You're the One That I Don't Want, Page 2

  2. How long have you liked him?

  My mind flicks back. We met in the summer of 1999. I was nineteen. Which makes it . . . As my mind does the calculation, I feel a thump of realisation. Quickly followed by a left jab of defensiveness.

  OK, so it’s ten years. So what? Ten years is nothing. My mum’s known my dad for forty years.

  Yes, but your mum’s married to him, pipes up a little voice inside me.

  Ignoring it, I quickly circle option c. Right. Next question.

  3. Can you see yourself getting married to this guy?

  Well, that’s easy. It’s zero.

  In fact, I’d say the chances of marrying him are less than zero. But that’s OK. I’m perfectly fine with it. That’s just the way things are, and that’s cool.

  All right, so in the past I might have thought about it. And maybe for a moment I imagined myself in a white dress (actually, more of a calico, in antique lace, with full-length sleeves and a sweetheart neckline) and him in top hat and tails with his messy blond hair and tatty old Converses peeping out from underneath. Dancing our first dance under the stars to ‘No Woman, No Cry’, our favourite Bob Marley song. Leaving on our honeymoon in his old VW camper van . . .

  Zoning back, I notice I’ve been absentmindedly doodling a love-heart around a) 100%. Shit. What did I do that for? Flustered, I grab my pen and start scribbling over it furiously. It’s not as if that means anything. It’s not like it’s in my subconscious.

  I suddenly realise I’m pressing so hard I’ve torn the page.

  4. Do your friends think you’re obsessed with this guy?

  My body stiffens defensively.

  I think about him from time to time, but I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed. Not at all. I mean, I’m not stalking him or anything. Or hounding him with Facebook messages. Or Googling him relentlessly.

  OK, I confess. I Googled him once.

  Maybe twice.

  Oh, all right, so I’ve lost count over the years. But so what? Who hasn’t gone home and Googled a man they’re in love with?

  Hang on – did I just say the L word?

  Out of the blue my stomach flips over like a pancake. I flip it straight back again. I didn’t mean that at all! It’s this silly quiz – it’s making me think all kinds of things.

  I circle b) No.

  As the number six train makes its way uptown, I continue through the questions. They get progressively more ludicrous, but it passes the time. In fact, I’m just on the last question . . .

  10. What film best describes your relationship?

  . . .when I’m suddenly aware of the overhead announcement – ‘This is Forty-Second Street, Grand Central’ – and I realise I’m at my stop.

  Stuffing the magazine into my bag, I start politely trying to excuse my way through the packed carriage. Of course, no one pays any attention. Since moving to New York from London a few weeks ago, I’ve begun noticing that all my ‘Oh, sorry’s, ‘Excuse me’s and ‘I beg your pardon’s fall on deaf ears.

  It’s not that New Yorkers are rude. On the contrary, I’m finding them to be some of the friendliest, warmest people I’ve ever met. It’s just that our terribly British way of apologising for everything has zero effect. They don’t understand what we’re apologising for. To be honest, half the time I don’t understand what I’m apologising for. It’s just something I do. A habit. Like logging on to Facebook every five minutes.

  For example, yesterday I was crossing the street when this man bashed right into me and spilled coffee all over me. And get this – I was the one who said sorry! Yes, me! About a million times! Even though it was totally his fault. He was on his mobile and not looking where he was going.

  Sorry, I mean cell phone – well, I am in New York now.

  At the thought I get a tingle all the way up my spine. I can’t help it. Every time I catch myself glancing up at the skyscrapers towering above my head, or walking down Broadway on my way to work, or hailing one of those distinctive yellow cabs (which I’ve only done once, as I’m broke, but still), I feel as if I’m in a movie. I’ve been here six weeks and still can’t believe it’s real. I almost expect to see Carrie, Miranda, Charlotte and Samantha waltzing arm in arm towards me.

  Exiting the subway station, I pause at the pedestrian crossing to study the little pop-up map of Manhattan I keep in my bag. Some people have this sort of inbuilt GPS, a bit like cats. You can drop them anywhere and they can find their way home. Not me. I get lost in Tesco. Once, I spent over half an hour wandering around the salad bar trying to find the checkout. Trust me. I’ve not been able to face coleslaw since.

  I turn the map upside down, then back again. I’m stumped. I’ve arranged to go for a drink after work, but I haven’t a clue where the bar is. I squint at the grid of streets. It all looks quite simple in theory, but in reality I’m forever getting lost. As if it wasn’t hard enough, here in New York you can have East Whatever Street, or West Whatever Street. Which is just completely confusing. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to know which is which?

  Looking up and down the street in frustration, I give up and do my little rhyme. I’m continually stopping dead in the middle of the street and doing it. You know the one: ‘Never Eat Shredded Wheat.’

  ‘’Scuse me?’

  I turn to see a fellow pedestrian standing next to me, waiting to cross. He’s looking at me quizzically, his brow furrowed beneath his baseball cap.

  Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?

  ‘Er . . .’ I fluster with embarrassment. ‘Never . . . um . . . cross the dreaded street,’ I manage hastily, gesturing to the little red man, ‘until the little man says it’s safe.’

  He stares at me blankly. ‘Sure,’ he replies doubtfully.

  He’s got one of those really drawly Noo York accents and I notice he’s carrying what looks like a large video camera and a furry microphone. Gosh, I wonder what he’s doing. He’s probably making a movie or something really cool.

  Unlike me, who’s reciting ridiculous rhymes and prattling on about the Green Cross Code, I realise, my cheeks flushing. Feeling totally uncool, I look away and pray for the lights to change. ‘Oh, look, now we can cross,’ I announce with a beat of relief, and shooting him an awkward smile, I stride off purposely into the crowd.

  You see, that’s the thing with New York. The city has this amazing energy that attracts all these interesting people. Turn a corner and you’ll stumble across a film set, or a stallholder selling some wacky kind of jewellery, or a group of street artists doing amazing hip-hop routines. You never know what’s going to happen.

  Sometimes, late at night, when I see the Empire State Building lit up in different colours, I get this buzz of excitement. Anticipation. Magic. I almost have to pinch myself. For a girl who hails from deepest Manchester, it’s the stuff of fairytales.

  Only this particular fairytale is missing one thing.

  Walking past a row of restaurants, I glance at the couples cosying up together over a romantic meal. Being a warm summer’s evening, restaurants have flung open their doors, spilling their tables out on to the street. I feel a pang.

  I brush it quickly away.

  Once upon a time there was a prince of sorts, but we didn’t end up living happily ever after. Like I said before, though, I’m fine with it. It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on. In fact, since then I’ve dated loads of different guys.

  Well, perhaps not loads, but a few. And some of them have been really nice. Like, for example, my last boyfriend, Sean. We met at a party and dated for a couple of months, but it was never that serious. I mean, he was good fun, and the sex wasn’t bad. It’s just . . .

  OK, I have this theory. Everyone dreams of finding their soulmate. It’s a universal quest. All over the world millions of people are looking for their true love, their amore their âme soeur, that one special person with whom they will spend the rest of their life.

  And I’m no different.

  Except it doesn’t happen for everyone.
Some people spend their whole life looking and never find that person. It’s the luck of the draw.

  If, by some miracle, you’re lucky enough to meet the One, whatever you do, don’t let them go. Because you don’t get another shot at it. Soulmates aren’t like buses; there’s not going to be another one along in a minute. That’s why they’re called ‘the One’.

  I mean, if there were loads of them, they’d be called ‘the Five’, or ‘the Hundred’, or ‘the Never-Ending Supply’.

  So I think maybe that’s it for me. Because you see, I was lucky. I did find the One, but then I lost him. I blew it, or he blew it. At the end of the day it doesn’t really matter. The details aren’t important.

  Besides, it’s not like I’m unhappy. What’s that saying? Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. To tell the truth, I rarely think about it any more.

  And yet . . .

  Sometimes, when I least expect it, something will remind me. Of him. Of us. Of long ago. It can be as random as a quiz in a magazine, or as inconsequential as a restaurant table on the street. And sometimes I can’t help wondering what my life would be like if things had worked out. What if we were still together? What if we had lived happily ever after? What if, what if, what if . . .?

  Sometimes I even try to imagine what it would be like to see him again. Which is crazy. It’s been so long I doubt I’d even recognise him now. I could probably walk past him in the street and not even know it was him.

  Oh, who am I kidding? I’d recognise him in an instant. Even in a crowd.

  And do you want to know something else? Deep down inside, I know if I saw him again, I would still feel exactly the same.

  Anyway, that’s hardly likely, is it? I think, catching myself. It’s been ten years since I last saw him. A whole decade. A brand-new millennium. Who knows where he is or what he’s doing . . .?

  Up ahead, a neon sign interrupts my thoughts. Scott’s. That’s it! That’s the bar! Feeling a beat of relief, I start hurrying towards it.

  Like I said, you get one shot and I had mine.

  And dismissing the thought from my mind, I push open the door.

  Chapter Two

  Inside, it’s dimly lit and busy with the after-work crowd. I pause at the doorway. It’s one of those really cool New York bars you see in films and on TV. Several tables are squeezed inside, and running the whole length is a bar made of polished dark wood, with shiny brass fittings and hundreds of different bottles of spirits, all stacked in rows.

  Sitting ramrod straight at the bar is a girl in a pinstripe suit. She’s jabbing away at her BlackBerry. With her hair cut into a sharp blonde bob and an imposing black leather briefcase sitting beside her on a barstool, she cuts a rather formidable figure amid the relaxed early evening crowd. Think Michael Douglas as Gordon Gekko in Wall Street and then imagine a more imposing, female version.

  That’s my big sister, Kate. She’s older, by five years, but it might as well be twenty the way she bosses me about like I’m a child. She’s used to bossing people about, though. She has not one but two assistants working for her.

  She’s an associate at a major law firm here in Manhattan that specialises in mergers and acquisitions. Personally, I haven’t got a clue what mergers and acquisitions are, let alone the ability to compile hundred-page reports on them and win cases worth millions of dollars.

  But then my sister has always been the super-brainy one in the family. She spent seven years training to be a doctor, then as soon as she qualified, changed her mind and retrained as a lawyer. Like it was no biggie.

  I swear I’ve agonised more over what sandwich to have for lunch at Prêt-à-Manger.

  Kate got all the brains and I got all the creativity. At least, that’s what my mum likes to tell me, though sometimes I wonder if it was just to make me feel better after flunking yet another maths test. While logarithms baffled me (and still do – could someone please tell me exactly what a logarithm is?), drawing and painting were like second nature and I ended up at art college.

  Three glorious paint-splattered years later I graduated and moved to London. I had all these big dreams. I was going to have this amazing career as an artist. I was going to have exhibitions in galleries across the country. I was going to have my own studio in this super-cool loft in Shoreditch . . .

  Er, actually, no, I wasn’t.

  For starters, have you any clue how expensive lofts in Shoreditch are?

  No, neither did I. Well, let me tell you. They’re an absolute fortune.

  That wouldn’t have been so bad if I’d been selling my artwork. I mean, at least then I could have saved up. For about eighty years, but still, it’s possible.

  But the truth is, I never actually sold one of my paintings. Well, OK, I sold one, but that was to my dad for fifty quid, and only then because he insisted on giving me my first commission.

  As it turned out, it was also my last. After six months of sliding further and further into debt, I had to give up painting and look for a job. Consequently, my dreams of being an artist ended up just that. Dreams.

  Still, it’s probably for the best. I was young and naïve and unrealistic. I probably would never have made it anyway.

  Excusing my way through the crowd, I make my way towards the bar.

  After that I temped for a while, but I was pretty terrible. I can’t type, and my filing is useless, but finally I got lucky and landed a job in an art gallery in the East End. At first I was only the receptionist, but over the years I clawed my way up from answering the phone to working with new artists, organising exhibitions and helping buyers with their collections. Then a few months ago I was offered the chance to work in a gallery in New York.

  Of course I jumped at it. Who wouldn’t? New York is where the art world is right now, and career-wise it’s an amazing opportunity.

  Except, if I’m entirely truthful, that’s not the only reason I decided to pack up my stuff, move out of my flat-share and fly three thousand miles across the Atlantic. It was partly to get over my latest break-up, partly to escape the prospect of another terrible British summer, but mostly to get my life out of a bit of a rut.

  Don’t get me wrong – I love my job, my friends, my life in London. It’s just . . .Well, recently I’ve had this feeling. As if there’s something missing. As if I’m waiting for my life to begin. Waiting for something to happen.

  Only problem is, I’m not exactly sure what.

  My sister’s still focused on her BlackBerry and hasn’t seen me walking over to her yet. Since I arrived, I’ve been staying with her and Jeff, her husband. They have a two-bedroom apartment on the Upper East Side and it’s been great. It’s also been, shall we say, challenging. Put it this way, I’ve never stayed in army barracks, but I have a feeling they might be similar. Only without the polished wenge floors and flat-screen TV.

  As soon as I told her I was moving here, she sent me a list of house rules. My sister’s very organised like that. She draws up regimented lists and ticks things off, one by one, with special highlighter pens. Not that I’d call her anal . . .

  Well, not to her face, anyway.

  We’re total opposites in everything really. She’s blonde; I’m brunette. She likes to save; I like to spend. She’s super tidy; I’m horribly messy. It’s not that I don’t try to keep things neat and tidy – in fact, I’m forever tidying, but for some strange reason that just seems to make things more untidy.

  Kate’s also a stickler for timekeeping, whereas I’m never on time. I don’t know why. I really try to be punctual. I’ve tried all the tricks – setting off fifteen minutes early, putting my clocks forward, wearing two watches – but I still seem to end up running late.

  Like now, for example.

  Right on cue I hear my phone beep to signal I’ve got a text. Hastily I dig it out of my pocket. I’ll let you in on a secret. I’m a teeny bit scared of my big sister.

  I click the little envelope on the screen.

  Five more minutes then y
ou’re dead.

  Make that a lot scared.

  ‘You’re late.’

  As I plop myself down next to her on the barstool, she doesn’t even look up from her BlackBerry. Instead she continues replying to an email, a sharp crease etched down the middle of her forehead, like the ones down the front of her trouser legs.

  Kate always wears trousers. In fact, I think the only time I’ve ever not seen her wearing them was on her wedding day, five years ago. And that was only because Mum got all upset when she found out she was going to be wearing a trouser suit (‘But it’s from Donna Karan,’ my sister protested) and said the neighbours would think her daughter was a lesbian. Which seems a bit ridiculous, considering she was marrying Jeff.

  ‘I know, I’m sorry,’ I apologise briskly, giving her a kiss on the cheek. ‘You know me – I’m useless with directions.’

  ‘And timekeeping,’ she reminds, hitting send with her thumb, then turning to me.

  She looks pale, despite the fact it’s sunny and seventy-five degrees outside. Kate rarely gets outside. During the week she’s always at her desk in her air-conditioned office, and at weekends—

  Well, she’s usually at her desk then too.

  ‘Guilty as charged.’ I nod, pulling a remorseful expression. ‘What do I get? Two years? Five?’

  She smiles, despite herself. ‘Well, this isn’t my legal field of expertise, but let’s see . . . No prior convictions? Mitigating circumstances?’ She drums her fingers on the bar. ‘You’d probably get away with a warning and a good-behaviour bond.’

  ‘That’s it?’ I’m laughing now.

  ‘Plus a fine,’ she adds, raising an eyebrow.

  ‘A fine?’ I frown. ‘How much?’

  ‘Hmm . . .’ She taps the tip of her nose with her forefinger, like she always does when she’s thinking. ‘Three drinks. At ten dollars a drink. I reckon thirty bucks should do it.’ My sister smiles at me slyly. ‘Plus tip, of course.’