You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,112

it, I note, counting them, and just a few foot passengers.

As the ferry chugs nearer, my eyes flick across them. There’s a couple with bikes, a woman with a toddler and . . . Is that Nate? I squint in the sunlight. Yup, that’s definitely him – I’d recognise that combo of navy blazer, pale blue shirt and pleated chinos anywhere. When it comes to clothes, Nate doesn’t do casual; he does middle-aged. He’s chatting to a smartly dressed woman and I watch as they disembark and shake hands. Then he walks towards where I’m sitting.

‘Hey, fancy seeing you here.’ I manage a smile as he passes me.

He looks over and stops. He doesn’t look best pleased. ‘You again.’

I bite my tongue. Think mature. Think Bruce and Demi. Think one more night and then it’s all over. ‘Did you sleep well?’

Pushing his sunglasses up on to his forehead, he shoots me a look. ‘I’ve had better nights,’ he says with irony. ‘What about you?’

My mind flicks back to last night, in that bed, being on tenterhooks and waking up every five seconds terrified I’d mistakenly spooned him in my sleep. ‘I’ve had better nights too.’

‘So we can agree on some things.’ He smiles, despite himself. ‘How was your day?’

‘Pretty good.’ I nod. ‘And you?’

See. We’re being so civil to each other. It’s incredible.

‘Pretty good.’ He pauses. ‘What was it you said you were doing here again?’

I didn’t. I was too busy belching, picking my nose and throwing Tampax around the bathroom, I think guiltily. ‘I was meeting with an artist.’ Well, better not say too much.

If I’m worried Nate is going to ask me questions, I don’t have to worry.

‘Oh,’ he says, but more out of politeness than any genuine interest. Nate never was particularly interested in my work. It was always his career we talked about.

‘What about you?’ I bounce the question back to him.

He waves some brochures he’s holding. ‘Looking at real estate.’

‘You’re buying a place here?’ I gasp. Being curious, I peeked in a few estate agents’ windows earlier just to see, and trust me, it is not cheap.

‘Thinking about it.’ He shrugs casually. ‘For the summer.’

‘Wow.’ God, he really is loaded, isn’t he? A rented penthouse in New York, a summer house in the Vineyard. For a brief second I imagine my life if things had worked out differently. Me and Nate at our stunning hideaway beach house, with our own private beach, just the two of us.

‘Well, I’m going to take a walk back into town.’

‘Yeah, me too.’ I nod.

Actually, the way things are going, that might yet still happen, I think with a stab of fright.

We start making our way up the main high street. Lined with souvenir shops, art galleries and tourists, it reminds me of the Cotswolds. Everywhere you look there’s someone eating fudge, or taking a photograph of something twee, or simply staring aimlessly into shop windows selling painted china cats, terrible art, antique jewellery . . . I watch a couple hover by the small bowed window, their arms wrapped round each other’s waists, her leaning in, him pulling away.

And have an idea.

‘Hey, look over here,’ I pipe up, grabbing Nate by the elbow and steering him towards the store.

‘Huh? What?’ Regardless of the fact there’s hardly any phone reception on the island, Nate has found a weak signal and is chatting away to his realtor about uninterrupted views and under-floor heating.

‘What do you think?’

The couple has now moved away and we have the whole window to ourselves. It’s just as I thought: it’s a whole window of antique rings. Antique engagement rings.

‘Sorry, Jennifer, one minute.’ Slapping his hand over his iPhone, he turns to me in confusion. ‘What have you dragged me over here for?’

‘What about the pink sapphire with the baguette diamonds?’

God, I can’t believe I know all this stuff. Baguette diamonds? Where did I get that from? Females must just absorb this stuff through osmosis.

‘Yes, very nice,’ he says, not even looking before going back to his phone call. ‘Hi, Jennifer. Sorry – you were saying about the under-floor heating?’

This is harder than I thought. ‘Maybe you could buy it for me?’ I say loudly, and gaze beseechingly at Nate.

A sharp crevice splits down his forehead. ‘You want me to buy it?’ he asks, incredulous.

‘Well, that’s the idea.’

‘Sorry, no, Jennifer, I wasn’t talking about the Chappaquiddick house.’ He glares at me. ‘Look, can you give me a few minutes? I’ll call you right back.’ He gets off