You're the One That I Don't Want

  ‘But he has Italian shoes,’ she manages to croak.

  ‘I made a mistake,’ I fib desperately. ‘They were from Banana Republic.’

  Magda is undeterred. ‘Don’t worry, we can fix that,’ she says, a look of pure determination in her eyes. ‘I know the manager at Bergdorf. I can get fifty per cent off a pair of Pradas.’

  ‘No, truly, it’s fine,’ I say hastily. ‘We weren’t right for each other.’

  Magda looks at me like I’m speaking a foreign language. ‘What does that have to do with anything?’ she gasps, incredulous. ‘I have had three husbands and none of them was right for me!’

  She says this so indignantly that it takes a moment for it to register, and when it does, I’m not quite sure how it’s supposed to lend support to her argument.

  ‘At least the gallery opening went well,’ I say cheerfully, deciding not to ask and instead changing the subject. Quickly skirting round to the computer, I flick it on and start checking our emails. ‘Fingers crossed it helps business.’

  ‘Hmm,’ she says sulkily.

  ‘And we’ve got a few emails here about the food, saying how delicious the meatballs were,’ I continue, looking over for a reaction. There’s a vague stirring of her head and her golden beehive tips slightly.

  ‘Oh, and I saw my friend Robyn and she said she and Daniel are going out on a date,’ I say, in a last-ditch effort. OK, so it’s not strictly true. And I’m prostituting my friend. But give me a break. I’m desperate.

  It works. Magda’s head shoots up, like Jenny’s and Simon’s when you say, ‘W.A.L.K.’

  ‘They are? I knew it! What did I tell you? When it comes to matchmaking, I am never wrong.’ She shoots me a pointed look, which I quickly deflect.

  ‘Yes, isn’t it great,’ I enthuse. ‘They seem like a really good couple.’

  ‘A good couple? They are the perfect couple,’ she boasts, raising herself up to her full height of four foot eleven. ‘Though my son never tells me anything,’ she grumbles as an afterthought. ‘He thinks I will tell everyone, that I have a big mouth.’ She looks at me, affronted. ‘Me? A big mouth?’ Clutching her chest, which, like everything on Magda, looks suspiciously pert, she gasps theatrically, ‘I am the soul of discretion. The very soul.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ I nod gravely, clicking on an email from the photographer we hired for the opening. A whole set of pictures open up. ‘Who’s that?’ I ask, peering at a photograph of a particularly attractive older woman. ‘She looks very glamorous.’

  I swivel the screen, so Magda can see, and she tuts loudly.

  ‘Well, what do you expect?’ she exclaims, rolling her eyes. ‘That’s Melissa Silverstein. She blackmailed her millionaire husband when she discovered he was having an affair.’ Leaning closer, she lowers her voice. ‘I shouldn’t really say, as she told me in confidence, but she found him in bed with the gardener . . .’

  After Magda has divulged the innermost secrets of her friend, giving proof, if any was needed, that perhaps Daniel does have a point and discretion and Magda don’t go together, it’s business as usual and the rest of the morning is taken up with admin and paperwork.

  Then it’s lunchtime and I’m going to Katz’s for our regular order, being served by the same grumpy man behind the counter who never speaks and walking back to the gallery with Magda’s hot matzo-ball soup and pastrami-on-rye sandwich. The only difference being that today I decide to skip my usual tuna melt and grab a coffee and an apple.

  No particular reason. It hasn’t got anything to do with Nate’s comment about my thighs, for example. Or that I now know that tuna melts are hideously fattening because I Googled them earlier and they’ve got about a million calories or something and all that melted cheese is just waiting to hijack your thighs and cover them in dimples.

  No, it’s really strange. I just don’t have an appetite today at all, I muse, sipping my coffee as I stride down the street. My stomach isn’t gurgling because I’m hungry. It’s just making a funny noise because . . .Well, I’m not sure why, but I’m sure there must be lots of reasons.

  ‘Ow!’

  I let out a yelp as someone bashes right into me, knocking my arm and spilling coffee all down my top. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ I yell.

  See, I’m becoming much more like a New Yorker. In the past it would have been an apologetic ‘Sorry!’, but not now, I think, looking down with dismay to see my top is covered in rapidly spreading brown splodges.

  ‘Hey, why don’t you watch where you’re going,’ yells back the person who just bashed into me.

  God, what a cheek!

  Looking up, I wheel round angrily. Hang on a minute, it was—

  ‘You!’

  We both say it at the same time. It sounds in stereo as I look at the man standing opposite me in a smart grey suit, the person who just knocked into me because he wasn’t looking, who just ruined my top and scalded me with hot coffee because he was too busy yakking away on his phone to look where he was going.

  And it’s Nate.

  He’s staring at me, a shocked expression on his face.

  ‘I’ll call you back,’ he says sharply into his Bluetooth headset.

  I look at him in astonishment. I can’t believe it. It’s him. Of all people on the streets of Manhattan, I have to go and bump into him!

  Correction: he has to bash into me.

  Suddenly my astonishment is overtaken by anger. ‘You need to look where you’re going when you’re on the phone,’ I snap with annoyance.

  His face clouds over. ‘You walked straight into me.’

  ‘No, I didn’t!’ I gasp. I feel a stab of fury. Trust Nate to make out it was my fault. ‘You were chatting on your phone and not paying attention. Look, you’ve spilled coffee all over me!’ Grabbing my now coffee-soaked shirt, which looks like something that’s been tie-dyed by Robyn, I waggle it at him furiously.

  If I was expecting him to be apologetic, I couldn’t have been more wrong.

  ‘Well, I did warn you about drinking coffee,’ he says evenly.

  I glare at him. ‘What? So it’s my fault?’

  ‘Well, it’s not my fault you’re drinking coffee, now, is it?’

  ‘It’s your fault you were on your phone and walked straight into me,’ I retort impatiently.

  ‘You walked straight into me,’ he fires back.

  We’re going round in circles and we both break off and glower at each other. I can’t believe it. Until last week I hadn’t seen him for ten years. And I’d spent those ten whole years fantasising about bumping into him and yet it never happened. Now here I am, randomly bumping into him in the street.

  ‘By the way, you left a few toiletries at mine,’ he says awkwardly, stuffing his hands in his pockets and jingling his loose change. ‘I was going to post them to the gallery.’

  ‘Oh, don’t bother. Just throw them away,’ I say quickly.

  God, it’s come to this. One minute we were ripping each other’s clothes off, the next we’re discussing the disposal of my toothbrush.

  ‘OK, well, I guess that’s it, then . . .’

  ‘Yup, I guess so.’

  For a moment neither of us says anything and then his iPhone starts ringing, like a bell calling time on the relationship. It’s a fitting ending.

  ‘Look, I need to take this . . .’

  ‘Yeah, sure.’ I nod. ‘Goodbye, Nate.’

  And leaving him standing in the middle of the street, I turn and walk away.

  After all these years I’ve finally put him behind me, and this time there’s no looking back.

  Chapter Seventeen

  ‘Do you want sake?’

  Later that evening I leave work and hurry to Wabi Sabi, a tiny little Japanese restaurant tucked away underneath an antique shop in Chelsea, to find my sister already sitting waiting for me at the sushi bar.

  ‘Erm . . . yes, great,’ I say, puffing slightly after my run from the subway. I’d been determined to arrive first for once, and had even le
ft the gallery early, but despite my best efforts she’s here before me.

  Now I know how a British holidaymaker must feel when they discover that despite getting up at the crack of dawn, the Germans have already got to the sun loungers.

  ‘Good. Because I’ve ordered it.’ She nods as I slide into the free seat next to her. ‘I didn’t wait. I knew you’d be late.’

  That’s my sister for you. Never one to mince words.

  ‘Lovely to see you too.’ I smile, giving her a hug, despite the fact that she doesn’t really do hugs. Or kisses. Or in fact any shows of public affection. At school the boys used to call her ‘Iceberg’, which was a bit mean. And blatantly not true.

  After all, icebergs do sometimes melt.

  ‘Oh, before I forget I wondered if you wanted to go with me to the theatre next week. Robyn has two free tickets,’ I say, breaking open my chopsticks and diving on the little bowl of edamame. I’m starving. I’ve only had coffee and an apple all day.

  ‘’Fraid not. I’m training,’ she replies, shaking her head.

  ‘Every night?’

  ‘Well, the marathon is only a couple of months away.’

  That’s another thing. On top of the fourteen hours a day that my sister puts in at the office, she’s currently spending her free time training for the New York Marathon.

  I know. I feel exhausted just thinking about it.

  ‘I have free passes for my gym. You should come,’ she suggests, popping out the soybeans with her teeth. ‘Now you won’t be doing all that yoga.’ She smirks and I swat her with a chopstick.

  I’ve already told Kate about how I’ve broken up with Nate. I called her last night and filled her in on the details, at the end of which I’d drawn breath and waited for her response. It had come in the form of one word – ‘Good’ – and then moved briskly on to a conversation about her new bathroom tiles.

  ‘Effusive’ is not a word you could use to describe my sister. Sometimes I wonder if she views words like the rest of us view money and tries to save them up and not spend too many all at once.

  ‘I think that was a lucky escape,’ she continues. ‘It will save you a fortune on chiropractic bills.’

  ‘I’m not that bad at yoga,’ I complain sulkily.

  ‘Luce, how are you going to get into the lotus position when you can’t even cross your legs? Remember that time in school assembly?’

  Trust Kate to remind me of one of the most humiliating moments of my life. Aged twelve, I’d been sitting crossed-legged in the school hall, listening to our headmaster, and my legs had suddenly gone into cramp and I’d been unable to uncross them. I’d had to be airlifted out of assembly by Mr Dickenson, our PE teacher. I don’t think I’ve ever got over the shame. For years after I was teased mercilessly with ‘Don’t forget to cross your legs’, which took on a totally different connotation as I got older.

  ‘Excuse me. Your sake.’

  I look up to see a waiter return with a little bottle and two small ceramic glasses. Ceremoniously he arranges them on the counter in front of us.

  ‘Domo arigato,’ smiles Kate, bowing her head respectfully.

  The waiter beams. ‘Do itashi mashite,’ he replies, nodding profusely and backing away.

  I stare at Kate in astonishment. ‘Since when did you start speaking Japanese?’

  ‘Since most of my clients are based in Tokyo,’ she says casually, taking the sake bottle and pouring me some. ‘I’m learning in my spare time.’

  I look at her agog. My sister never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes I wonder if we really are sisters or if there was some mix-up in the hospital. I mean, can I really be genetically related to someone who learns Japanese? In her spare time?

  There I was thinking spare time was for logging on to Facebook and sneaking a look at everyone else’s photos, bidding on lots of things on eBay that I don’t need and never fit properly, and watching TV with Robyn and discussing challenging subjects such as ‘Do we order a twelve-inch pizza and garlic bread, or shall we just go for a sixteen-inch with extra toppings?’

  ‘Now it’s your turn. You have to pour mine,’ she says, passing me the sake bottle. ‘It’s supposed to be good luck to pour each other’s.’

  ‘I thought you weren’t superstitious.’

  ‘I’m not.’ She frowns as if I’ve just called her a bad name. ‘It’s tradition. Not superstition. There’s a difference.’

  ‘So tell me, how’s work?’ I ask, changing the subject. ‘Any good . . . um . . . mergers and acquisitions happening?’

  If there’s one sure-fire way to snap my sister out of a bad mood, it’s to ask her about work. It’s her favourite topic of conversation. If she had it her way, it would probably be her only topic of conversation. Unlike my girlfriends, she’s not interested in commenting on the fabulous new dress you just bought from Zara, speculating about what’s going on in the Jennifer-Brad-Angie triangle or talking about relationships. Not even when it’s her own.

  In fact, the closest I think she ever got was on her wedding day, when someone asked her what the best part of being married to Jeff was and she replied cheerfully, ‘Our new apartment. With two salaries, we can now afford a two-bedroom,’ which I don’t think was exactly the gushing response they’d hoped for.

  ‘Exhausting but exciting,’ she says, suddenly galvanised. ‘The CEO is thrilled with the merger so far, which is superb on a performance note, but it looks like the Joberg-Cohen deal might need some extra . . .’ She trails off as she sees my glazed expression. ‘Are you interested in any of this?’

  ‘Of course,’ I protest. ‘It’s fascinating.’

  And it would be. Truly, it would be. If only I had half a clue what she was going on about.

  ‘Hmm.’ She looks at me unconvinced, then suddenly stifles a yawn. ‘Anyway, it’s all good. Just the hours are pretty gruelling.’

  I look at my sister closely. Beyond the power suit and immaculately groomed bob, there are dark circles under her eyes and the crease between her eyebrows is so sharply etched it’s turning into a furrow.

  ‘You look shattered,’ I observe. ‘You need a holiday.’

  Kate looks at me like I just told her she needs to grow another head. ‘A holiday?’ she snorts, as if the very idea is completely ludicrous.

  ‘When did you last go away?’ I persist.

  She falters momentarily and I can feel her brain whirring backwards. ‘We went to Mum and Dad’s,’ she says, with a flash of triumph.

  ‘For Christmas last year,’ I point out. ‘Anyway, that was Mum and Dad. That’s not exactly a holiday.’

  ‘Luce, I don’t think you understand,’ she gasps impatiently. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she rubs her nose agitatedly. ‘I can’t go anywhere right now. I’m far too busy.’

  ‘But you look like you need a break,’ I say, squeezing her arm.

  ‘No, what I need is to be partner,’ she says determinedly, moving her arm away. ‘And if I continue at this pace, there’s a very good chance of being recommended at the next annual meeting.’

  But can you continue at this pace? I ask myself silently, looking at her pinched expression and feeling uneasy. My sister has always been a crazy workaholic – ‘over-achiever’ is scribbled across her school reports – but she seems to be overdoing it, even by her standards.

  ‘What does Jeff say?’

  Her face clouds. ‘Jeff understands. He knows how important this is to me.’ Opening her menu, she says briskly, ‘Anyway, we should order. It’s getting late,’ which is her way of saying the subject is closed.

  She beckons over the waiter and orders for both of us. I’m not sure exactly what, as she does most of it in Japanese. ‘Oh, and an extra miso soup to take away when we’re done,’ she says in English. ‘For Jeff,’ she adds, turning to me. ‘I promised to bring him back some soup as he’s a bit under the weather.’

  ‘What’s wrong?’ I ask, feeling a beat of concern.

  ‘Oh, nothing. Probably one of those seventy-two-hour
bugs.’ She shrugs, taking a sip of sake.

  ‘He should go and see Robyn – she’s got Chinese herbs for everything,’ I suggest, thinking about the dozens of bottles that are randomly scattered around the flat. I’m forever tripping over things with weird and wonderful names like Yellow Croaker Ear-Stone or Long-Nosed Pit Viper.

  ‘You have got to be kidding me!’ gasps Kate.

  ‘No, really. I know you don’t believe in all that stuff, but she swears by them.’ I stop as I see her making googly eyes at me.

  ‘Are you OK? Is something in your eye?’

  Now she’s jabbing chopsticks at me and pulling this weird sort of strangled face. Suddenly it registers and I feel a flash of panic.

  ‘Oh my God, are you choking?’

  An image of me having to perform the Heimlich manoeuvre in the middle of the restaurant flashes across my brain. Shit. Why didn’t I watch more episodes of ER? I got bored when George Clooney left.

  ‘No, behind you,’ she hisses, like a pantomime dame.

  ‘What?’ Bewildered, I frown, wondering what she’s going on about, then turn sideways.

  I don’t believe it.

  Because there, sitting right next to me, at the sushi counter, is Nate. He’s with another man in a business suit and they’ve obviously just arrived, as they’re ordering a couple of drinks. I stare at him in disbelief.

  ‘Are you following me?’ I accuse, finding my tongue, which had been held hostage by shock.

  Hearing my voice, he turns and sees me. His face darkens. ‘Are you following me?’ he accuses back.

  I can feel my hackles rise. ‘I was here first,’ I point out stiffly.

  ‘Well, I made the reservation for the sushi bar last week,’ he replies, as if to say, Told you so.

  Not to be outdone, Kate fires back over my shoulder, ‘We made ours the week before. You can check with my assistant.’

  ‘Hello, Kate.’ He nods in her direction.

  ‘Nathaniel.’ She gives him one of her scary looks.

  For a moment there’s a standoff and I can see Nate’s business contact glancing uncertainly between us, like someone who just stumbled into a gunfight at the O.K. Corral.