I wake up on Sunday morning with one question and one question only: why, oh, why did I have that fourth glass of wine? Yet along with a thumping headache comes a new sense of determination. That’s it. No more drowning my sorrows. I’m going to forget about men and relationships. I’m going to stop wasting time on all that stupid love stuff. Instead I’m going to focus on what’s really important. Like family and friends, health, raising money for charity . . .
And a stonking great big cup of coffee.
Padding bleary-eyed into the kitchen, I find Robyn making herbal tea. Robyn is the queen of herbal teas, and we’re not just talking bog-standard chamomile or peppermint that come as pre-packaged teabags from Ralph’s Supermarket. She makes a whole science of herbal tea, brewing up spoonfuls of dried herbs with exotic-sounding names in her little teapot, stewing, sieving and straining through various filters and fiddly bits of gauze. All so she can produce the most foul-tasting liquid known to man.
Flicking on the kettle, I pull three cups from the cupboard.
‘One for me, one for you and one for Daniel,’ I say pointedly, giving her a knowing smile.
‘Thanks –’ she nods, ladling out dried herbs into a small ceramic teapot – ‘but I’ll only be needing one cup.’
‘Sensible man. He hates that stuff too, does he?’ I grin. I start unscrewing my little silver espresso pot. ‘Maybe he’d like a coffee instead.’
‘He’s not here.’
Dumping the old coffee grains in the bin, I give it a quick rinse under the tap. ‘Oh, has he gone to get croissants?’
Robyn and I live on the next street to this great little bakery that does the most delicious croissants. Every time I walk by I think of Nate’s comment and tell myself, ‘A moment on the lips, a lifetime on the hips.’ And every time I can’t resist popping in for an almond one. It’s a stupid rhyme anyway. I much prefer ‘A moment on the hips, a lifetime on the lips.’
‘No, he’s gone,’ she says flatly. The kettle boils and clicks off and she starts pouring water over her herbs.
‘Gone?’ The way she says it, it’s as if he’s gone missing. I’m almost tempted to look under the kitchen table to see if that’s where he’s hiding. Then it suddenly strikes me that she means he’s gone as in ‘He won’t be coming back.’
‘But how? Why?’ In confusion I watch her stirring her teapot, a strange sort of dazed look on her face. ‘Last night you two seemed so . . .’ I search for the right word. About to have sex? No, that’s three. ‘ . . . cosy,’ I finish.
She stops stirring and looks up. ‘It’s over.’
‘Over?’ I feel like the time I missed an episode of X-Factor and didn’t realise that one of my favourites had been knocked out and spent the first ten minutes completely bewildered and trying to work out what had happened.
‘Not that we were dating each other or anything,’ she adds hurriedly.
‘No, of course not.’ I nod, playing along.
‘We were just friends.’
‘Good friends,’ I suggest.
‘Yes, totally,’ she agrees, averting her eyes.
‘So what happened?’
There’s a pause and then she sighs. ‘Harold. That’s what happened. You told me you’d met him in Martha’s Vineyard.’
Guilt thuds. This is all my fault. ‘I didn’t mean for you to break up with Daniel,’ I protest quickly. ‘I mean, not that you were ever together—’ I try to backtrack, but she cuts me off.
‘I didn’t finish it. Daniel did. He doesn’t think we should see each other any more.’
I stare at her incredulously. ‘But I thought . . .’ I hesitate, my mind whirring. ‘I thought you two were having lots of fun together . . . the African drumming band, the vegan restaurant, last night . . .’ I trail off thinking about them together on the sofa. Trust me, Daniel did not look like a man who wanted to finish things.
‘We were.’ She nods. ‘We did.’ She gives a little sniff and her large green eyes start to glisten. She blinks rapidly. ‘But he said now that I’ve found Harold, he didn’t want to stop me from being with him. From being with my soulmate.’
I pause, allowing for that to register. ‘Can you just rewind that bit?’ I fix her with a hard look. ‘How does he know you’ve . . . I mean, I’ve found Harold?’
‘I told him.’
‘You told him?’
‘Of course.’ She nods. ‘I told him about Harold from the very beginning, how I’m searching for him, how he’s my soulmate.’
‘You haven’t even met him yet! He might be the completely wrong Harold,’ I exclaim, waving the espresso pot around. ‘I mean, there must be more than one unlucky sod in the world with the name Harold.’
Robyn stiffens slightly.
‘And even if by some miracle he is the right one, you might hate him.’
‘I don’t hate anyone,’ she reprimands hotly. ‘Hate is wasted emotion. It will only bring bitterness into your heart.’
‘That’s not what you said about the man who left his dog in the car.’
Last week Robyn saw an article on the news about a man who’d nearly killed his Dalmatian from heat exhaustion by leaving it locked in his jeep in the midday sun. Thankfully it was found in the nick of time by a passerby.
‘I don’t hate him. I want to lock him in his car in hundred-degree heat without any water or air and let him suffer in agony for a very, very long time and beg for help and come this close to dying.’ She pinches her two fingers together and scrunches up her face so that she looks pretty scary. ‘There’s a difference.’
‘So what are you going to do?’ I quickly change the subject. ‘About Daniel, I mean, not the man with the Dalmatian,’ I say hurriedly, before she reams off a list of torture devices. For a woman who’s all about healing, she knows an awful lot of ways to inflict pain.
‘Nothing.’ She shrugs and stares dolefully down at the teapot. ‘I would have had to finish it anyway. It was inevitable. It’s meant to be.’
‘Why? Because of what some stupid psychic said?’ I feel a stab of frustration.
Robyn purses her lips tightly and lifts her chin. ‘Wakanda is a Native American healer who can communicate with spirit guides. She has an amazing gift. Her Sioux name actually means “possesses magical power”.’
I open my mouth to argue, then, realising it’s futile, let out a groan. ‘Oh God, why didn’t I keep my mouth shut? I should never have told you about meeting the artist. It was supposed to be a secret.’
‘But you did,’ she says, reaching out and squeezing my arm in a don’t-blame-yourself kind of way. ‘You did tell me, and you did meet him. It’s serendipity.’
‘I thought that was a movie, not real life,’ I quip ruefully.
She smiles and, turning back to her teapot, gives it one last stir and pours herself a cup of tea.
‘So what are you going to do now?’
She pauses, and for a moment a look of sadness flashes briefly across her face, then it’s gone and is replaced with one of determination. ‘Do what I always do,’ she says firmly, and tucking her hair behind her ears, she gives me one of her megawatt smiles. ‘Leave things up to Fate.’
Chapter Thirty-Three
I’ve got a bone to pick with Fate.
Fate likes to portray itself as a genial character, a helpful soul, a guardian angel who will be there for you to lean on when the going gets tough. Don’t know what to do? Leave it up to Fate to decide. Life in a mess? Let Fate sort it out – he knows best. Single and heartbroken? Fate’s got something wonderful in store for you.
No wonder everyone is keen to put their feet up and let Fate look after them. It’s rather like your granddad. Or a very hands-on organised person, sort of your own personal PA.
Only in my experience Fate is no such thing, and the same goes for his little brother, Destiny. Quite frankly they’ve made a real mess of things where I’m concerned. So from now on they can bugger off and stop meddling. I’m taking charge of my own life, and when it com
es to love, Fate can mind its own bloody business.
Besides, like I said, I’m not wasting any more time thinking about that love stuff. That was then and this is now.
So, as Monday morning rolls around, it’s a whole new me who wakes up before her alarm, puts on clothes that are hanging up and sets off for work in plenty of time.
‘That was then and this is now,’ I repeat to myself under my breath as I stride along the street. ‘That was then and this is now.’ Robyn says I have to keep repeating it to myself as an affirmation.
Robyn’s big on affirmations. When I first moved in, I would find them stuck on bits of paper all over the apartment and hear her wandering around the house saying them. I have to admit I’d thought she was a bit batty. ‘It’s about replacing a negative thought with a positive one,’ she’d explained. ‘So, for example, if you’re worried about something and want to improve it, you say an affirmation.’
‘I’m worried about this Visa bill,’ I’d replied, waving my red, overdue statement at her. ‘Got an affirmation for that?’
Closing her eyes, she’d pinched her nose as if in deep concentration for a few moments, then opening her eyes, replied solemnly, ‘“I pay my bills with love as I know abundance flows freely through me.”’
Suffice to say, I got charged a late fee and a ton of interest.
But that was then and this is now, and although I still have my reservations, and I still think Robyn’s a bit batty, the way I see it a few affirmations can’t hurt. It’s all part of my determination to turn over a new leaf, a blank page, plus anything else that I can get my hands on, and focus on what’s important.
Like Kate and Jeff. His operation is scheduled for this afternoon and so I’ve arranged to work a half-day and meet Kate at the hospital.
‘No, I’m fine, honestly,’ she’d protested. ‘You don’t need to come.’
For the first time in my life I’d stood up to my sister. ‘Tough – I’m coming.’
First, though, I need to deal with the fallout from my meeting with Artsy, I muse, reaching the gallery and pushing open the glass doors. I’m bracing myself for Magda’s inquisition. Apart from the quick telephone call afterwards, we haven’t spoken, and if I know her, she’ll want all the details. And who can blame her? If he agrees to exhibit, the gallery is saved. And if he doesn’t . . .?
Nerves twist in the pit of my stomach. I don’t even want to think about it. Not yet, anyway.
Stepping inside the gallery, I wait for the usual cry of ‘Loozy!’ and for Magda to appear. Only she doesn’t. I glance around the gallery. It’s empty. Valentino scampers out from the back, snuffling and yapping, and jumps up at my legs.
‘Hey, boy.’ Magda’s obviously here, but where? ‘Magda?’ I call out, walking past the reception desk and towards the office at the back of the gallery. My footsteps echo on the concrete floor. ‘Are you here?’
I’m about to enter the office when abruptly the door is flung open and out jumps Magda. Wearing a white trouser suit and sporting a bright orange tan, she looks startlingly like an Oompa-Loompa.
‘Oh my God.’ I jump back, spilling my coffee and dropping Valentino, who gives a high-pitched yelp. ‘You frightened the life out of me!’
‘I’m sorry. I was . . . er . . . a little tied up.’ She stands in the doorway looking all twitchy. ‘I didn’t hear you come in.’
‘Oh well, never mind,’ I say, smiling. ‘Let me just hang my coat up.’
I go to enter the office, but she bars my way with an outstretched arm as if doing a stretch against the doorframe. Which is very odd. Magda doesn’t stretch. Not even at her health club apparently: ‘I go there to use the wonderful hot tub and watch the even hotter trainers,’ she’d once told me unapologetically.
‘Sorry, I just need to get through,’ I say, making a gesture with my coat.
‘Let me do it.’ Flashing me a smile, she takes my coat from me. ‘I’ll hang it up for you.’
Now I’m really confused. Magda doesn’t hang up other people’s coats. She doesn’t even hang up her own coat, for fear of ruining her manicure.
‘Are you feeling OK?’ I peer at her uncertainly.
‘Who? Me?’ She clutches her chest in exaggerated surprise. Trust me, her acting is worse than mine. ‘I’m just a little preoccupied,’ she explains, hopping from one white patent stiletto to the other. ‘I have things on my mind.’
‘Oh, of course.’ I nod, suddenly understanding. She’s probably spent a sleepless weekend fretting about the gallery, worrying if my trip to the Vineyard was a success. ‘You mean Artsy.’
Her reaction is not what I’m expecting. Instead of nodding compliantly, she looks shocked. ‘What about him?’ she demands defensively.
‘Well, I imagine you want to know all about what happened at our meeting. In the Vineyard,’ I prompt. Gosh, she is acting really weird. Even weirder than normal.
‘Ah, yes, yes, of course.’ She nods vigorously. ‘Your trip to the Vineyard.’ The way she says it, it’s almost as if she’d totally forgotten about it and was thinking about something else entirely. ‘I’m all ears.’ Putting her arm round my waist, she leads me across the gallery and over to the reception desk.
Basically moving me as far away from the office as she can get me, I can’t help noticing. I glance at her sharply. What on earth’s going on? Why is she acting so bizarrely?
‘Go ahead. Tell me everything,’ she says in a stagey voice, plonking me on to a stool.
‘Well, he was really nice, not what I was expecting,’ I begin, my mind spooling backwards, ‘but then I’m not sure what I was expecting.’
‘Mmm.’
‘You know, when I first arrived, he had me digging his vegetable patch.’ I smile at the memory. It seems so surreal now I’m back here in New York. ‘Then he showed me his recent artwork, which really was quite . . .’ I look at Magda. She’s not even listening. Instead she’s fiddling with her hair and looking around shiftily.
‘Mrs Zuckerman?’ I say in a firm voice.
It grabs her attention. ‘Er, yes, Loozy?’ She attempts an innocent expression, which quite frankly couldn’t look more guilty.
‘You seem preoccupied,’ I say questioningly.
‘I do?’ Her eyes are rabbit-in-the-headlights wide and she hesitates before saying, ‘One moment. I forgot something,’ and scuttling back across the gallery and disappearing into the office.
I stare after her, perplexed. And more than a little bit peeved. Sod it, she’s not even interested. I flew all the way to Martha’s Vineyard to meet Artsy; I even shared a bed with Nate because of him, well, sort of, and all because Magda made out it was this huge big deal, that it was the only way we could save the gallery. Now I’m back here and she can’t even be bothered to—
‘Surprise!’
I snap back to see Magda re-emerging from the office doorway, then stepping to one side to reveal a tall figure wearing lederhosen, a white frilly shirt and a large-brimmed hat. His face is partly in shadow, but there’s only one person I know who’d wear clothes like that.
‘Artsy?’ I gasp, taken aback. ‘What are you doing here?’
‘Exhibiting!’ whoops Magda, before he can open his mouth to answer. ‘Isn’t that right?’
It’s a statement, not a question, and I gape at Artsy. A bolt of relief, delight and God knows what else zips right through and threatens to erupt like a great big firework. Is it true? My eyes search his out under the brim of his hat. Is it?
‘I do believe that’s correct,’ he replies with mock formality, then glancing at me, winks.
The firework erupts silently inside me. Fizzing and showering me with a million pieces of glitter.
I did it. He said yes. We’re saved.
I want to punch the air, high-five Artsy, pick up Magda and swing her round, tickle Valentino’s tummy, but instead I force myself into professional mode.
‘That’s great news,’ I reply evenly, trying to silence my inner voice, which is shrieking exci
tedly in my head. ‘The gallery will be very honoured, and I’m sure you’ll find a very happy home here at Number Thirty-Eight.’
Magda shoots me a look of grateful appreciation. Something tells me she’s been whooping, ‘Wonderful, wonderful,’ ever since he broke the news to her.
‘I’m sure I will.’ He nods lazily, chewing gum. ‘Especially now I’ve met Mrs Zuckerman personally.’
‘Please, call me Magda.’ She blushes and giggles coyly like a schoolgirl.
A schoolgirl with a crush, I realise, glancing across at her.
‘I’m sorry, it was all my idea.’ Artsy turns to me.
‘Sorry?’ I look at him in confusion.
‘The surprise,’ he explains. ‘I thought it might be kinda fun. I’m afraid I can a bit of a practical joker.’
‘But you’re not joking now,’ I check hastily.
He grins and strokes his beard, which he’s shaved into a point and plaited with tiny beads. ‘No, this bit’s for real.’
Magda and I exchange glances. She looks like she’s died and gone to Gucci.
‘After you came to see me in the Vineyard, I did some research, asked around, and I liked what I heard.’ He glances at Magda and she puffs out her already inflated chest. ‘So many galleries have sold out. They’re not about the art any more. They’re not about giving art to the people. They’re just about money and profits and making the rich richer.’
‘Yes, it’s true,’ agrees Magda. ‘So true.’
‘But you seemed different,’ he muses, glancing at me. ‘You seemed to care about what I was doing, about the art, about the process.’
‘I liked your story about the socks.’ I smile and he grins.
‘I totally dig your philosophy,’ he continues, turning to Magda. ‘Everyone should be able to enjoy art. It should transcend all social classes, speak to the Proletariat, not just the bankers on Wall Street.’
‘Absolutely,’ nods Magda fervently. ‘Those bankers.’ She makes a disgusted tutting noise with her tongue. ‘All they care about is money. They don’t care about people, their lives, their hopes and dreams.’