This is your destiny!’ she gasps. ‘You can’t make it wait while you catch the freaking subway.’

  Actually, put like that . . .

  ‘Here’s twenty bucks for the fare,’ she says, digging a bill out of her little embroidered purse. ‘And I’m not going to take no for an answer.’

  I give her a grateful hug. ‘Thanks. What would I do without you?’

  ‘I have no idea. Now, go have fun,’ she calls after me, as I dash out of the bedroom.

  Then dash back in again. ‘I forgot my shoes,’ I explain breathlessly. Snatching up my favourite pair of heels, I run barefoot out of the apartment, down the stairs and on to the street to hail a cab.

  Chapter Eleven

  According to my New York tourist guide, there are thirteen thousand registered yellow taxi-cabs in Manhattan. In addition there’s all those other private-hire vehicles, and limos and black cars – I’m not sure exactly how many – but it’s a lot. Which means that basically there’s literally tens of thousands of taxis prowling the city.

  And yet I can’t bloody find one of them!

  Fifteen minutes later I’m still standing on the pavement. Waiting. OK, don’t panic, there must be a cab somewhere, there just must be, I tell myself, waving desperately at every passing vehicle in the hope that one of them might be a cab.

  Oh look, one’s stopping! Finally! Brilliant!

  I feel a jolt of relief, swiftly followed by something else.

  Er, actually, no, it’s not brilliant. It’s not a cab at all. It’s some creepy man in a car. And now he’s making a rude gesture.

  Urgh . . . Jumping away from the kerb, I march quickly in the other direction – not so easy in three-inch heels – and continue scanning the traffic for a yellow light. But nothing. The knot in my stomach tightens a notch. Shit. I’m going to be late. Like really late. Like my romantic-dinner-with-Nate-is-going-to-be-ruined late.

  No sooner has the thought popped into my head than I see a flash of yellow.

  Hang on a minute, is that . . .?

  Out of nowhere a cab appears and swerves up beside me. Oh my God, where did that just come from? For a moment I stare frozen in astonishment as it drops off its passengers next to me on the kerbside and flicks on its light. I mean, how can that be? One minute it wasn’t here and then the next . . .

  Lucy, for God’s sake, just get in.

  ‘East Fifty-Seventh Street, please,’ I say to the driver, jumping inside. Gosh, listen to me – I sound like a proper New Yorker. Then smiling happily to myself, I can’t resist adding, ‘And step on it.’

  Robyn is right – it’s super swanky.

  Arriving uptown at the restaurant, the uniformed maître d’ leads me through the intimate dining room, with its subdued lighting and murmur of chinking cutlery, to a candlelit table tucked away in the corner. And Nathaniel, looking immaculate in his dark grey suit.

  He’s chatting to someone on his iPhone. He sees me and smiles.

  My stomach flips right over like a pancake.

  ‘Sorry, Joe, can I call you back?’ Then without missing a beat he says approvingly to me, ‘Wow, you look amazing.’

  ‘Thanks.’ I smile, my anxieties about what to wear melting away. I don’t know why I was so nervous. Nate’s seen me in his boxer shorts and a sweatshirt, my hair scraped back and not a scrap of make-up. Admittedly it was ten years ago, but still. ‘Sorry I’m late.’

  ‘I’m glad to see nothing’s changed,’ he says, standing up and giving me a kiss.

  I feel a tug of longing. Yup, he’s right. Nothing’s changed.

  ‘So how was your day?’

  Broken from my lustful reverie, I see the waiter pulling out my chair for me. ‘Oh, you know,’ I say, sitting down.

  ‘Busy? Me too.’ Nate nods consolingly, though that’s not exactly what I meant. To be truthful, it all passed in a blur of butterflies and anticipation of this evening. ‘We were filming all day in the studio. It was pretty exhausting.’

  ‘What were you filming?’ Knowing Nate, it’s most likely some drama or documentary about history or politics, which is what he majored in at Harvard.

  ‘A game show.’

  ‘A game show?’ I feel a snap of surprise, followed by something that feels like a tiny beat of disappointment. Which is ridiculous. I mean, there’s nothing wrong with game shows. My parents watch them all the time.

  ‘I know what you’re thinking – what is Nate doing producing game shows? – but in terms of viewing figures . . .’

  ‘No, not at all,’ I protest quickly. ‘I love game shows!’

  So OK, that’s a bit of a fib. I can’t remember the last time I watched a game show. I think it was probably last Christmas at Mum and Dad’s, when we watched Who Wants to Be a Millionaire? Kate was there too and she did her usual trick of answering all the questions before the contestant and getting them all correct. Me? I needed to phone a friend on the first one.

  ‘Really?’ Nate looks pleased. ‘Which one is your favourite?’

  Shit.

  ‘Um . . . gosh, there are so many,’ I say vaguely. ‘It’s hard to choose.’

  ‘You never could make a decision,’ he says with a smile, and reaches for my hand across the table. ‘Remember Italy and the ice cream?’

  His warm fingers wrap around mine and I feel a warm fuzziness.

  ‘Well, there were so many flavours and they were all so delicious,’ I protest, thinking about how I used to make him wait for me as I tasted a scoop of every single flavour. Meanwhile he chose vanilla every time. ‘Saying that, the best ice cream I’ve ever tasted wasn’t in Italy. It was in Paris, at this tiny little café up by the Sacré-Coeur.’

  ‘When were you in Paris?’

  ‘Last New Year’s Eve.’

  ‘Hey, so was I!’

  ‘No way!’

  We look at each other.

  ‘Oh my God, what a coincidence. Did you watch the fireworks?’

  ‘Over the Eiffel Tower, yeah.’ He’s nodding, his face breaking into a smile. ‘They were pretty incredible, weren’t they?’

  ‘The bit where all the rockets shot out from the sides . . .’

  ‘ . . . and then the whole tower exploded at the stroke of midnight,’ he finishes, and then we just stare at each other in disbelief.

  ‘You were there,’ he says after a moment.

  ‘So were you,’ I murmur.

  My stomach flutters as my mind flicks back. To think that we were so close, that we were in the same cit
y at the same time, watching the same fireworks burst into the same patch of sky – we just didn’t know it.

  ‘Wow, that’s insane,’ says Nate, grinning. ‘You and me, both in Paris last year for New Year’s Eve. What a total fluke.’ He laughs at the absurdity.

  ‘I know,’ I agree, and ignoring my fluttering stomach, I laugh too. ‘What a total fluke.’

  After a few moments the waiter comes to take our order. Everything on the menu sounds delicious, though there are a couple of things that I’ve never heard of and I have to get the waiter to explain. I’m not used to eating in this kind of restaurant. Compared to my local Italian back home in London, with its red-and-white checked tablecloths and waltzy background music, this is a different world.

  I try hard not to be fazed and plump for the wild mushroom pasta, whereas Nate opts for the fish and a green salad. ‘And a bottle of champagne,’ he says, shooting me a smile across the table.

  My insides do a loop-the-loop. I swear at this rate they could rival the Red Arrows.

  ‘What are we celebrating?’ I whisper, as the waiter disappears.

  ‘My decision to walk into a gallery.’ He smiles and then looks at me thoughtfully, as if there’s a lot of stuff going on inside his head. ‘I wasn’t going to, but if I hadn’t . . .’

  ‘So what made you?’

  ‘I dunno.’ He shrugs. ‘It was totally random. I’m never usually in that part of town, but I was on my way to a business lunch and had five minutes to kill, so I was just walking around. In fact, I nearly walked right past it, but then . . .’

  ‘Then what?’ I ask, interested.

  ‘I’m not sure.’ He crinkles his brow. ‘I suddenly had this desire to go inside. It was really weird.’ He shakes his head dismissively, then laughs. ‘Trust me, I don’t normally go around buying expensive art on my lunch break. It’s usually just a salad.’

  I laugh, and at that moment the waiter reappears with the bottle of champagne, which he duly opens with a deft flick of his wrist and pours into two glass flutes.

  ‘Here’s to Venice,’ Nate says, passing me a glass.

  ‘To the gallery.’

  ‘To us,’ he adds quietly, holding my gaze as he clinks his glass against mine.

  A tingle runs all the way up my spine, and I take a sip, savouring the sensation of the cold bubbles fizzing on my tongue.

  I feel as if I’m in a dream, as if I’m going to pinch myself and wake up back in my old life. Instead of here with Nate, in some fabulously posh restaurant, sipping champagne and making eyes at each other across the table.

  Suddenly we’re interrupted by his iPhone ringing. He glances at the screen, then frowns. ‘Sorry, Lucy, but do you mind if I take this call? It’s work.’

  ‘No, it’s fine, go ahead,’ I say happily.

  He throws me a grateful smile, then picks up. ‘Hi, John. So, as we discussed earlier, depending on the pilot, I would see this as a straight-to-network show and I’d be very happy to ensure that Regis takes a consulting, executive producer role and credit . . .’

  As he starts talking business, I take another sip of champagne and glance around the restaurant. It’s a well-heeled crowd. Mostly couples, and mostly older, the women all look the same, with their Hamptons tans and professional blow-dries, whereas the men are all salt-and-pepper hair and bespoke suits. Though there’s a couple over there who look quite funky, I notice, spotting an unshaven man in the corner wearing a pair of dark sunglasses.

  I give a little snort of derision. Honestly, who wears sunglasses inside a restaurant? Who does he think he is? Bono?

  Absently I watch as he moves slightly to the side and I get a better look at him.

  Oh my God, it is Bono.

  I feel a sudden thrill. I can’t believe it. A famous person, eating dinner in the same restaurant as me! See, this is what’s so fantastic about coming to swanky restaurants in Manhattan. This wouldn’t happen in my local Italian back in Earl’s Court.

  ‘OK, cc me in on the email and I’ll call you tomorrow. Thanks, John.’ Hanging up, Nate turns back to me. ‘Hey, sorry about that.’

  ‘Oh, it’s OK.’ I smile, then lean across the table and whisper, ‘Guess what, Bono’s sitting behind you!’

  I’m expecting Nate to look excited and try to sneak a peek, but instead he just sort of shrugs disinterestedly and says, ‘Oh, really?’ and reaches for his champagne.

  ‘Yes, I’m pretty certain it’s him.’ I nod, shooting another covert glance over his shoulder. ‘I mean, he looks exactly the same.’

  ‘Are you a big U2 fan?’

  ‘Well, not really, but I saw them in concert once and they were amazing.’

  ‘Yeah, me too. A friend of mine won tickets to the last gig of their three-night run in Dublin and took me along. It was a few years back now.’

  ‘June 2005. The Vertigo tour,’ I finish before I can stop myself.

  ‘Wow, you are a fan!’ he laughs.

  I stare at him in astonishment. ‘I was there.’

  ‘’Scuse me?’ He looks at me as if he’s misheard.

  ‘My boyfriend took me to the same concert. Well, he wasn’t really my boyfriend,’ I add hastily. ‘We just went on a few dates and—’

  ‘You’re kidding!’

  ‘No, really, we were totally mismatched. He was into going to festivals and taking hallucinogens. OK, so I ate hash cookies once, but that’s only because I thought they were real cookies—’

  ‘I’m talking about the concert,’ interrupts Nate, and I blush.

  ‘Oh, right, I know.’ I shake my head in disbelief. First New Year’s Eve in Paris and now this . . . It’s almost as if we’ve been meant to meet again. As if all these years we’ve been circumnavigating the globe, going to the same places at the same time, but we just kept missing each other.

  Until now.

  ‘Anyone would think you’ve been following me,’ he says, breaking into my thoughts, grinning.

  ‘Or you’ve been following me,’ I protest indignantly. Goodness, I’m getting as bad as Robyn. Of course it’s just a coincidence. There must have been thousands of people at that concert.

  ‘By the way, that’s not Bono,’ he confides, his eyes flashing with amusement.

  ‘It’s not? How can you tell?’ I look over to see he’s standing up, ready to leave. I get a jolt of surprise. Oh my God, the man is a giant. Seriously, he must be about seven foot tall. I feel a flash of embarrassment. ‘Well, the resemblance was very striking,’ I say in explanation.

  ‘I suppose you think that’s Madonna sitting in the corner over there too,’ he teases.

  ‘And next to her are Posh and Becks,’ I giggle loudly.

  ‘Ssh.’ He frowns slightly and gestures with his hand for me to keep my voice down. ‘A little less on the volume.’

  ‘Oh, sorry.’ My giggles immediately disappear and I feel a bit awkward. As if I’ve just been told off. Still, I suppose I can get a bit loud and silly when I’m tipsy, and this champagne has gone straight to my head. That always happens when I drink on an empty stomach, I muse, feeling a flash of relief as the waiter arrives with our food.

  ‘Mmm, this is heavenly,’ I say, tasting a delicious mouthful of pasta. ‘Do you want to try some?’

  ‘No, thanks. I’m trying to stay off the carbs,’ says Nate, making a start on his green salad.

  ‘So you can’t eat pasta?’ I ask, momentarily trying to imagine life without macaroni cheese and failing.

  ‘Or potatoes or bread.’ He nods, spearing a lettuce leaf. ‘And pretty much any baked goods.’

  ‘So no biscuits?’ I squeak.

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t be eating cookies, anyway. They’re full of refined sugar.’

  ‘Right, yeah.’ I nod, trying not to think about all the packets of Hobnobs I’ve devoured over my lifetime. ‘Absolutely.’

  ‘When I think about what we used to eat when we were in Italy.’ He rolls his eyes and shakes his head. ‘All that pizza and ice cream. I mean, can you imagine eat
ing that now?’

  I don’t have to imagine – it’s pretty much all Robyn and I do eat. Our apartment is strewn with Domino’s takeaway boxes and empty cartons of Ben & Jerry’s. I feel a beat of alarm. What if Nate wants to come back to mine?

  ‘God, no,’ I say, and giving a little shudder, I make a mental note to nip to the loos to text Robyn and tell her to get rid of the evidence. Just in case.

  ‘Since living in LA, I’ve adopted a much healthier lifestyle,’ he continues, putting down his fork and leaning across the table towards me. ‘I go hiking in the canyons. I run along the beach . . .’

  Slow-motion footage of a muscular Nate running along the beach, suddenly springs into my mind and I feel a lustful twinge.

  ‘What kind of stuff do you like doing?’

  ‘Me?’ I suddenly return from my daydream to see him looking at me expectantly.

  ‘Yeah, to keep fit.’ He smiles.

  Nothing. Absolutely nothing.

  Shit. Think of something quick. I don’t want to look like I’m some kind of slob who sits on the sofa every night watching Oprah and eating biscuits. Well, not every night.

  ‘Oh . . . um . . . I love rollerblading . . .’

  OK, so ‘love’ is rather a strong word. I went once in Hyde Park and didn’t know how to stop. I ended up crashing into a group of French tourists. Not good for Anglo-French relations.

  ‘ . . . and yoga.’

  I’ve been once, maybe twice, but still, I love the idea of doing yoga. All that nag champa incense and a bendy pretzel body like Gwyneth’s.

  ‘Wow, really? Me too,’ says Nate, looking pleased. ‘We should do a yoga class together.’

  Oh crap.

  ‘Well, I’m not very good,’ I say hastily. In fact, if the truth be told, the last time I went to yoga, I nearly put my back out trying to touch my toes.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can help you. I studied with a great teacher in LA,’ he says, reaching across the table for my hand and giving me a smile that makes me feel all funny behind the knees. ‘In fact, maybe we should have some private classes together, just you and me.’

  Instantly I can feel my reservations vanishing as I imagine Nate and me doing sun salutations together every morning, going out for fresh juice afterwards, wearing all that fabulous gear to show off our amazing yoga-honed bodies. My mind starts running off with itself . . . Just think, we could go on those weekend retreats, or we could go live on a beach in India and spend our days going, ‘Ommmmm.’