You're the One That I Don't Want

Screeching the brakes on my negativity, I quickly try to rally. This is no good at all. I can’t turn up with that attitude. I’m supposed to be cheerful, hopeful, positive. Just the fact that Magda managed to get Artsy to agree to a meeting is hugely impressive. After years in the business, she knows a lot of people, and has asked a lot of favours, but apparently what clinched it is that she and Artsy share the same philosophy: art should be free to be enjoyed by everyone. Which is brilliant.

  Saying that, his art isn’t free. On the contrary, his pieces run into tens of hundreds of thousands.

  Still, no need to split hairs, I tell myself firmly, as we reach a gate swung wide and off its hinges with the sign ‘Keep Out’ scrawled on it and turn down an unmade road. The cab driver seemed to know exactly where he was going when I asked him to go to ‘Artsy’s house’ (the only address I had), and as I bounce around on the back seat, I see a ramshackle farmhouse ahead of me through the windscreen.

  ‘This is far as I can go,’ declares the cab driver after a couple of minutes.

  ‘OK, great, thanks.’ Paying him, I climb out, and as the cab reverses down the lane, I look around me.

  When the journalist said remote, he wasn’t wrong. Perched up high and hugging the edge of a cliffside, I’m surrounded by tufty hillocks and wild, unkempt farmland. I can’t see anything for miles, apart from the ocean on one side of me and the farmhouse on the other. I walk towards it. Old and weather-beaten, one of the windows appears to be boarded up, and several chickens are running freely around it. Boldly I knock on the door. Nothing. I knock a second time. Again nothing.

  I wonder if he’s forgotten I’m coming. I stare uncertainly at the peeling paint on the door for a moment, unsure about what to do. I can’t call him. Artsy has no phone – landline or mobile. Or email him – no Internet or email address either. Apparently Magda had to go through a long and complicated process in order to contact him, ringing various friends of friends on the island who passed secret messages back and forth, like something out of the French Resistance.

  I wait a few minutes longer, but it’s now abundantly clear there’s no one in the house. It’s strange for a recluse, but maybe today he’s not feeling that reclusive. Maybe today he’s gone out. Stepping back from the porch, I hesitate for a moment, unsure of what to do next, then decide to have a look around. Well, I’m here now.

  Picking my way through the grass in my new sandals, I walk around the side of the ramshackle barns and outbuildings. There’s an abandoned tractor, a rusty bicycle leaning up against a wall, a drum kit . . . A drum kit? What’s a drum kit doing in the middle of a field? Shielding my eyes from the bright sunshine, I stare at it in astonishment, before being distracted by the sight of a man up ahead digging a vegetable patch.

  Maybe he can help. I call over to him, ‘Excuse me. Do you know where I can find Artsy?’

  Straightening up, he turns round and, seeing me, strides over. Tall and broad-shouldered, he’s wearing a deerstalker hat, plus-fours and argyle socks, and looks a lot like the bronze statue of Sherlock Holmes that’s outside Baker Street Tube Station. It makes for a bizarre sight. Not helped by the fact he’s got a big bushy beard and is smoking a pipe. While wearing flying goggles.

  Taking them off, he peers at me. ‘Who’s looking for him?’ he asks, in a gruff southern drawl.

  ‘My name’s Lucy Hemmingway. I’m from Number Thirty-Eight, a gallery in New York.’ I realise I’m gabbling.

  He throws out his hand, which is the size of a dinner plate. ‘Artsy. Pleased to meet you.’

  Of course. It had to be him. Who else would wear such an outfit? ‘Oh . . . hi,’ I stammer. Smiling, I shake his hand. He’s not anything like I imagined, though I’m not sure what I did imagine, as he never allows himself to be photographed.

  He hands me a shovel. ‘You can help me dig for potatoes.’

  Dig for potatoes? I look down at the earth and try not to think about the new sandals that I wore especially for our meeting. ‘Um . . . thanks.’

  Luckily it seems Artsy is not just an artist, he’s also a true gentleman.

  ‘Here, put these on,’ and smiling, he holds out two plastic bags. ‘For your feet, so they don’t get dirty.’

  For the next hour I dig for potatoes with plastic bags tied around my feet. Slightly surreal, and not exactly the first impression I wanted to make, but then Artsy is renowned for being eccentric and so it was never going to be me and him chatting over a cappuccino.

  During the whole time we don’t talk about art. Instead we talk about composting, organic fertilisers and the benefits of horse manure versus cow manure. Understandably he does most of the talking – my knowledge of cow manure extends to the fact I once trod in a cowpat on a farm near my parents’ – while I listen politely and sneak sideways glances at him. The article didn’t give his date of birth – he’s very secretive about that, as he is about a lot of things – but underneath the beard and goggles, I ascertain he’s probably in his thirties.

  And attractive, I decide, noticing his piercing blue eyes and perfect white teeth, hidden underneath his beard and only revealed when he smiles. It’s as if the beard and his wacky outfit are part of his disguise, his desire to remain anonymous, but if he shaved it off and wore a T-shirt and jeans, he’d actually be rather devilishly good-looking, I realise, as he rolls up his sleeves to expose large, tanned forearms.

  After a back-breaking hour in the hot sunshine, he finally declares it’s time we break for ice cream.

  ‘Vanilla or pistachio?’ he demands, as we troop into one of the barns, where a large fridge with the words ‘Eat Me’ is standing. He flings it open to reveal nothing but tubs of ice cream and stacks of cones.

  ‘Vanilla, please.’ I smile at his eccentricity.

  ‘Coming right up.’ Grabbing a cone, he scoops out a ball of ice cream and passes it to me, then does one for himself. ‘Delicious, hey?’ He looks to me for approval. ‘I love these cones. They’re made from actual waffles, you know?’

  ‘Mmm, yummy.’ I nod approvingly.

  ‘So . . .’ Taking a lick of his ice cream, he studies me.

  ‘So . . .’ I say, trying to sound all breezy and not really nervous, which is how I am feeling. I can’t put it off any longer. I have to bring up his artwork. I take a deep breath and swallow hard. ‘About your artwork . . .’

  ‘Wanna see it?’ He flashes me a grin.

  Taken aback, I stare at him. Crikey, that was easy. ‘Absolutely.’ I nod, and feeling myself relax, I break into a broad smile. ‘I’d love to.’

  His studio is a large barn at the rear of the farm. Sliding back the door, shafts of sunlight flood inside, lighting up the dust particles, which twirl round like glitter in a snow globe. I’m filled with excitement and anticipation. Artsy is a hot new talent, a graffiti artist known for his ironic phrases and subverted images, and I’m entering his inner sanctuary, where he works, where he creates, where the ‘magic’ happens. I feel like an explorer about to discover a whole new world.

  What I discover, instead, is a giant washing line. Strung the full length of the barn, it’s hung with dozens of large white sheets, each stencilled with various graphics and slogans. On one is painted a giant heart in all its anatomical detail with the words ‘Life is love’ spray-painted across it. On another a picture of a series of hand-silhouettes that spell out, ‘It’s complicated.’ Another is simply a plain white sheet and right in the middle, in lettering so tiny that you have to go right up to it and squint, is the word ‘Why?’

  ‘Wow, these are . . .’

  ‘Different?’ he finishes my sentence.

  ‘Very.’ I nod. ‘Tell me, why did you choose to use sheets as your medium?’

  I’m expecting a long, convoluted answer, but instead he just shrugs. ‘Have you any idea how much canvases that size are?’ He pulls a face. ‘Total rip-off!’

  I smile at his honesty. I’m beginning to really like Artsy. Like his art, he’s certainly different.

  ‘Sheets were
perfect, but I used other stuff as well . . .’ He walks further into the barn, past piles of paint cans, brushes and aerosols, to another washing line. This one is strung with shirts, trousers, socks and underwear – all dirty, and all painted with slogans and words.

  ‘It’s sort of a metaphor for airing your dirty laundry,’ he’s saying. ‘Only I really am airing my dirty laundry.’ He bends down to sniff a sock. ‘Pheugghhh.’

  ‘And why all the umbrellas?’ I ask, amused, pointing to a whole washing line strung with them, all painted with different graffiti.

  ‘Well, they make wonderful canvases, plus I thought I’d highlight the plight of the missing umbrellas.’ He shrugs. ‘Everyone’s always losing their umbrellas. They’re left on the subway, in cafes, in bars. But where do they all end up?’ He looks at me beseechingly. ‘Maybe there’s some parallel universe where they’re all propping up a singles bar, meeting other singleton umbrellas, creating mismatched waterproof couples . . .’

  ‘Maybe.’ I nod. He really is kooky-for-Coco-Pops, and yet there’s something childlike in his imagination and enthusiasm that’s oddly appealing. Having said that, eccentric people always are appealing, aren’t they? Like your crazy aunt who’s in her eighties and wears feather boas and does the can-can. Actually, no, that’s just my crazy aunt.

  ‘So, what are you thinking?’

  I turn back to see Artsy looking at me, his brow crinkled up, like a child waiting approval.

  ‘I think the gallery would love to represent you,’ I say, a little nervously. After all, he must have heard this a million times.

  If he has, he still looks delighted. ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, really.’ I nod.

  ‘Huh.’ He smiles faintly to himself and seems to be turning the idea over in his head. I think he’s going to say something, anything, but then suddenly he’s sliding his goggles back down and holding out his hand. ‘Well, I must get back to my potatoes.’

  Our meeting must be over.

  ‘Um . . . yes, of course.’ I smile, hiding my disappointment, and shake his hand. ‘It’s been great meeting you, and thank you for taking the time—’

  Before I can finish he’s striding out of the barn. I hurry after him before I’m locked in. Trust me, I wouldn’t put it past him.

  ‘So, any last questions?’ Padlocking the barn door, he turns to me. ‘Speak now or for ever hold your peace.’ Twirling his hand above his head, he does a silly, formal bow.

  I don’t move a muscle. There’s nothing Artsy could do or say now to surprise me.

  Except . . .

  ‘Why all the secrecy?’ I blurt, before I can stop myself.

  His expression clouds and a large furrow appears down his forehead and runs underneath the glass of his goggles.

  Oh shit, me and my big mouth. Immediately I regret my question. What on earth did I go and say that for? And just as it was going so well. Feeling a stab of panic, I try doing what I always do when I regret saying something, and that’s say even more. ‘I mean, no one even knows your real name.’

  When really I should just shut the f*** up.

  ‘Do you ask Sting his real name?’ he demands. ‘Or Madonna?’

  ‘Actually, Madonna is her real name,’ I can’t help pointing out.

  ‘It is?’ Surprise flashes across his face, followed by one of his handsome smiles. ‘Well, in that case I’ll let you in on a secret. It’s actually really embarrassing . . .’ And pressing his bushy beard against my face, he whispers it in my ear.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ‘His name’s Harold!’

  An hour later I’m in a café in town making a frantic call to Robyn.

  ‘Lucy?’ She sounds disorientated. ‘Is everything OK?’

  ‘Did you hear what I just said?’ Ever since Artsy told me his real name, I’ve been desperate to get hold of Robyn to tell her the news, but the signal is so sketchy on the island that it’s only now, back in town, that I’ve finally got reception.

  ‘Um, sorry . . . say that again.’

  ‘The artist who I’ve come to see in Martha’s Vineyard,’ I cry down the phone. ‘You’re never going to believe this, but his name’s Harold!’

  Robyn takes a breath. ‘You met someone called Harold?’ she whispers.

  OK, so I’m slightly breaking the confidentiality agreement.

  ‘But it’s a secret,’ I add quickly. I was always useless at keeping secrets. By their very nature, as soon as you know one, you have to tell someone. But this is more than just a secret, I think, in justification. This is her destiny. This is Harold!

  God, I’m getting as bad as she is.

  ‘What does he look like?’ she asks quietly.

  ‘Tall, dark, handsome . . .’ I trail off. ‘Well, he would be if he shaved off the big bushy beard and he wore some different clothes, but I’m sure you can sort that out.’

  There’s silence on the other end of the line.

  ‘Robyn? Are you there?’

  ‘Yes, I’m here.’ She sounds bizarrely calm. I thought she’d be whooping excitedly down the phone. But no, I’m the one whooping excitedly down the phone. I know, maybe she’s in shock, I suddenly realise.

  ‘Hey, are you OK?’ I feel a beat of concern. ‘I know it’s probably come as a bit of a shock.’

  ‘No, not really,’ she says evenly.

  ‘It’s not?’ Now I’m the one in shock.

  ‘Of course not,’ she replies, sounding completely unfazed. ‘I always knew he was out there and I’d find him one way or another. How could I not? He’s my soulmate,’ she says with absolute certainty. ‘It was just a question of where and when. Like everything, it’s all about timing and—’ She breaks off. ‘Sorry, D, I’m just on the phone. I won’t be a minute.’

  ‘Who’s D?’ I frown.

  ‘Oh . . . um, Daniel,’ she says, sounding cornered. ‘We’re at Rockaway Beach. It’s super hot, so we came here for the day. You’ve never been, have you?’

  She’s changing the subject, which means only one thing: she’s hiding something.

  ‘What’s going on with you and Daniel?’ I ask suspiciously.

  ‘Nothing,’ she fires back innocently. ‘We’re just friends.’ She lowers her voice. ‘It’s totally platonic.’

  ‘Hey, Robyn, will you rub some lotion on my back?’

  ‘You’re rubbing lotion on him?’

  ‘Sorry, Lucy, but I’m going to have to go.’

  ‘Go?’ I look at my phone in disbelief. Did I just mishear? She’s been looking for Harold for months. She’s visited a psychic. Made a vision board. Lit candles. Said her affirmations. Accosted strangers in the street. And now here I am ringing to tell her I’ve found him and she wants to go? ‘OK,’ I say reluctantly. ‘Well, make sure to keep all your fingers and toes crossed. If he decides to exhibit with us, you’ll meet him then.’

  ‘Meet who?’ she asks distractedly.

  ‘Harold!’ I gasp incredulously.

  ‘Oh . . . awesome.’

  Is it just me or could she have made that sound any less awesome?

  ‘OK, well, have fun at the beach.’ I shrug.

  ‘Thanks! Bye.’

  ‘Bye.’

  Then she’s gone and I’m left feeling slightly bewildered. Well, that didn’t go quite how I was expecting. I never even got a chance to tell her about Nate being here, I realise. Oh well, I guess it can wait until I get back to New York, I muse. After all, it’s not long now. My flight’s tomorrow morning, so I’ll be home by the afternoon.

  Plenty of time to get ready for my date with Adam.

  As the thought zips through my brain, I feel a delicious thrill of excitement and nerves. Since arriving on the island, I’ve tried not to think about Adam. I didn’t want to be distracted before my big meeting with Artsy by thoughts of his crazy long eyelashes, the way he looked at me that night we sat on my fire escape, that kiss.

  When I haven’t been thinking about Artsy, my thoughts have been hijacked by Nate, I think grimly,
rewinding back to last night, me and him, together in the shell room . . . before hastily fast-forwarding back to my date with Adam. OK, focus, Lucy, focus.

  Briefly I think about calling him, but the beep of my phone battery reminds me that I’ve forgotten to pack my charger and I still need to ring Magda. I make a quick call to tell her how the meeting went, which brings into sharp focus that I still don’t really have a clue how the meeting went – ‘We dug for potatoes, ate ice cream and talked about umbrellas.’ Then I drain my coffee, leave the café and walk down to the harbour.

  A small ferry is making its way across the water. Plonking myself down on the harbour wall, I watch it for a moment. I feel unexpectedly wistful. OK, so I’m not going to miss having to share a bed with Nate, but it would be nice to spend a bit longer here. Explore a little. On the way back from meeting Artsy, I got a very chatty taxi driver who regaled me with stories about the island, including telling me about when Steven Spielberg filmed the famous scenes from Jaws here in Edgartown. Then he told me about the tragic car accident involving Teddy Kennedy and a young girl, who was killed when, late at night, coming back from a party in 1969, he drove off a bridge leading to the tiny island of Chappaquiddick.

  That’s where the ferry is coming from, I muse, watching it for a few more moments as it chugs calmly across the short gap between the two islands. I’m used to ferries being huge ocean-going vessels, but this looks more like someone cut a short piece of road and made it float on the water. Look, it can only fit three cars on it, I note, counting them, and just a few foot passengers.

  As the ferry chugs nearer, my eyes flick across them. There’s a couple with bikes, a woman with a toddler and . . . Is that Nate? I squint in the sunlight. Yup, that’s definitely him – I’d recognise that combo of navy blazer, pale blue shirt and pleated chinos anywhere. When it comes to clothes, Nate doesn’t do casual; he does middle-aged. He’s chatting to a smartly dressed woman and I watch as they disembark and shake hands. Then he walks towards where I’m sitting.

  ‘Hey, fancy seeing you here.’ I manage a smile as he passes me.