You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

  “On a Saturday?”

  “TV never stops,” he grunts, tightening his grip on the handles and pumping his arms harder. “It’s twenty-four-seven.”

  I watch the ramp getting steeper and steeper as he keeps striding.

  “Anyway, I better get back.” He gestures to his earpiece.

  “Oh, right, yeah, of course.” I nod. “I’ll go make some . . .” I’m about to say “coffee,” as it’s such a force of habit, then I remember that Nate doesn’t drink it. “Juice,” I finish.

  “Great. There’s some celery in the fridge.” Breathlessly he breaks off to wipe his face with a towel. “I think there might be some beets too.”

  “Fab.” I grin.

  Celery? Beets?

  With my smile still fixed to my face, I leave him huffing and puffing and pad into the kitchen, then pause as the enormity of what I’ve suggested sinks in: Me. In a kitchen. Using one of these gadgets.

  As I glance around at all the scary-looking pieces of equipment lined up on the counter, my confidence deserts me. They look like evil torture devices. They are evil torture devices, I muse, remembering the one and only time I tried to use an electric can opener. It was like something out of The Texas Chainsaw Massacre. Trust me, I still have the scar on my thumb to prove it.

  It takes a few minutes to locate the juicer. To be truthful, I’m not sure how I could miss it with a name like Hercules. It’s a big silver monster of a thing and for a few moments I eye it warily, then screw up my courage. OK, so it looks scary and complicated, but how hard can it be? I’m making juice, for God’s sake. Rolling up the sleeves of my robe, I tug open the fridge and grab the celery and beetroot.

  I mean, come on, it’s hardly rocket science.

  Ten minutes later I am deeply regretting that statement.

  I’ve dismantled the machine, there are bits of it everywhere, and it’s still not working. I look at it lying dismembered on the countertop next to some wilted organic celery and a misshapen beetroot. Seriously, I would have more chance of building a rocket than making juice. For example, what’s this bit? Picking up a piece of the machine, I peer at it curiously. It’s like a cog with a wiggly bit on the end. I pick up another bit. This piece is sort of round with a hole in it. I stare at them both blankly. Now I know why I flunked physics.

  However, there is hope. Flicking through the instruction manual, which I managed to locate in a drawer, I turn to Chapter One: Getting Started. See, it’s not all bad, I tell myself brightly. I’ve got the instructions: “1) Take the mesh strainer (part A) and attach it to the pulp extractor (part B), making sure the safety-locking clip (part C) is attached and the extra-large feed chute (part D) is in position.”

  And I thought putting together cabinets from IKEA was difficult.

  “Hey, how are you getting along?” Nate yells from the living room, and I stiffen.

  “Great,” I yell back, wishing I could do what they used to do on The Martha Stewart Show and produce one I made earlier. “Coming right up.”

  Fuck.

  Frantically grabbing at different parts, I manage to stuff Hercules back together and I grab the celery and beetroot. It says to “feed them in one by one,” but I don’t have time for that and so I stuff the whole lot in together, then switch it on.

  At exactly the moment I’m flicking the switch I spy another piece of the machine lurking by the side of the toaster. Oh, what does that bit do?

  Argh. Suddenly that question is answered as I’m sprayed with bits of celery and beetroot. Juice starts squirting everywhere, all over the countertops, all over me, all over everything. I dive on the machine, trying to switch it off. Only I can’t even see where the switch is, as now I’ve got beetroot juice in my eyes, and the machine is making a loud grinding noise, and it’s shuddering, and I’m getting soaked, and—

  “Jesus!”

  Abruptly the machine falls silent and I twirl round to see Nate. Standing in the middle of the kitchen, he’s holding the cord, his face aghast.

  “It looks like a bloodbath in here!”

  Dazedly I take in the sight. It’s like something from a horror film. Everywhere I look the walls are dripping with red liquid. It’s sprayed over the countertops, the stainless-steel fridge, the cooker, the utensils . . . and then there’s the celery pulp. Green clumps of it, flecks of it, little bits of it, all over his lovely, pristine kitchen. And all over me.

  “What the hell happened?”

  “Um . . . I-I was having a spot of trouble with the j-juicer,” I stammer in shock. Mortified, I start trying to wipe the splatters of pulp from my face with the sleeve of my robe.

  “No kidding.” Grabbing a few sheets of paper towels, he passes them to me.

  “There was this piece missing.”

  “You mean the lid?”

  The tone of his voice makes me bristle slightly.

  “Gosh, look, I’m so sorry. I’ll clear it all.” Grabbing a dishcloth, I start frantically trying to clean up.

  “It’s probably going to ruin the marble countertop.”

  “Oh God, I’m so sorry, really.”

  “Marble’s porous, you know.”

  “Is it? Oh crap.” I wipe faster. “Though it’s a bit silly to make a work surface out of it, then, isn’t it?” I can’t help noting aloud as an afterthought.

  “Well, they don’t expect you to drown it in beet juice,” he retorts.

  “I know. I’m sorry. It was just a total accident.” And I’ve apologized three times, I feel like adding.

  There’s a pause and then he sighs. “Hey, don’t worry about it. I suppose it’s not a big deal.” Picking his way through the debris, he tugs open the fridge and reaches for a bottle of Evian. “I’d just forgotten how clumsy you are.”

  Abruptly I feel myself prickle. OK, I admit I’m not the most coordinated of people, but still. “What’s that supposed to mean?” I reply stiffly, pausing from wiping the countertop.

  “In Italy don’t you remember you were always tripping?”

  “Have you ever attempted walking in high heels on cobbles?” I reply, trying not to sound defensive, and sounding defensive.

  “Or breaking things.”

  I look at him in disbelief. “You’re never going to let me forget that vase, are you?”

  “It was expensive. It was Murano glass.”

  “I didn’t mean to drop it,” I gasp. “It was all that spider’s fault. It just appeared from nowhere and it was huge, with those big, hairy black legs.” I give a little shudder. “Anyway, I bought you another vase.”

  “True.” He nods. “But they were all individually handblown. No two were alike.”

  “I can’t believe you’re still holding this against me. It was ten years ago.”

  “I’m just saying.” He shrugs, unscrewing the bottle of Evian and taking a swig.

  I look at him leaning up against the fridge, casually glugging back water while I’m standing here soaked in beetroot juice and covered in sticky bits of celery pulp, scrubbing down his kitchen, and feel a stab of annoyance. Actually, it’s more than a stab—it’s a great big dollop of fury.

  “Well, don’t,” I snap.

  He stops drinking and glances at me sharply. “This mess isn’t my fault.”

  “No, it’s mine. I know, I’m clumsy.” Turning away, I continue furiously wiping the countertop.

  “Well, if you were a bit more careful,” he retorts.

  “If you bought juice in a carton like a normal person,” I say hotly.

  He scowls. “Oh, so I’m being blamed now.”

  “No, you’re just being patronizing.”

  There’s silence as Nate and I stare at each other angrily.

  “OK, well, I’m going to jump in the shower,” he says gruffly after a pause. “I’ve got work to do today.”

  It’s like a boxer’s jab. It’s the weekend. We made plans to spend it together.

  I reel slightly, then quickly recover. “Yeah, I’m busy too,” I say stiffly. “I
’ll just finish clearing up and then I’ll go.” Then before he can say anything else, I turn away sharply and start scrubbing the sink.

  Chapter Fourteen

  OK, so we’ve just had our first row.

  But that’s fine. All couples have them. It’s perfectly normal. In fact, it’s not a bad thing at all. It’s a good thing, I tell myself firmly. Arguing is healthy. It means we’re a proper couple. I once read in a magazine that it’s a really positive sign for the relationship.

  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 eyeb
rows, 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.