You're Not the One (9781101558959) Page 6

  She looks at me for a moment. “You know, if you’re unable to reach orgasm, it might be because you’re still in love with someone else,” she says pointedly.

  “What part of ‘he’s married’ didn’t you understand?” I say equally as pointedly.

  She opens her mouth to protest, then thinks again and gives a reluctant sigh of defeat. “Jeez, that sucks. It was such a romantic story,” she says sadly.

  “So is Romeo and Juliet,” I reply, as we move toward the cash register, “and that didn’t turn out so well either.” I hand my receipt to the teller.

  “That’ll be twenty-two dollars and forty-five cents,” he says, ringing it up.

  “Haven’t we met before?”

  In the middle of digging out my purse, I look up to see Robyn throwing a toothpaste-ad smile at the man behind the cash register. Well, I say ‘man,’ but he can’t be older than twenty. Gawkily tall with dark hair and a fuzzy mustache, he smiles nervously.

  “We have?” he asks uncertainly. He looks slightly afraid, as if he’s going to get busted for doing something.

  “It’s Harold, right?”

  “Um . . . no, it’s Anthony. You must have gotten me mixed up with someone else.”

  “Oh. Sorry, my mistake.” She smiles apologetically and turns back to me. The smile immediately falls from her face. “Damn, he was kinda cute.”

  “So you haven’t given up yet?”

  “Of course not!” She looks astonished that I could even ask such a question. “If he’s my destiny, I’m not going to stop looking until I find him. Because if I’m looking for my soul mate, my soul mate is out there somewhere looking for me.” Her green eyes flash with determination. “I know you probably think I’m crazy—”

  “No, I don’t,” I protest a little too quickly.

  “But sometimes you have to take a leap of faith. Trust in the universe. Believe in the power of positive thinking and the laws of attraction. It’s like The Secret. Did you ever read it?”

  “No, I don’t think—”

  “Well, I did, cover to cover,” she continues, “and I bought the DVD. It was amazing. Seriously. I made a vision board and everything.”

  “What’s that?”

  Robyn turns on me incredulously. “You don’t know what a vision board is?”

  “Um . . .” I feel like the time I was ten and on the school playground and someone asked me if I knew what an erection was.

  “Not exactly,” I try bluffing. “Should I?”

  “Oh my God. Totally!” she cries, eyes wide. “A vision board is a visualization tool that activates the universal law of attraction to begin manifesting your dreams into reality.”

  “Right, I see.” I nod, not seeing at all. Rather like when I was ten and asked my sister what an erection was and, after she laughed her head off, she explained it’s what you call a penis when it goes hard.

  Only I didn’t know what a penis was.

  “Basically, it’s really simple. You get a piece of foam board and you cut out pictures or words from magazines or wherever and you make a collage of all the things you want in your life,” she enthuses. “It’s actually kind of fun. You should try it.”

  “Hmm, maybe.” I don’t want to hurt her feelings, but really—a quiz in a magazine is one thing, but a vision board? My sister would have kittens. “Only it’s not quite my thing.”

  “Lucy, you’ve got to stop being so negative,” she reprimands me.

  “I’m not being negative,” I protest. “I’m British. We don’t do vision boards or self-help books. Well, at least not in public,” I add, thinking about the couple of books I’ve got stashed on my shelf.

  “Well, you should.” Robyn clicks her tongue and looks at me pityingly.

  “Excuse me, miss?” The teller is holding out my change.

  “Oh, thanks.” Taking it from him, I put it back in my purse. “Sorry, but I just don’t believe in that stuff,” I say, turning back to Robyn.

  “That’s your problem right there.” She shrugs. “You don’t believe.”

  Picking up the takeaway bag of food from the counter, I hug it to my chest a tad defensively.

  “Not everything can be explained or understood, you know, Lucy.” Tucking a shock of curls behind her ear, she looks at me beseechingly. “Sometimes you have to trust in the mysterious power of the universe, in a greater energy, in a spiritual force, in something bigger than you and me.” Her eyes are shining and her face is filled with such conviction that for a moment I can almost feel my skepticism wavering. “You just have to believe. And I believe that in this big, wide world, in all these billions of people, if two people are meant to be together, they’ll be together.”

  As she’s talking, something flickers deep inside, the part of me that used to believe it too, that used to think that Nate and I were meant to be together, that in this big, wide world I’d found my soul mate.

  “According to the laws of attraction, you attract what you think of the most. In which case, it’s just a matter of waiting for Harold to show up.”

  But you buried that part of yourself a long time ago, I tell myself firmly, pushing the thought out of my mind. Remember?

  “So tell me,” I say, turning the conversation around. “If you’ve been spending all this time waiting for Harold, how long has it been for you?”

  Without missing a beat she rattles off, “Thirteen months, eighteen days, and”—she glances at her watch—“about ten hours. I tell you, Harold better hurry up and put in an appearance soon.”

  Rolling her eyes, she says to the sullen man who’s still waiting to take her order, “Actually, forget the chicken. I’ll have what she’s having.” And turning to me, she laughs throatily. “I’ve always wanted to say that in here.”

  Back at the gallery, I’m greeted by a pile of wooden crates and a carpet of curly white polystyrene balls that have escaped from their packaging and are spilling all over the floor. Standing knee deep in the middle is Magda, flapping her arms like a flightless bird. She twirls round when she hears me enter.

  “You’re back!” she gasps excitedly. She’s panting slightly and her face is covered in a sheen of perspiration. Her golden beehive, however, remains pristine. “I have great news!”

  Anxiety stabs. Oh God, what now? I’ve only been gone half an hour.

  “You do?” I brace myself for what’s about to follow, which, with Magda, could be anything.

  “While you were gone, something wonderful happened.”

  You took meatballs off the menu? Your son announced he’s gay? Daniel Craig has finally discovered I exist and rang to ask if he could take me out for dinner in a limo? And yes, he’ll wear those swimming trunks for me under his suit?

  OK, I admit, that’s a secret fantasy of mine.

  “A man came in and bought our entire Gustav collection.”

  I snap back to reality. “What? The entire collection?” OK, so it’s not Daniel Craig, but it’s a really big deal; the Gustav collection consists of several large works by a German artist whose paintings sell for thousands of dollars.

  “Everything!” Magda flings her arms wide. “It happened so fast. He walked in, looked around for a couple of minutes, and then boom!” Polystyrene balls fly into the air.

  “Boom?”

  “He said he wanted to buy it all. Just like that. He didn’t even ask the price.”

  “Wow.” I try to imagine buying an entire collection of art without asking the price, but I can’t. In fact, I can’t imagine buying anything without first finding out what it costs. I even do a price check on shampoo before I put it in my basket.

  Then again, I’m not someone who buys art. I’m someone who’s forever up to her overdraft limit, late on her credit cards, and running out of money before the end of the month. I’ve tried to learn how to budget, but I’ve also tried to learn how to play the piano; I’m totally crap at both. I mean, what exactly is “balancing” a checkbook? And why would you want to?

  “Gosh,
that’s good news,” I say, feeling a beat of relief that we’ve finally sold something.

  “And he paid with his American Express Black,” says Magda with the sort of hushed awe you’d use if you spotted Beyoncé in your local Starbucks.

  “Is that good?” I ask innocently, perching on a stool and unwrapping my tuna melt.

  Magda looks aghast. “You are single and you don’t know these things?”

  “Um . . . no. Should I?” I ask, taking a bite.

  She inhales sharply. “Loozy! How are you supposed to find a rich husband if you don’t know what to look for?”

  “I’m not looking for a rich husband,” I reply, my feminist principles rising up in indignation.

  “Pah!” She tuts dismissively. “Every woman is looking for a rich husband.”

  I swallow hard. “None of my boyfriends has been rich,” I retort. “In fact, with my last boyfriend I paid for everything!” Hah! So there.

  Magda’s expression is incredulous. “And you think this is a good thing?”

  When it’s put like that, I can feel my feminist principles faltering slightly. “Well, it . . . um . . . gives you independence.” See, I knew there was a good reason not to date a rich man.

  “Independence?” Magda bats the word away like an irritating fly. “What is this independence nonsense? What are you, an African country?”

  My cheeks color.

  “You need to forget about all these silly things,” she continues firmly. “You need to forget about romance and chemistry and the size of his—” She breaks off and crooks her little finger.

  I can feel my cheeks, which are already red, deepen in color. I’m not used to having these kinds of conversations with my boss.

  “You need to look for three things.”

  “I know, I know: personality, good sense of humor—” I begin reciting, but Magda interrupts with a snort of derision.

  “What is this, eHarmony?” She pulls a face. “No, no, no. It’s very simple: credit card, watch, shoes.”

  I watch with bemusement as she counts them off on her fingers.

  “Number one: credit card. No Visa or MasterCard.” She wrinkles up her nose as if there’s a bad smell. “Only American Express. And no green!”

  “Why? What’s wrong with green?” I ask, before I can stop myself.

  “Because you want black,” she says firmly. “Black has no credit limit. Black is perfect for when you want to go shopping at Bergdorf Goodman.”

  I open my mouth to tell her that I’ve never been shopping at Bergdorf Goodman, but then think better of it.

  “Two: watch.” She pauses. “Rolex or Cartier are both excellent.”

  “What about Swatch?” I ask, glancing at my own. It’s bright yellow plastic and I’ve had it forever.

  “A Swatch is a four-story walk-up in Queens,” she warns darkly.

  “Oh, right.” I nod and quickly cover mine with my sleeve.

  “Three: shoes.” She folds her arms and fixes me with a beady eye. “What shoes did your last boyfriend wear?”

  Uh-oh.

  “Crocs,” I venture gingerly.

  Magda looks apoplectic. “The plastic gardening shoes? With the holes?”

  I feel my cheeks redden with shame. And I wasn’t even the one wearing them.

  “They must be hand stitched. Leather. And Italian.”

  I don’t think I’ve ever even met anyone who wears hand-stitched Italian leather shoes.

  “What about love?” I volunteer. “Shouldn’t that be on the checklist?”

  “Trust me, if you find a man with all three, you will fall in love with him,” she instructs, and reaches toward a painting hanging on the wall. “OK, now help me. We need to pack these quickly. He wants delivery today.”

  “Today?” I glance at all the packing boxes, my earlier excitement deflating slightly. “Can’t he wait until tomorrow?” I feel a tweak of irritation. Who does this guy think he is, coming in here with his black American Express card, thinking he owns the place?

  I glance at our now almost empty walls. Saying that, I suppose he kind of does.

  “And I want you to go with the delivery and make sure it gets there safely,” continues Magda, ignoring my last comment. “I would go, but I need to visit my aunt Irena. She’s moving into a nursing home. It’s a good one, not a bad one. I say to her, ‘Irena, this is costing more than my apartment on Park Avenue.’” She gesticulates with her hands. “Anyway, you must go without me. Alone,” she adds darkly.

  Suddenly it registers. She’s trying to matchmake. “Oh, no, Magda—” I begin protesting, but she doesn’t let me finish.

  “Number four: wedding ring. He wasn’t wearing one.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously, and looking very pleased with herself indeed, she passes me a roll of bubble wrap.

  Chapter Six

  By the end of the afternoon all the paintings have been carefully packaged and are being loaded onto a truck for delivery. As the last wooden crate disappears into the back of the truck, Magda turns to me.

  “So the doorman will sign for the paintings, but they are to be delivered to the customer’s penthouse. You must wait with them until the customer arrives. For insurance purposes, you understand?”

  “But if someone’s already signed, then surely—”

  Magda silences me with an outstretched palm. “You must wait,” she repeats in a tone that’s nonnegotiable.

  I fall silent. I know there’s no point trying to reason. She’s determined to matchmake, I muse, reluctantly climbing into the front seat of the truck alongside the driver. And after her son, Daniel, I’m under no illusions.

  “You ready?” A thick Queens accent interrupts my downward spiral into general gloom about being single, nudging thirty, and at the mercy of well-meaning friends, relatives, and now my boss wanting to try to set me up with anything that’s got a penis and a heartbeat.

  I glance at him.

  I feel my spirits lift. I’ve been so distracted I haven’t noticed my driver until now, but he’s actually really cute. He’s got a shaved head, dark brown eyes, and the whitest teeth. In fact, they’re so white they look almost luminous against his dark skin. And look at those arms! My eyes flick to biceps that are bulging out of his T-shirt like two huge watermelons as he grips the steering wheel. Crikey, I don’t think I’ve ever seen arms like that in real life, and he’s got this amazing tattoo of a dragon.

  Shit, I’m staring. “Er, yes . . . all set.” I smile brightly.

  “Loozy.”

  I snap back to see Magda at my side window, an expression of disapproval on her face. Without thinking I glance at the driver’s feet. He’s wearing Nikes.

  Well, so what? I’m not looking for a husband, I think indignantly, peeking at his empty wrist and noticing he’s not wearing a watch. Or anyone else’s, I realize after noticing he is wearing a wedding ring.

  Bang goes my little crush.

  “And remember to call me,” she instructs. “I want to know everything got there safely.”

  “I will,” I reply dutifully, as the driver turns on the ignition.

  “And make sure—”

  Thankfully her voice is drowned out as the engine fires up noisily.

  Waving good-bye as the truck pulls away, I watch her figure getting smaller and smaller in the side mirror, and for the first time today I allow myself to feel a beat of excitement. I can’t believe it. Me. Lucy Hemmingway. In sole charge of some of the finest artwork. Representing the gallery. It’s a huge responsibility and a great opportunity to help me climb further up the career ladder.

  Plus I get the chance to see inside a real-life penthouse in New York! With a doorman and everything!

  Smiling to myself, I roll down the window and look out across Manhattan as I and thousands of dollars’ worth of paintings begin our journey uptown.

  The traffic is bumper to bumper and it takes a lot of stopping and starting and cursing from my driver, who hangs one arm out of the window, yelling at cab drivers
and gesticulating, before we reach the park. En route I’m given a running commentary by Mikey, my driver, who’s full of anecdotes about each district we go through.

  “SoHo’s SoHo ’cause it’s south of Houston. Greenwich Village is just called the Village. It’s always been this bohemian haven. See that café on the corner? That’s where Jack Kerouac and Bob Dylan used to hang out.”

  It’s hot and humid and I stare out the window and watch Manhattan slowly pass us by.

  “Now Washington Square. Man, that was nasty, full of drug dealers, but now it’s totally cleaned up its act. Now Chelsea, that’s famous for where Sid Vicious killed Nancy Spungen.”

  As we move uptown, old brick warehouses covered in cast-iron fire escapes that cling like ivy give way to elegant brownstones with wide steps and polished brass doorknobs. Shafts of sunlight shine through the gaps in the buildings that tower overhead, and shop fronts change from discount ninety-nine-cent shops, busy markets, and eclectic bookstores to fancy designer stores and expensive restaurants.

  Neighborhoods smarten up, as do the people. From the grungy guys wheeling racks through the garment district, to the blonde pony-tailed mums with their four-wheel-drive baby buggies and coffees-to-go in Columbus Circle, to the hordes of joggers and Rollerbladers zigzagging in and out of Central Park.

  “And finally we have touchdown.”

  Amid a fanfare of horns the truck swings to a shuddering halt outside a large, modern high-rise towering over the park.

  “We’re here?” Dipping my head, I try craning upward to see.

  “Yup. Sure are,” Mikey says with a nod, flashing me a huge grin. He glances at the building and lets out a whistle. “Very fancy.”

  I look across at the dark green awning, the square of carpet that spills out onto the pavement, and the polished glass and brass door, out of which a uniformed doorman hurries to greet us.

  Wow. It’s like arriving at the Savoy or something. “Are you sure this isn’t a hotel?” I call to Mikey, who’s already jumped out of the truck and is hoisting up the back door with a loud rattle.

  He laughs at my reaction. “Nope, this is how some people live, lady.”