You're Not the One (9781101558959) Read online

  Magda’s passionate dislike of Tom Cruise (“If he jumped on my sofa, I would keel him!”) is paralleled only by her passion for art, and her desire is to make it accessible to everyone. “Remember, it’s always free to look” is her mantra, and her enthusiasm is so infectious that people can’t help but be seduced by it. In the few weeks that I’ve been working here, I’ve noticed regulars coming in just to hang out and enjoy the art, with no pressure to buy. It’s not like any private gallery I’ve ever worked in.

  “And I have decided . . .”

  I focus back on Magda as she pauses for a silent drum roll.

  “Yes?” I brace myself. I’m fast learning to expect the unexpected.

  “It is time for us to do an opening. Show off our talent. Fling open our doors.” She throws out her arms. “Fly in the face of this nasty recession!” Curling her lip, she snarls at me.

  “Wow, er, great,” I enthuse, flinching slightly. “That’s an excellent idea.”

  I feel a secret beat of relief. My boss’s magnanimous attitude toward art might be commendable, but we’re not the MoMA or the Whitney. We do actually need to sell some of it to stay open. In the six weeks I’ve been working here, sales have been slow to the point of zero and I’ve started to worry a bit about my job.

  I only got it because Rupert knows Magda from his Studio 54 days, back in the seventies, when he lived here for a brief period. When he discovered she needed an extra pair of hands, he suggested me. He knew I wouldn’t turn down the chance to work in a New York gallery. “Plus I owe Magda a huge favor,” he confided darkly, refusing to be drawn. Not that I tried. To be quite honest, just learning that Rupert, in his navy blazer with gold buttons and pinkie ring, used to shake his thang at a world-famous disco was information enough.

  “We will have wine, champagne,” she continues, then frowns. “Well, maybe not champagne, but the fizzy wine we can do.” Thanks to her generous divorce settlements, Magda is a very wealthy woman, but she’s also frugal. “I mean, who can tell the difference?” She looks at me, palms outstretched.

  People who spend thousands of dollars on art, I’m tempted to say, but she’s already run on ahead.

  “And food, we must have lots of food,” she says, reaching for a bagel, then thinking better of it and putting it back. Despite her desire for everyone else to eat, I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen anything pass Magda’s suspiciously inflated lips.

  “You mean canapés?”

  Magda looks at me mistrustfully. “What is this canopy?”

  “Like, for example, mini-quiches,” I suggest. “Or you could do sushi; that’s always popular.”

  “Pah! Sushi!” She wrinkles her nose in distaste. “I don’t get this sushi. These little pieces of raw fish and bits of rice.”

  “Back in London we catered an exhibition with sushi and sake, and it was very successful,” I try encouraging her. “In fact, we got several compliments.”

  “No.” She gives a dismissive shake of her head. “We will do meatballs.”

  For a moment I think I’ve heard wrong. “Meatballs?” I repeat incredulously. Inviting people to a gallery opening and serving meatballs is unheard of in the art world. I try to imagine Rupert eating meatballs while admiring a watercolor with Lady So-and-So. Strangely, I can’t. To tell the truth, I think Rupert would have a coronary at the mention of a meatball.

  “Yes, I will make them myself. With my special recipe,” Magda is saying decisively. “They will be wonderful. My meatballs are famous.” There’s a pause. “What? You don’t believe me?”

  I zone back in to see Magda looking at me indignantly.

  “Oh, er, yes, of course I do,” I protest hastily. “I’m sure they’re delicious!”

  Arms folded, she peers at me, nostrils flared. She reminds me a bit of a bull just as it is about to stampede. I know this because I grew up near a farm and there was a bull that nearly trampled to death a rambler who had dared cut across his field.

  Right now I feel a bit like that rambler.

  “Meatballs, mmm,” I enthuse, groping around in my head for something to say about meatballs and trying desperately to dismiss images of school lunches. “How . . . um . . . meaty!”

  Meaty? That’s it, Lucy? That’s all you can come up with? I cringe inwardly, but if my boss suspects anything, she doesn’t show it. Rather, the corners of her mouth turn up slightly and I see her thawing.

  “My favorite,” I add.

  Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

  “They are?” Magda’s ample chest swells.

  “Absolutely.” I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back. “In fact, I could eat them all day every day.”

  Now I’ve started, I don’t seem able to stop.

  “You could?” Magda is positively beaming.

  “Oh, yes.” I nod. “In fact, if someone said to me, ‘Lucy Hemmingway, you can only eat one thing for the rest of your life,’ it wouldn’t be chocolate or Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. Oh no.” I put my hand on my hip and waggle my finger theatrically, suddenly feeling a bit like when I played Annie in the school play.

  “Dynamic” is how the local newspaper described me. Mum has the cutting in a frame in the downstairs loo, along with a picture of me as Annie. Which is very unfortunate—me at thirteen in braces and a curly ginger wig is not a pretty sight, and not something I want to see every time I use the loo. It’s the reason I spent my entire teenage years whizzing boyfriends straight out through the front door, despite their bursting bladders.

  “No. Do you know what it would be, Mrs. Zuckerman?” I ask, throwing my arms out wide. I’m now in full pantomime mode, complete with hand gestures and over-the-top facial expressions. I’m quite enjoying myself. Perhaps amateur dramatics would have suited me.

  Had I actually been able to act, that is.

  “No. Tell me,” whispers Magda with anticipation.

  “Meatballs!” I declare. “Nothing but meatballs!”

  OK. Maybe I got a bit too carried away there.

  Surprisingly, though, Magda looks like all her Christmases have come at once. Or, I should say, Hanukkahs.

  “Oh, Loozy.” She reaches for my hand. “If only you were Jewish, I would beg you to marry my youngest son, Daniel. Nothing would make me happier.”

  “Oh . . . um, thanks.” I smile uncertainly, not sure how to take this compliment.

  Magda discovered my single status within thirty minutes of my first day at work. By noon she’d demanded my entire relationship history since primary school and by closing time had declared them all schmucks.

  “You would be the perfect couple,” she says, reaching into her enormous tote and pulling out a concertina-type thingy, which she opens out like an accordion. It’s filled with photographs of her family. “See! Here he is!” She thrusts a picture at me.

  I stare at it, my face momentarily frozen in shock.

  Think Austin Powers in a yarmulke.

  “I know, he’s handsome, huh?” She beams, misinterpreting my reaction. “Look at those green eyes! And that smile! Have you ever seen a smile like that before?”

  “Um . . . wow,” I manage, trying to find a positive angle.

  Then I give up.

  Well, really. I’m not shallow. I know looks aren’t everything and that it’s personality that counts, but, well . . . I glance back at the photo and his giant rabbit teeth.

  OK, sod it. Call me shallow.

  “And an architect too!” Magda is swelling up so much I’m fearful she’s going to burst with maternal pride.

  “Wow,” I repeat. My vocabulary, it seems, has shrunk to one word. Not that Magda has noticed, mind you. She’s too busy beaming at her son’s photograph and polishing it with her sleeve.

  “But it is such a shame, because you cannot marry. The Jewish faith passes through the woman.” She heaves a deep, heartfelt sigh. “It is wonderful for the feminism but not for you and Daniel.” She turns to me, her eyes downcast.

  “I understand.
” I nod gravely, while inside I feel little bursts of joy, like tiny fireworks going off inside me. I’ve always been an atheist, but now suddenly I’m a born-again.

  “I’m so sorry.” She’s still shaking her head.

  “It’s OK. Really, I understand.” I try to look as sad as I can, while stifling a giggle that’s bubbling up inside. “I’ll survive.” Any minute I’ll start breaking out into Gloria Gaynor.

  “It is a crime that a girl like you is single. A crime!” she repeats, passionately thumping the reception desk with her fist. “But don’t worry,” she quickly reassures me. “Leave it to me.”

  I feel a beat of alarm. “Leave what?”

  “I married off my brother and three of my cousins. My family call me Magda the Matchmaker.”

  Oh my God, this cannot be happening. It’s bad enough having friends try to matchmake, but your boss?

  “I even found someone for Belinda, my sister’s daughter. A nice doctor from Brooklyn. And that was a tough one,” she confides, lowering her voice. “The girl’s a vegan and refuses to shave her legs. I mean, I ask you.” She throws her hands in the air. “I said to her, ‘Belinda, we’re not in Germany. Buy a razor!’”

  I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights.

  “Trust me, your single days are numbered,” she vows, beaming at me triumphantly.

  I stare at her dazedly. Never have I wanted to be part of a couple more than in this moment. “Um . . . great,” I manage. “Lucky me!”

  She smiles in consolation. “Well, it is no substitute for my Daniel, but it is the best I can do.” Then, taking one last lingering look at her beloved son, she snaps the concertina of photographs closed. “OK, enough of this love stuff. We must go to work!”

  Chapter Five

  Thankfully I don’t have any time to think about my near miss with Daniel, or who else Magda is going to try to set me up with, as the rest of the morning is consumed in a whirl of activity getting things ready for the gallery event.

  There’s masses to do. True to form, Magda impulsively wants everything to happen right now; the date is set for this Friday.

  “This Friday?” I squeaked in panic.

  “You want Thursday instead?” was her reply. And the scary thing is, I don’t think she was joking.

  So while she clatters around the gallery on her five-inch heels, firing off instructions, I start organizing. First things first, I draw up a list:1. Compile guest list.

  2. E-mail invitations.

  3. Write promotional material.

  4. Book caterer.

  5. Hire waitstaff.

  6. Hang paintings ready to exhibit.

  See, I might not have been born with the organization gene like my sister, but I’m not completely useless at it. OK, so I admit I’d rather have a paintbrush than a computer mouse in my hand, and yes, I still type with two fingers (oh, all right, then, one finger), and it’s true that until recently I thought a spreadsheet was that curtain thingy on the bottom of the bed (apparently it’s called a valance, which, quite frankly, is a really stupid name for it; spreadsheet makes far more sense), but how hard is it to write down all the things you have to do, then tick them off when you’ve done them?

  Feeling rather pleased with myself, I look back at the computer screen and my neatly typed list. Actually, hang on a minute, rewind that thought. I have to do all these things? By the end of this week?

  Shit.

  1. Panic.

  But not right now. It’ll have to wait until later, as it’s lunchtime, I realize, seeing Magda’s head popping out of the back office to remind me it’s time to eat. Again. I swear I could set my watch by her. Bang on one o’clock she sends me out to her favorite deli, Katz’s, for her usual order of a pastrami sandwich on rye and matzo-ball soup. Though with her tiny size-zero figure and twenty-inch waist, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s Valentino, her Maltese, doing most of the eating.

  Katz’s is a New York institution that’s been around forever. For tourists and those new to the city, like me, it’s famous for Meg Ryan’s faked orgasm in When Harry Met Sally. It happened right in the middle of the deli. There’s even an arrow pointing to the exact table where it was filmed.

  “God, I love that scene.” Taking a ticket, I turn to Robyn, who’s just popped out between appointments to meet me with a set of keys she’s had cut for the apartment. She works at Tao Healing Arts, not far from here, in Chinatown.

  “Men don’t.” She grins, also taking a ticket and following me to the counter, where, as always, there’s a long queue. “It scares them. Women who fake it are like the tooth fairy. We don’t exist.”

  I laugh. When she’s not quoting Oprah, Robyn can be very funny.

  “Anyway, I’ve never needed to fake it.”

  I stop laughing abruptly. “You haven’t?” My voice comes out a little higher than intended.

  “Nope, not me.” Shaking her head decisively, she leans closer. “I’m like a hair trigger.” She snaps her fingers and I jump slightly.

  “A what?” I ask in confusion.

  “You know, I respond to the slightest stimulation,” she says cheerily. “What about you?” She meets my eyes with that shiny, happy confidence that Americans seem to ooze from their pores.

  “Oh, um. Just a few times,” I fib, pushing my sunglasses back on my head and flicking my hair about, like I always do when I’m avoiding. Well, I’m not going to admit I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to fake it to little Miss Hair Trigger over here, am I? “You know, sometimes, when I’m a bit tired.”

  “Have you tried sensual massage?” she suggests helpfully.

  That’s another thing about Americans—they are always so completely earnest. With fellow Brits, this conversation would have already descended into lewd jokes and leg-pulling, like the recent afternoon I spent in a bookstore with Kate sniggering at the illustrations in The Joy of Sex. She was going to buy it as a wedding gift for her friends, but after seeing the pictures of the hippie guy with the long beard and skinny legs, she was scared it might have a detrimental effect on their love life. She ended up buying them a set of steak knives instead.

  Still, I am an adult, not a teenager. I should be able to have a conversation about orgasms and sex without being immature and having to make silly jokes, I tell myself firmly. I mean, I’m not that childish.

  “It can really help get you in the mood.”

  “What? The mood for lurve?” I joke, doing my best Barry White impersonation.

  Robyn’s steadfast gaze doesn’t waver. “You know, I’ve got some Chinese herbs you can take for that.”

  “For what?” I say, pretending to look at the menu, even though after six weeks of doing the lunch run, I know it by heart.

  “Loss of interest in sex, lack of libido . . .”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my libido,” I snap, then blush with embarrassment. “Thanks very much, but it’s fine, honestly.”

  “You know it’s important to get in touch with your sexuality,” she continues matter-of-factly. “You Brits can be so uptight. You’re never going to come with that attitude.”

  “I do come,” I gasp indignantly.

  The queue of people in front of me turn to stare. I feel my cheeks turn beetroot. “It’s just been a while since I had great sex,” I hiss defensively, shuffling forward.

  “You and me both, honey,” mutters a fiftysomething waitress, barging past with a tray of matzo-ball soup.

  “How long’s a while?” persists Robyn, looking concerned.

  “Oh, you know . . .”

  Ten years, pipes up a little voice in my head. Ten years since Italy. Since Nathaniel. Since you had great, mind-blowing, knock-your-socks-off sex.

  “A few months,” I say firmly. Well, that’s ridiculous. I must have had great, orgasmic sex since then. What about Sean? Or before that there was Anthony . . . or even the fling with the Scottish guy on my holiday to Spain when I was twenty-five. I can’t remember his name, but I remember he m
ade this really funny noise when we did it, sort of like a squeaking. . . .

  Oh God. It’s true. It’s been ten years. Ten years without an orgasm.

  Well, not strictly.

  “Masturbation doesn’t count, by the way,” says Robyn, interrupting my thoughts.

  “It doesn’t?” The hope in my voice is audible.

  “Nuh-uh.” She shakes her head, her eyes flashing with amusement. Then suddenly a thought seems to hit her and her face fills with comprehension. “Oh my God, it’s him, isn’t it?” she says in a hushed voice. “He was the last time.”

  “Who?” I try to play dumb. I’m terrible. Annie was my only good role.

  “The guy from Italy. Your everlasting love. The One.”

  Put like that, it sounds more than ridiculous. It sounds pathetic.

  “Don’t be silly. He’s not my everlasting love.” I give a scornful little laugh.

  “But you said—”

  “Hey, lady!”

  Our conversation is interrupted by a loud holler and I glance up to see a sullen man behind the counter scowling at me. It’s the same sullen man who serves me every day. I’ve never yet seen him smile or heard him grunt more than a couple of words. He jerks his bald head. This, I’ve learned, is my cue to order.

  “One matzo-ball soup and a pastrami on rye,” I reply. I feel a beat of pleasure. Gosh, listen to me—I sound like a true New Yorker. Pastrami on rye.

  The sullen man grunts and starts carving up big chunks of pastrami.

  “Oh, and a tuna melt,” I add.

  Tuna melts, I’ve discovered, are the most delicious things. Who would have thought melted cheese on tuna could be such a winning combo?

  He scowls, scribbles something on a piece of paper, which he stuffs through a hatch, and turns back to the heap of pastrami he’s carved.

  “Thanks.” I smile brightly and turn back to Robyn, who’s having trouble deciding what to order. “Look, I said a lot of things the other night,” I say dismissively. “Like he married another woman, remember?”