You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter

  And now with this painting.

  “Kind of a cool dude, huh?”

  It was hearing a voice behind me that finally caused me to drag my eyes away. Otherwise, who knows how long I’d have remained standing there, marveling at Titian’s skill as a painter and relishing the delicious cool air of the gallery after the baking midday heat outside? Those few words, spoken in an American accent, made me realize I wasn’t alone and I turned round, expecting . . .

  Actually, to this day I’m not quite sure what I was expecting. Nothing, really. Just another tourist with a camera and a guidebook. After all, the city was filled with millions of them. If anything, I was probably a bit irritated about being interrupted in my daydreams.

  And that’s when I first saw Nathaniel.

  Long, messy hair. Blond. Jeans and a T-shirt. Converse All Stars.

  And I just knew.

  In the split second it took for my eyes to sweep over him, standing in the shadows, just a few feet away, with his hands in his pockets and a lazy smile on his face, I was hit with something so unexpected, so sudden, so unlike anything I’d ever experienced. It was like a lightning strike, a sense of certainty so powerful it sent me reeling.

  The Italians call it colpo di fulmine. Love at first sight. This was it. He was the One.

  What’s that noise?

  Abruptly, I look up from the book. I can hear a humming sound, a sort of high-pitched whining. Puzzled, I cock my head to one side, trying to figure out where it’s coming from. It’s down that way, toward the hallway, I decide, glancing at the crates of paintings stacked up against the wall and at the elevator at the far end.

  Oh shit. The elevator. That’s where it’s coming from.

  No sooner has the thought struck than I see the light next to it ping on. I feel a flash of panic. Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit. That must be him. The client. He’s back!

  As I jump up, the book falls from my lap to the floor with an almighty thud and I scrabble for it, while at the same time tugging at my skirt, slipping on my flip-flops, and trying to tuck my hair behind my ears. I want to look suitably professional and composed, and not like someone who’s been snooping around the apartment for the past hour.

  Shoving the book hastily back in the box, I turn to see the doors sliding open. OK, don’t panic. Everything’s cool. Just act normal. Right, yes, normal.

  Only the problem is, there’s nothing even remotely normal about being in a stranger’s penthouse apartment while he rocks up in the private elevator.

  I glimpse the doorman first, the familiar flash of his dark green uniform, and then a figure appears from behind him. Tall, his hairline receding slightly, wearing a suit and sunglasses, he’s looking down at some mail in his hand as he steps out of the elevator. I watch as the doorman goes back down in the lift, then glance back at the owner of the penthouse.

  “Hi,” I quickly introduce myself, trying not to sound as nervous as I feel. “I’m from the gallery.”

  Suddenly aware of my presence, he looks up and slides the sunglasses onto the top of his head. As he does, I see a flash of surprise in his eyes. Pale blue eyes with gray flecks around the irises.

  It’s like a ten-ton truck just crashed into my chest.

  Oh my God, it can’t be.

  It just can’t be.

  Nathaniel?

  Chapter Eight

  “Lucy?”

  For the briefest of moments I think I’m going to faint. As my mind goes into free fall, I try telling myself I’ve made a mistake. It’s not him; it’s a trick of the light. I mean, there must be a million people who have eyes with similar gray flecks around the irises, right?

  Right?

  But there’s no mistaking that voice. It’s the same voice I heard that day in the gallery. It was that voice that made me turn round and fall in love at first sight.

  “Oh, wow, Lucy, is that really you?”

  It was also that voice that dumped me over the telephone.

  “Hello, Nathaniel.”

  I was aiming for cool, calm, and collected, but it comes out a bit wooden and schoolteacher-ish. Still, they’re words, at least. Spoken out loud. Which is better than being utterly speechless with shock, which is how I’m really feeling.

  Actually, I take that back. I’m not sure I can feel anything. It’s as if my whole body’s suddenly gone numb and I’ve got this weird floaty feeling, like the time I had my tonsils out and the anesthetist told me to start counting backward.

  “It is you! I thought for a minute I was seeing things.” His face is breaking into a smile, the corners of his eyes creasing up.

  Those are new, I can’t help thinking to myself. He didn’t have creases before. And his hair—it’s so much shorter, and it’s started to recede at the temples.

  “I was, like, No way, it’s impossible!”

  I can hear him speaking, see him gesticulating, but it’s as if we’re separated by an invisible barrier, a sort of impenetrable shield between us, and instead I’m staring at this gray-suited figure in front of me with a certain detached disbelief.

  He looks different. Older. Gone are the long, messy blond hair and thrift-store suede jacket, and his teenage puppy fat has disappeared to reveal razor-sharp cheekbones and a much squarer jawline. But it’s still Nathaniel. Still Nate.

  As the thought fires across my brain, my heart gives a little leap. I quickly squash it back down. No, you don’t, I tell myself firmly. Don’t you go getting any ideas.

  “Sorry, I haven’t let you get a word in, have I?” he laughs, putting down his mail and scraping his fingers through his hair. “So tell me, how are you? What’s going on? What are you doing here?”

  I suddenly realize that despite the expensive designer suit and air of the successful businessman, he’s nervous. Well, it must be a shock for him too, walking in from work and seeing me standing in his hallway after ten years, like a ghost from his past.

  “I brought your artwork,” I manage.

  “My what?” Confused, he glances distractedly to the crates stacked neatly in the hallway, not seeming to register.

  “The Gustav collection,” I continue, keeping my voice steady. God, it’s so bizarre. It’s as if a robot has taken over my body and I’m standing here stiffly, talking in some weird automated voice about art, when instead the real Lucy is flinging her arms up in the air and shrieking, Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, on a loop.

  For a moment he seems to stare in total bewilderment at the paintings. Then suddenly his brow unfurrows and he turns to me in a sort of eureka moment. “You work at the gallery,” he says quietly, and I can see everything starting to fall into place.

  “Yes, I just transferred from a showroom in London.” I nod, still doing my robot impersonation. “I’m the senior coordinator.”

  Well, it sounded impressive first time around, on the doorman.

  “You are?” Nathaniel looks slightly dazed.

  “It’s a really good job,” I add quickly, suddenly feeling the urge to justify myself. “I organize exhibitions, work closely with new artists, deal with clients. . . .”

  “But what happened to your own painting? I thought—”

  “Oh, that’s a long time ago,” I say dismissively, cutting him off and looking down to study my flip-flops, which have suddenly become really interesting. “Anyway, what about you?” I ask, changing the subject. “What are you doing these days?”

  What are you doing these days? Oh my God, Lucy, what kind of lame question is that? You sound as if you’re hanging over the garden fence, passing the time with your next-door neighbor—not talking to your first love, whom you haven’t seen for ten years but have never stopped thinking about.

  OK, I did not just think that.

  “Oh, you know, this and that,” he says, his mouth twitching. His eyes flash with amusement as they search out mine, and I feel something stir deep inside me, like ice cubes when they start to melt. Shifting, splintering, thawing.

  “Well, this and that must be p
retty successful,” I reply, gesturing around the penthouse.

  “Oh, this.” He shrugs modestly. “It’s just a rental.”

  “Oh, really?” I say, trying to sound nonchalant, as if renting huge fuck-off penthouses in Manhattan is something I do quite regularly myself. When I’m not busy renting a room in a tiny shoe box downtown, of course.

  Inside, though, I can’t help feeling a stab of insecurity. God, he’s obviously some major highflier, while I’m still broke at the end of each month.

  “I’ve been living in L.A., but now I’m moving here for work,” he adds in explanation.

  “Don’t tell me, you’re in the movie business,” I say with a rush of excitement, feeling my cheeks redden. “I saw the magazines.” I motion vaguely toward the living room.

  “TV.” He looks almost apologetic. “I’m a producer.”

  “Gosh, that’s great.” I try to sound convincing, though I haven’t a clue if that’s great or not. Still, it sounds impressive. Everyone always wants to work in TV, don’t they? Well, apart from me. Art’s always been my thing.

  “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. . . .” He nods, then trails off.

  There’s an awkward pause and for a moment we just stand there in the hallway, looking at each other. I can feel the space between us thick with questions and emotions.

  “Wow, sorry, I just realized, I haven’t even offered you a drink or anything,” he apologizes, rubbing his temples.

  “Oh, don’t worry,” I say hastily.

  “I’m afraid I don’t have much, apart from some Evian.”

  And that funny quinoa stuff, I think, remembering the packet in the fridge.

  “Look, why don’t we go out and get a drink?” he suggests all of a sudden. “Catch up properly?”

  I’m taken aback. Go for a drink? Me and Nate?

  “Oh, er . . .” Flustered, I start trying to stall. “I’m not sure . . .”

  “There’s a great little place on the corner,” he continues eagerly. “Come on, how about it?”

  He’s looking at me expectantly, a big smile on his face, and out of the blue I feel a snap of indignation. My God, I can’t believe it. He thinks I’m just going to trot off to a bar with him for a cozy chitchat. After what happened? I should tell him to sod off.

  I should, but of course I’m not going to.

  “Let me just grab my bag.”

  I’ve imagined this moment, bumping into him again, a million, trillion times. What I’d say, how I’d look, exactly what it would be like. I’d look fabulous, of course. I’d be wearing my skinny jeans. I’d be having a good hair day. (Well, I don’t really have good hair days. I have at-least-it’s-not-frizzy and phew-my-fringe-hasn’t-kinked-yet days.) Oh, and I’d have some amazing man on my arm.

  Not that I believe you need a guy to make you feel good about yourself, but come on, enough of the feminist principles—you bump into the love of your life after he married someone else, trust me, you don’t want to be single and wearing your frumpy work clothes, or a pair of flip-flops that make your legs look completely dumpy.

  Sitting on a barstool, I rub my legs self-consciously. Which is when I realize that I forgot to shave them. Ugh, they feel all bristly.

  “I mean, what are the odds?”

  Tugging down my skirt, I look across the table at Nathaniel. Shirtsleeves rolled up, he’s sitting opposite me, shaking his head in disbelief.

  We’re in a little French bistro on the corner of his street drinking red wine. I don’t usually drink red wine; I don’t actually like it. It makes my tongue feel all funny, like when I eat rhubarb. But I did that thing you do when you’re a bit nervous and you say you’ll have what he’s having, so Nathaniel ordered a bottle. Which took about twenty minutes, as he wanted to taste everything on the menu first, swirling each one round the glass and sniffing it. He obviously knows a lot about wine, unlike me. I don’t know the first thing.

  “It is a bit of a coincidence.” I nod, taking a large gulp of wine. I feel absurdly nervous, as if I’m on a first date.

  Quickly I scrub that thought.

  “Just a bit.” He nods, rolling his eyes. “It’s incredible. I’ve always wondered if I’d ever see you again.”

  “You have?” My voice comes out in a squeak.

  “Well, yeah,” he says, looking down at his wineglass self-consciously.

  My chest tightens and my stomach does this funny swooping thing. He’s thought about me. During all this time he’s thought about me. I feel a surge of validation. All this time I always wondered. Always hoped.

  “Did you ever think about me?” He raises his eyes and gives me a long, searching look.

  My stomach does a loop-the-loop again.

  “Sometimes.” I shrug, trying to sound casual.

  OK, so that’s a fib, but I’m not going to admit the truth now, am I? That I can’t stop thinking about him.

  “Really?” He looks pleased. “I thought you might have forgotten all about me.”

  “Trust me, I tried.” I manage a half smile and he blushes.

  “Yeah, I didn’t behave very well at the end, did I?”

  “Oh, I don’t know.” I take another gulp of wine, relishing the feeling of it weaving its way down into my stomach, soothing my jittery nerves. “We were so young, and long-distance relationships never work out, do they? It was just one of those things. Inevitable, really. And breaking up with someone is never easy.”

  Er, hello. Since when did I develop this super-mature attitude?

  “I was a jerk, let’s face it.” He flashes me a rueful smile.

  “OK, you were a jerk.” I nod in agreement.

  He laughs, his face crinkling up, and I can’t help but laugh too. It’s strange, but after all this time, all the years, all the wondering, the old hurt seems to have melted away and it’s just me and Nate sitting at the bar, like two old friends having a drink. Maybe it’s true that time is a great healer.

  Or maybe it’s just the red wine.

  “So,” he says.

  I watch him fingering the stem of his wineglass, as if he’s thinking hard about something. Then I notice. He’s not wearing a wedding ring. It shoots out at me, like an arrow. Somewhere in the recesses of my mind I vaguely remember Magda mentioning it, but I didn’t pay much attention—she was talking about a stranger. At least, I thought she was talking about a stranger.

  I stare at his empty finger. Maybe he’s taken if off and forgotten to put it back on. Or he could have lost it. Or maybe he’s one of those guys who don’t wear one, like my dad, who told Mum when they got married that he’d never worn jewelry and he wasn’t going to start now. I think he even said the word “poof,” but the less said about that, the better.

  Even as I’m thinking all these things, deep down inside me a burst of hope is exploding in my chest like a firework.

  “Tell me . . .”

  I snap back to see him looking at me.

  “How long have you been in New York?”

  The conversation seems to have moved away from dangerous ground and back to pleasantries. I feel a beat of relief.

  “Not long, just a few weeks.” I take a sip of wine.

  Don’t let him see you looking at his ring finger, pipes up a voice inside my head. Startled, I quickly avert my eyes.

  “Wow, so you’re new in town, like me.” He smiles. “What do you think so far?”

  “I love it.” I smile, holding out my glass as he gives me a top-up.

  It’s very important I don’t ask him about being married. I have to appear unconcerned. Like I’m not curious at all. Like I haven’t even thought about it in years.

  “Yeah, it’s an amazing city. I visit a lot for work, but I’ve never lived here before.”

  “Oh, really?”

  Or tried to Google his wife.

  “Yeah, so I’m kinda excited to explore, get a real feel for it, instead of just being a tourist.”

  And found nothing. I mean, you’d think she’d at least be on Faceboo
k.

  “So, how’s married life?”

  It’s like an Exocet missile. Fired without warning from out of my mouth, it shoots straight at him and crash-lands on the bar. For a moment I have the weird sensation of being completely disconnected, an observer, an innocent bystander.

  Then it hits me.

  Oh my God, I did not just say that. I did not just say that.

  Fuck. Fuck. FUCK.

  There’s a pause as Nathaniel takes a sip of his wine. It’s like the moment between the crash and the impact. That stunned split second as you brace yourself for the inevitable.

  Putting down his glass, he meets my eyes.

  Please don’t say it’s wonderful. I cross my fingers under the bar. I mean, you can say it’s good, and you’re happy and all that, and I’ll be pleased, really I will, but please don’t go on and on about how wonderful it is, how wonderful she is.

  “We’re getting divorced.”

  Now it’s his turn to launch a missile. Boom. Just like that.

  I look at him incredulously. I was prepared for a dozen different answers, but not this one. Never this one.

  “Gosh, I’m sorry to hear that,” I say quickly, scrambling for something appropriate to say, but inside I’m reeling with shock. And something else. A secret tremor of joy that comes like the aftershock following an earthquake.

  “Thanks.” He smiles ruefully. “It’s for the best. Beth and I should never have gotten married in the first place.”

  My face doesn’t flicker. I try to appear not really interested, but every cell in my body is like a finely tuned receptor.

  “I met Beth when she was a freshman at college and the complete opposite of me—she was loud, confident, the life and soul of every party. . . . We used to argue like crazy.”

  As he tells me this information, I try to imagine it. Nate? Arguing like crazy? But I can’t. He’s always so mild mannered, so laid-back. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him lose his temper.

  “We were only married a year and she moved out. Looking back, we should have called it a day then, I suppose.”

  “Why didn’t you?” I blurt, then catching myself, quickly add, “I mean, if you weren’t getting along.”