You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

  I feel a clutch of nerves. God, this is seriously posh. Nervously climbing out of the truck, I tug down my skirt and quickly smooth my hair, which has gone all poufy in the heat.

  That’s another difference between my sister and me. Whereas Kate has thick, straight blonde hair, mine’s fine and brown. I swear I have the most boring hair color in the world. I’ll never forget the first time I dyed it. I matched it up against a color chart in Boots, the ones with the little locks of hair to compare against, and guess what? It wasn’t even chestnut brown or dark brown; it was “normal brown.” Can there be a more dispiriting description?

  Hence I’ve colored it my entire life. I’ve been butterscotch, cinnamon, jet, and all the colors in between, including a dodgy period in my mid-twenties when I thought I’d try something different and dyed it bubblegum pink. I’m currently a very sensible and mature chestnut.

  “Good afternoon. You’re from the gallery?”

  I turn to see the doorman. Wearing a dark green uniform, complete with peaked cap and white gloves, he nods briskly.

  “Hi, yes,” I say, trying to cover up my nerves. “Lucy Hemmingway . . . um . . . senior coordinator.”

  I just made that up. I don’t actually have a title.

  “I’m here to oversee the delivery and installation of a collection of artwork.” I want to appear super professional. Like someone who’s completely in control of every situation. Someone who’s efficient, organized, and, well, basically like my sister.

  I do not—repeat not—want to appear like someone whose approach to problem-solving is ignoring something and hoping it goes away, who writes lists only to lose them and once hit Reply All to a friend’s birthday Evite and asked if she was still having sex with her ex.

  “Ah, yes.” The doorman nods gravely. “I’ve been given instructions to expect you.” Pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose, he flicks his eyes to the paintings, which are being unloaded onto a cart by Mikey. “I’m to take you up to the penthouse.”

  My stomach gives a little flutter. It’s that penthouse thing again.

  “If you’d care to follow me.”

  With Mikey in charge of pushing the cart, I dutifully follow the doorman through the entrance to a large marble lobby, complete with trickling water feature, button-back leather sofas, and oversize vases filled with the kind of exotic flower arrangements that you know cost an absolute fortune.

  “The elevator is straight ahead.”

  I’m trying to appear completely nonchalant and unimpressed, but my head is swiveling from side to side like a barn owl’s. It’s a bit different from my lobby, with its obstacle course of bikes, strollers, and piles of mail to negotiate. And that’s before you even begin to climb the three flights of stairs to our apartment. Stairs, by the way, that are so steep they make the ones up the sides of the Mayan pyramids at Chichén Itzá, in Mexico, seem like a walk in the park.

  “Whoa, fancy,” Mikey says, whistling from behind the cart. “You must have some celebrities living here, right?”

  “I’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that kind of information,” replies the doorman stiffly.

  Mikey throws me a look and mouths, “Madonna.”

  I break into a grin, despite myself, and stifle a giggle.

  Ahead of us, I notice a lift, the doors of which are just about to close. “Oh look,” I say, gesturing to it, “just in time.” I make a mad dash toward it, but the doorman stops me.

  “The penthouse has its own private elevator.”

  “It does?”

  He turns the corner, where another lift is waiting for us.

  Crikey. There’s posh and then there’s posh. Maybe Mikey’s right. Maybe Madonna does live here.

  Buzzing with anticipation, I step into the lift. It’s quite tight inside and we have to shuffle up against each other as the door slides closed. The doorman presses the button with a ceremonious stab of his white-gloved finger and we start traveling upward, climbing steadily higher and higher. I feel my stomach drop as we gather speed. Gosh, we really are going quite high, aren’t we? Now my ears are even starting to pop. I try swallowing to unblock them. Nope, they’re still blocked. I know, maybe if I yawn . . . Hiding behind my hand, I try yawning, but nothing; my ears are still well and truly blocked. So much so I can’t hear anything.

  Out of the corner of my eye I notice the doorman. He’s looking at me expectantly, the way people do when they’ve asked you a question and are waiting for your reply. Shit. Trying to look as natural as possible, I throw him what I hope looks like the confident smile of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, and not someone who can’t hear a bloody thing as her ears are popping like crazy.

  Honestly, you’d think I never go in elevators.

  You don’t, pipes up a little voice. You hate them. Ever since you got stuck in one at art college and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.

  I feel a flash of panic but ignore it. I’ll be fine. This is New York. Home of the skyscraper. People use elevators all the time here.

  Elevators are just lifts in American clothing, and you’re scared of lifts. You have nightmares about the cords snapping and plunging to your death.

  I slow my breathing and stare fixedly ahead. I’m being ridiculous. I bet if you told a New Yorker you were scared, they’d think you were crazy.

  I glance at Mikey for reassurance, but he’s staring at his feet and muttering something under his breath. I notice he’s wearing a small gold cross round his neck. And he’s clutching it.

  Fuck. This is not good. This is not good. This is—

  The elevator suddenly comes to a halt and the door springs open.

  Wow.

  My fear instantly evaporates as I’m hit with the most breathtaking view of Central Park. Stretching out ahead of me, as far as the eye can see, is a vast carpet of trees. On and on it goes, as if someone just plopped a big piece of the English countryside in the middle of Manhattan.

  “Holy shit.”

  As we step out into the apartment, with its huge floor-to-ceiling windows, I turn to Mikey. Eyes out on stalks, he’s gripping the cart as if for support. “I’m not good with heights. I get dizzy,” he mutters gruffly, a queasy expression on his face as he gazes out at the skyline and the towering skyscrapers we’re now rubbing shoulders with.

  “I would recommend putting the crates here in the hallway,” the doorman is saying in the background. “That way, they’re not causing an obstruction.”

  “Sure, good idea,” Mikey says, nodding. Immediately he gets under way unloading the crates in an eager bid to get out of here.

  “It’s very important not to cause an obstruction,” continues the doorman somberly. “Fire regulations, you know.”

  “Um, yes.” I nod distractedly, my eyes flicking around me. Gosh, this place is enormous.

  “Fire?” repeats Mikey. His voice sounds a little strangled. “Did someone just say ‘fire’?” He starts unloading faster, his biceps popping like pistons.

  And white. Everything’s white, I notice, glancing around at the white rugs, white sofas, white walls. I feel nervous just looking at it, as if I’m going to get this sudden impulse to chuck a glass of red wine somewhere.

  Not that I go around chucking glasses of red wine everywhere, but I have been known to spill things occasionally. Not that I’m clumsy; I’m just—

  Oh, who am I kidding? If I lived here, I’d have to take out shares in OxiClean.

  Anyway, I don’t need to worry about that, I reflect, thinking about my cluttered little shoe box downtown with its clashing color schemes and eclectic mix of East-meets-West-meets-thrift-shop. Which is something, I suppose.

  “I like art, you know.”

  I drag my eyes back to the doorman. “Oh, really?” I nod politely.

  “Van Gogh, he’s my favorite,” he confides. “Got any of his stuff?” He jerks his head toward the paintings.

  “Er, no.” I smile apologetically.

  The doorman’s face dr
ops with disappointment.

  “OK, well, I’m all done here,” interrupts Mikey, straightening up. Digging out an invoice from his back pocket, he holds it out for me to sign.

  “Great. Thanks.” I scribble my signature and pass it back.

  “Right, I’m outta here.” Diving back to the elevator, he stands by the closed door with his cart, waiting for the doorman. He reminds me of my parents’ dog when it’s time to go for a walk and he’s sitting by the door, desperate to go out.

  “If you’ll excuse me, miss . . .” Clearing his throat, the doorman adjusts his peaked cap and strides into the elevator, like a pilot climbing into his cockpit. “Any problems, buzz down.” He jabs at the button with a white-gloved hand. “I’ll be straight up.” And with that, he and Mikey disappear behind the sliding door.

  I listen to the hum of the lift as it descends, gradually getting quieter and quieter. Then it’s gone.

  Chapter Seven

  OK, so now what?

  Alone in the penthouse, I stand motionless for a moment, looking around. The owner might not be back for ages. What am I going to do now?

  Out of the blue I get an image of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone, rushing wildly from room to room, opening cupboards and jumping on beds. Not that I’m going to do that, of course. I’m a professional, twenty-nine-year-old woman, not an eight-year-old child.

  Saying that, I’d love a quick snoop—er, I mean a look—around.

  Tentatively I venture down the hallway and into the spacious living room, still marveling at the incredible view. Awestruck, I manage to drag my gaze away and continue tiptoeing around, but I’ve gone only a few steps when a thought strikes. Swanky pads like this probably have some super-top-of-the-line security system. What if there’s CCTV cameras and I’m under surveillance? And I’m standing on a pristine white shagpile rug with my grubby old flip-flops.... Looking down at my feet with dismay, I quickly step backward. Only one of my feet has sort of stuck. Hang on, what’s—

  Chewing gum.

  On the white shagpile rug.

  Shit.

  Dropping to my knees, I quickly pick at the greasy gray blob with my fingers. Eugh. This is so sticky and disgusting. I pick harder, but it’s welded itself to the rug and won’t come off. I feel a stab of panic. Crap! I know, maybe if I use my nail scissors . . .

  I scramble around in my bag. I carry so much rubbish with me that I’ve probably got a pair.... Aha, here they are! I start digging at the tufts of shagpile with one of the blades. If I just scrape those . . . Painstakingly I work on the tufts, scraping each one, until after a few minutes there’s just a couple of stubborn little bits left. I know, what if I just trim those? No one will ever notice. It’ll be as good as new.

  Fuck. There’s a hole. I’ve made a hole!

  With my heart thumping hard in my chest, I stop my frenzied topiary and stare at the rug in frozen horror. The hole stares back at me. Oh my God, Lucy! You’re left on your own for five minutes and this is what happens?

  In a desperate attempt I try ruffling it with my fingers, but it’s no good—there’s definitely a space where more tufts should be. It’s almost like a bald patch.

  Suddenly I have an idea. I know! What about doing a sort of comb-over?

  Using my fingers, I get to work trying to arrange the tufts just so, but it’s not easy. They keep springing back and I have to flatten them with my hand, then wrap a few more strands round.... God, now I know how Donald Trump feels. Exasperated, I continue tugging a piece this way and that, until finally I seem to have it covered.

  OK, now it just needs to stay that way. Rummaging around in my bag again, I pull out my little can of hair spray and give the rug a generous spritz. Perfect. You’d never even know the difference.

  Triumphantly I survey my handiwork. I feel rather pleased with myself. Disaster averted! Still, perhaps I should just sit down and wait for the owner to arrive home, I think as an afterthought. It’s probably safer that way. After all, I don’t want any more accidents.

  Padding barefoot over to the sofa, I perch gingerly on the edge of a cushion, being careful not to de-plump it. A fan of magazines is neatly spread out on the coffee table in front of me, but I resist the temptation to flick through them. I’m not going to touch anything, remember? I’m just going to sit right here and wait until the owner arrives. I’m not going to move a muscle.

  Instead I glance at the titles: Variety, The Hollywood Reporter, Vanity Fair. I feel a beat of excitement. Gosh, I wonder if it’s someone famous? There was me thinking it was some boring old banker, but maybe it’s a big-shot director. Or even an actor.

  No, Magda would have told me, I tell myself quickly. Wouldn’t she?

  Intrigued, I cast my eyes around for clues, but I can’t see any photos or knickknacks or unopened mail. I wonder if there’s anything in the rest of the apartment?

  I last about five seconds. Then my curiosity gets the better of me and I’m up from the sofa and tiptoeing into the bedrooms. There are packing boxes strewn everywhere. So that explains it. Whoever lives here has just moved in, I conclude, playing detective. I feel a sudden sense of affinity with my mystery client. I wonder if he’s new in town too?

  I steal a look inside the wardrobes. A sleek row of suits hangs neatly in various shades of gray. Underneath are several pairs of shoes. I pick one up. It’s leather. Despite myself, I can’t resist taking a peek at the sole: “Made in Italy.” I feel a flash of excitement. Which, of course, is ridiculous, I tell myself quickly. As if I care where his shoes are made.

  Quickly putting it back, I sneak peeks into both bathrooms—large, white, and marble, they’re empty apart from an electric toothbrush and a couple of disposable contact-lenses cases—and end up in the designer kitchen.

  I glance around it nervously. My lack of culinary skills is something of a running joke in my family. Kate calls my style of cooking “one, two, three, ping,” in reference to the sound of the microwave when it’s finished. Which is a little harsh—I once made Rice Krispies treats on the stove and they were delicious. I admit I do find kitchens a bit scary. I mean, they’re filled with endless equipment, and utensils, and ingredients that I have no clue what to do with.

  Take this one, for example. It’s terrifying. Marble countertops, state-of-the-art gadgets, an intimidating cooker with a million different dials and knobs. It’s called Wolf. How scary is that? And then there’s that hulking, great big fridge. What on earth do you need a fridge that size for? I take a look inside. There’s nothing on the shelves apart from a few bottles of sparkling water, a bag of organic oranges, a tub of nonfat Greek yogurt, and some quinoa.

  Quinoa? What’s that? I read the packet. “An ancient grain, filled with goodness and nutrition.”

  Crikey, whoever lives here is seriously healthy. Where’s the chocolate? The takeaway leftovers? The Diet Coke?

  Er, in your fridge, Lucy.

  Feeling a stab of guilt, I hastily close the door. I’ll buy some ancient grains next time I go shopping, I tell myself firmly. Still, chocolate isn’t unhealthy. I once read an article in a magazine about how it’s filled with iron and . . . I draw a blank. Well, anyway, it’s been ages since I read the article.

  Exiting the kitchen, I wander back toward the living room to resume my position on the sofa, but after only a few minutes boredom gnaws at me. I haven’t found anything very interesting and the novelty of the penthouse is beginning to wear off. Plus I’m pretty tired; it’s been a long day. I’d quite like to go home now, get in the bath, and curl up on the sofa with tonight’s episode of Oprah and the man who thinks he’s a grizzly bear. I laughed when Robyn told me about it, but now it’s beginning to seem quite appealing.

  Letting out a yawn, I’m padding back down the hallway when I notice a bookcase. I didn’t see it before, but like everything else in the flat, it’s still empty. Next to it are a couple of half-opened cardboard boxes. No doubt filled with books, I muse, kneeling down and lifting up the flap to take a look.

/>   Not that there’s anything much to see. Like I thought, just piles of books. Absently I leaf through a couple of political autobiographies, several travel guides, a couple of dog-eared John Grishams, a book on Renaissance painters . . . I pause, my interest piqued. It’s quite a heavy hardback, and tugging it out, I lay it on my lap and start flicking through the pages. Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci, Botticelli . . .

  My eyes flick over each painting. It’s like looking over photographs of old friends. On some I think the brushwork is amazing; others it’s the light; some I find a little too sentimental, or too religious.

  As I turn the page, my heart skips a beat.

  Portrait of a Musician by Titian.

  I stare at the face looking out at me, my mind leaping back to the very first time I saw this painting. I was nineteen years old and wandering around the Gallerie dell’Accademia in Venice with a guidebook and the obligatory pair of earphones that didn’t work, when I stumbled across the piece tucked away in a dark corner. It was love at first sight.

  With long, dark, messy hair swept away from his face, a beard, brooding eyes, soulful expression, strong forehead, and unwavering gaze, he was one of the most handsome men I’d ever laid eyes on.

  And a musician too! Which was just so typical of me. I’ve always had a thing for musicians. Show me a man with messy hair and a guitar and I’ll show you a major full-blown crush. Evan Dando from the Lemonheads, the tragic Kurt Cobain, even Radiohead’s Thom Yorke—they all leave me weak at the knees.

  My mind spools back. I can remember it as if it was yesterday, standing in a little darkened corner of the gallery, staring at him transfixed and thinking I’d found my ideal man, and what a shame he wasn’t real. It was part of my course in art history—not the lusting bit—and the reason I was in Italy for the summer. I’d been there only a few days but already I’d fallen in love about a million times, with the huge plates of black-truffle pasta, the faded ochre-colored buildings and stunning piazzas, the sound of the water lapping gently against the banks of the canals....