“Yeah, sure.” I nod. “Good-bye, Nate.” And leaving him standing in the middle of the street, I turn and walk away.
After all these years I’ve finally put him behind me, and this time there’s no looking back.
Chapter Seventeen
“Do you want sake?”
Later that evening I leave work and hurry to Wabi Sabi, a tiny little Japanese restaurant tucked away underneath an antique shop in Chelsea, to find my sister already sitting at the sushi bar, waiting for me.
“Er, yes, great,” I say, puffing slightly after my run from the subway. I was determined to arrive first for once, and even left the gallery early, but despite my best efforts she’s here before me.
Now I know how British holidaymakers must feel when they discover that despite getting up at the crack of dawn, the Germans have already got to the sun loungers.
“Good. Because I’ve ordered it.” She nods as I slide into the free seat next to her. “I didn’t wait. I knew you’d be late.”
That’s my sister for you. Never one to mince words.
“Lovely to see you too.” I smile, giving her a hug, despite the fact that she doesn’t really do hugs. Or kisses. Or, in fact, any shows of public affection. At school the boys used to call her Iceberg, which was a bit mean. And blatantly not true.
After all, icebergs do sometimes melt.
“Oh, before I forget I wondered if you wanted to go with me to the theater. Robyn has two free tickets,” I say, breaking open my chopsticks and diving on the little bowl of edamame. I’m starving; I’ve only had coffee and an apple all day.
“’Fraid not. I’m training,” she replies, shaking her head.
“Every night?”
“Well, the marathon is only a couple of months away.”
That’s another thing. On top of the fourteen hours a day that my sister puts in at the office, she’s currently spending her free time training for the New York City Marathon.
I know. I feel exhausted just thinking about it.
“I have free passes for my gym. You should come,” she suggests, popping out the soybeans with her teeth. “Now that you won’t be doing all that yoga.” She smirks and I swat her with a chopstick.
I already told Kate about how I’ve broken up with Nate. I called her last night and filled her in on the details, after which I drew breath and waited for her response. It came in the form of one word—“Good”—and then moved briskly on to a conversation about her new bathroom tiles.
“Effusive” is not a word you could use to describe my sister. Sometimes I wonder if she views words like the rest of us view money and tries to save them up and not spend too many all at once.
“I think that was a lucky escape,” she continues. “It will save you a fortune on chiropractic bills.”
“I’m not that bad at yoga,” I complain sulkily.
“Luce, how are you going to get into the lotus position when you can’t even cross your legs? Remember that time in school assembly?”
Trust Kate to remind me of one of the most humiliating moments of my life. Age twelve, I was sitting crossed-legged in the school hall, listening to our headmaster, and my legs suddenly cramped and I was unable to uncross them. I had to be airlifted out of assembly by Mr. Dickenson, our PE teacher. I don’t think I’ve ever got over the shame. For years after I was teased mercilessly with “Don’t forget to cross your legs,” which took on a totally different connotation as I got older.
“Excuse me. Your sake.” I look up to see a waiter return with a little carafe and two small ceramic cups. Ceremoniously he arranges them on the counter in front of us.
“Dōmo arigatō,” says Kate with a smile, bowing her head respectfully.
The waiter beams. “Dō itashi mashite.” He replies, nodding profusely and backing away.
I stare at Kate in astonishment. “Since when did you start speaking Japanese?”
“Since most of my clients are based in Tokyo,” she says casually, taking the sake carafe and pouring me some. “I’m learning in my spare time.”
I look at her agog. My sister never ceases to amaze me. Sometimes I wonder if we really are sisters or if there was some mix-up in the hospital. I mean, can I really be genetically related to someone who learns Japanese? In her spare time?
There I was thinking spare time was for logging on to Facebook and sneaking a look at everyone else’s photos, bidding on lots of things on eBay that I don’t need and that never fit properly, and watching TV with Robyn and discussing challenging subjects such as whether we should order a twelve-inch pizza and garlic bread or just go for a sixteen-inch with extra toppings.
“Now it’s your turn. You have to pour mine,” she says, passing me the sake. “It’s supposed to be good luck to pour each other’s.”
“I thought you weren’t superstitious.”
“I’m not.” She frowns as if I’ve just called her a bad name. “It’s tradition, not superstition. There’s a difference.”
“So tell me, how’s work?” I ask, changing the subject. “Any good . . . um . . . intellectual property happening?”
If there’s one surefire way to snap my sister out of a bad mood, it’s to ask her about work. It’s her favorite topic of conversation. If she had it her way, it would probably be her only topic of conversation. Unlike my girlfriends, she’s not interested in commenting on the fabulous new dress you just bought from Zara, speculating about what’s going on in the Jennifer-Brad-Angie triangle, or talking about relationships. Not even when it’s her own.
In fact, the closest I think she ever got was on her wedding day, when someone asked her what the best part of being married to Jeff was and she replied cheerfully, “Our new apartment. With two salaries, we can now afford a two-bedroom,” which I don’t think was exactly the gushing response the person had hoped for.
“Exhausting but exciting,” she says, suddenly galvanized. “The CEO is thrilled with the Clayton deal so far, which is superb on a performance note, but it looks like the Joberg-Cohen case might need some extra . . .” She trails off as she sees my glazed expression. “Are you interested in any of this?”
“Of course,” I protest. “It’s fascinating.” And it would be. Truly, it would be. If only I had half a clue what she was going on about.
“Hmm.” She looks at me unconvinced, then suddenly stifles a yawn. “Anyway, it’s all good. Just the hours are pretty grueling.”
I look at my sister closely. Beyond the power suit and immaculately groomed bob, there are dark circles under her eyes and the crease between her eyebrows is so sharply etched it’s turning into a furrow.
“You look shattered,” I observe. “You need a holiday.”
Kate looks at me as if I’ve just told her she needs to grow another head. “A holiday?” she snorts, as if the very idea is completely ludicrous.
“When did you last go away?” I persist.
She falters momentarily and I can feel her brain whirring backward. “We went to Mum and Dad’s,” she says, with a flash of triumph.
“For Christmas last year,” I point out. “Anyway, that was Mum and Dad. That’s not exactly a holiday.”
“Luce, I don’t think you understand,” she gasps impatiently. Tucking her hair behind her ears, she rubs her nose agitatedly. “I can’t go anywhere right now. I’m far too busy.”
“But you look like you need a break,” I say, squeezing her arm.
“No, what I need is to be partner,” she says determinedly, moving her arm away. “And if I continue at this pace, there’s a very good chance of being recommended at the next annual meeting.”
But can she continue at this pace? I ask myself silently, looking at her pinched expression and feeling uneasy. My sister has always been a crazy workaholic—“overachiever” is scribbled across her school reports—but she seems to be overdoing it, even by her standards.
“What does Jeff say?”
Her face clouds. “Jeff understands. He knows how important this is to me.”
Opening her menu, she says briskly, “Anyway, we should order. It’s getting late,” which is her way of saying the subject is closed.
She beckons the waiter over and orders for both of us. I’m not sure exactly what, as she does most of it in Japanese. “Oh, and an extra miso soup to take away when we’re done,” she says in English. “For Jeff,” she adds, turning to me. “I promised to bring him back some soup as he’s a bit under the weather.”
“What’s wrong?” I ask, feeling a beat of concern.
“Oh, nothing. Probably one of those seventy-two-hour bugs.” She shrugs, taking a sip of sake.
“He should go and see Robyn—she’s got Chinese herbs for everything,” I suggest, thinking about the dozens of bottles that are randomly scattered around the flat. I’m forever tripping over things with weird and wonderful names like Yellow Croaker Ear-Stone or Long-Nosed Pit Viper.
“You have got to be kidding me!” gasps Kate.
“No, really. I know you don’t believe in all that stuff, but she swears by them.” I stop as I see her making googly eyes at me. “Are you OK? Is something in your eye?”
Now she’s jabbing chopsticks at me and pulling this weird sort of strangled face. Suddenly it registers and I feel a flash of panic.
“Oh my God, are you choking?”
An image of me having to perform the Heimlich maneuver in the middle of the restaurant flashes across my brain. Shit. Why didn’t I watch more episodes of ER? I got bored when George Clooney left.
“No, behind you,” she hisses.
“What?” Bewildered, I frown, wondering what she’s going on about, then turn sideways.
I don’t believe it.
Because there, sitting right next to me, at the sushi counter, is Nate. He’s with a man in a business suit and they’ve obviously just arrived, as they’re ordering a couple of drinks. I stare at him in disbelief.
“Are you following me?” I accuse, finding my tongue, which was held hostage by shock.
Hearing my voice, he turns and sees me. His face darkens. “Are you following me?” he accuses back.
I can feel my hackles rise. “I was here first,” I point out stiffly.
“Well, I made the reservation for the sushi bar last week,” he replies, as if to say, Told you so.
Not be outdone, Kate fires back over my shoulder, “We made ours the week before. You can check with my assistant.”
“Hello, Kate.” He nods in her direction.
“Nathaniel.” She gives him one of her scary looks.
For a moment there’s a standoff and I can see Nate’s business contact glancing uncertainly between us, like someone who just stumbled into a gunfight at the O.K. Corral.
“Well, this is a coincidence,” says Nate evenly, for his benefit.
“Well, that’s one way of putting it,” quips Kate drily.
“Come on, let’s move,” I say, turning back to Kate. “There must be a free table.” Just then I glance around and realize with dismay that the whole place has now filled up. There’s even a queue of people waiting outside. “Damn. Maybe we should leave,” I suggest.
Kate looks at me as if I’ve gone mad. “I’m not leaving. I’ve just ordered seventy dollars’ worth of sushi.”
“We could get takeout,” I whisper.
She shoots me a look. “It’s crucial that you do not give the other party any cause to believe they have the position of power.”
“Kate, we’re not talking about law now,” I say desperately. “We’re talking about my ex-boyfriend.”
She frowns and spears another edamame. “If anyone’s leaving, it’s him, not us.”
“He won’t—he’s too stubborn,” I say pleadingly.
But she won’t budge. “Well, in that case, just ignore him.”
So I try. I try my very hardest. I talk about the gym, about the gallery, about anything to try to stop myself from thinking about him, but it’s not easy. I mean, he’s right there next to me. Sipping my miso soup, I can hear him asking the waiter to run through all the wines and then insisting on tasting every one. Before, it had impressed me, but now it annoys me. At one point I am about to turn round and yell, “Just choose a bloody wine,” but thankfully my crispy salmon roll arrives and distracts me.
In fact, it’s really bizarre, but through the course of my meal I discover that all the things I used to find cute and endearing now bug the hell out of me. Like the way he gels his hair into that little peak at the front, or makes that funny hissing noise between his teeth when he laughs, or mentions his game show Big Bucks about twenty million times.
“I mean, did he really go on about Big Bucks that much before and I never noticed?” I whisper to Kate.
Pausing from eating her tuna sashimi, she frowns. “I thought you were ignoring him.”
“I am, I am,” I protest quickly. “Except it’s not that simple.”
“Well, don’t worry, he’s leaving now,” she says, gesturing behind me with a chopstick.
“He is?” Feeling a rush of relief, I turn round to see the seat next to me is now empty and he’s walking toward the exit. “Oh, thank goodness,” I sigh, my whole body relaxing. “Bumping into him once was bad enough, but twice? In one day?”
“Unlucky,” says Kate simply.
I nod and turn back to my food, but something niggles. Is that all it is? Just an unlucky coincidence?
“Of course, there’s always another reason,” says Kate.
“What?” I ask, snapping back.
“He’s trying to find a way of getting you back.”
“What? By following me?” I frown.
“Bumping into you ‘accidentally,’ ” corrects Kate. “Remember, like you did with Paul, who used to deliver our papers?”
I’d forgotten all about that (well, more like blanked it out), but now I’m reminded and cringe at the memory. At twelve years old I had a crush on the paperboy and would find any excuse to bump into him: walking the dog along his route, accidentally on purpose being by our gate as he arrived, even resorting to following him around as he delivered the papers on his BMX. Oh, the shame.
“Nate wouldn’t do that,” I say dismissively. “He wanted to break up as much as I did.”
“Are you sure that wasn’t just his pride talking?” Kate raises her eyebrows. “Dump-before-you’re-dumped kind of thing?”
I crinkle up my forehead, doubts forming. I think back to our argument in the taxi. “No, trust me.” I shake my head decisively.
“Well, just a thought.” She shrugs. “More sake?”
I’m reading too much into this. Bumping into Nate is a pain, but there’s no big reason. It’s just coincidence.
“Um, yes, please.” I hold out my cup.
Like Kate said, it’s just unlucky.
Chapter Eighteen
“Still, the next morning when I go to work, I’m on the look out, and when I leave the office to get lunch, I make sure I carry my coffee ultra carefully, just in case. But nope, there’s no Nate on his iPhone bashing into me. No sightings of Nate in restaurants. In fact, it’s very much a Nate-free zone.
Admittedly a couple of times I spot a gray-suited man in the crowd and my chest tightens, but thankfully it’s mistaken identity. Just me being jumpy and twitchy.
By the end of the day I’m feeling much calmer, and rather silly. OK, so what happened yesterday was a bit freaky, and very annoying—despite drowning it in OxiClean, I’ll never get those coffee stains out of my top, and I couldn’t enjoy my sushi with him sitting next to me—but let’s be rational, it was just a coincidence. Murphy’s Law. Bad luck.
Call it what you want, it’s hardly reason to think it’s something more than that.
“I know it sounds crazy, but for a moment there I was getting a bit paranoid,” I pant breathlessly, looking across at Robyn, who’s puffing away on the exercise machine next to me.
It’s the next evening after work and Robyn and I have made the most of my sister’s free passes to her private gym and ar
e working out on the machines. I use the term “working out” loosely. “Nearing collapse” is probably a more fitting description.
Despite my sister’s offer of free passes, she was taken aback by my eagerness. “What? You’re going tonight?” she said in astonishment, to which I rather curtly told her that I was keen to get fit and no time like the present.
What I didn’t mention was Nate’s comment about my cellulite, which had been scorching a hole in my brain like a burning cigarette. “How dare he say I’ve got cellulite?” I harrumphed to Robyn approximately every ten minutes, and like the loyal friend she is, she harrumphed right back, “How dare he! There is nothing wrong with your thighs!” I’m a real woman, not some gym-honed stick insect. Besides, every woman has cellulite. Even Kate Moss—I’m sure I saw some in a photo in a magazine once. OK, so it could have been a trick of the light, but still, I’m sure it was there.
Then after my vitriolic speech—Down with Nate, up with cellulite!—in which I marched around the living room in my knickers, waving the remote like a banner, I went into the bathroom, looked at my bottom in the full-length mirror under the overhead lighting, and made a startling discovery.
Someone had stolen my bottom! Not only that, but they’d replaced it with porridge in a string bag! I didn’t know when, or how it happened, but I did know one thing: I wanted my bottom back.
Which is why I’m at Equilibrium, a super-trendy gym uptown complete with exposed red brick and plasma TVs, nearly having a heart attack. And not just from the exercise. I feel as if I’ve been thrown into a parallel universe where everyone is wearing designer Lycra, exposing gym-honed bodies and more six-packs than a 7-Eleven. Strutting around wearing iPods, hand towels casually thrown over their shoulders, swingy ponytails swinging, they positively glow with health and vitality. It’s like landing on Planet Beautiful.
Meanwhile I’m in my old tank and shorts, puffing like a steam train, with a face like a giant tomato.
“What?” yells Robyn, in the way people do when they’re wearing earphones and think they’re talking normally but they sound like the drunks who spill out of nightclubs in town centers on a Saturday night.
You're (Not) the One Alexandra Potter Page 18
