You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,146

and Beth—’

‘Lucy, stop this. You’ve got to get a grip.’

‘I have got a grip,’ I retort, peering at the numbers on the back of the seats. Twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four . . . It’s silent on the other end of the phone. ‘Nate, are you there?’

‘Yeah, I’m here.’

Gosh, how weird. For a moment his voice sounded like it wasn’t coming from my phone, but right next to me. Bingo. There’s my seat. I glance up, and come face to face with someone who’s been working their way down the row from the opposite direction.

‘Nate!’ I stare at him in shock. ‘What are you doing here?’

You’d think by now I would have got past the surprised bit, wouldn’t you? But no, here I am, staring at him, open-mouthed.

‘What?’ Still on the phone, he looks up at me in bewilderment. ‘I’ve come to see the play. That’s my seat.’ He points to the empty seat next to mine.

I glance at it in astonishment, then back at him, as suddenly it registers. ‘You were the person who bought my spare ticket on eBay?’

‘It was your spare ticket?’ He looks at me aghast.

There’s a pause as we stare at each other, frozen, until the lights go down and we’re forced to take our seats. The audience falls silent, waiting for the curtain to rise and the play to begin.

It’s then that I hear a whisper in my ear.

‘So when do we leave for Venice?’

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Venice, Italy, 2009

Nothing has changed. The summer heat creates a shimmering haze, through which Venice appears like a Canaletto brought to life. The dome of St Mark’s Cathedral rises above the pastel-coloured buildings, with their peeling paint and time-weary elegance. Vaporetti buzz. Tourists throng. Among the crowds, children run in the square scattering pigeons; men in sharp suits and designer shades sit smoking cigarettes; a guide with his umbrella talks history to a group of German tourists.

And down a maze of alleyways, tucked away in a tiny old pensione, in a room with a pink frilly bedspread and a picture of the Blessed Virgin Mary, are two people. A stressed-out American in a suit mopping his brow, and an English girl trying to stay calm.

That’s me and Nate. Back in Venice, ten years later.

And this time around, everything has changed.

‘OK, so what’s the plan?’ Nate is saying briskly.

Having put down his suitcase and hung his jacket over the rickety wooden chair, he turns to me. Sweat and stress are oozing from his pores. He might as well have ‘I don’t want to be here’ written across his forehead in thick black marker pen.

‘Um, that’s the thing . . .’ I walk over to the window and open the shutters. Light floods in, sending dust particles swirling, and I pause to lean out and survey the tiny slice of Venetian life in the narrow alleyway below.

It’s also quite a good delaying tactic.

Because you see, the thing is, I’m not quite sure how to break this to Nate, but I haven’t finished formulating my plan yet. It’s nearly there. It’s just . . .

Oh, who am I kidding? There is no plan. The truth is, I haven’t a clue what on earth to do next.

‘Lucy?’

=“0”> ^ face=“Plantin Light”>I turn round to find Nate is still looking at me, only now his face has set harder, rather like when food starts to go cold and congeals on a plate.

‘Please tell me you have a plan.’

His voice is steely and impatient, but I can detect a twinge of worry.

‘Well, not exactly a plan as such.’ I stumble through my excuses while Nate’s eyes are boring into me like lasers. ‘OK, I don’t have a plan,’ I confess.

‘You don’t have a plan?’ repeats Nate calmly.

As in eerily calm. As in the kind of foreboding calm you get as you’re opening your credit-card statement, slowly unfolding it, before the inevitable ‘Oh my God, how much?’ hits you like a ten-ton truck.

It’s that kind of calm.

‘Yet,’ I add, forcing a positive tone. ‘I don’t have a plan yet.’

Nate erupts in fury. ‘What the fuck?’ he cries angrily, throwing his arms in the air. ‘You got me all the way here, to Venice, Italy, and you don’t have a plan?’

‘OK, OK, I think we both get it. I don’t have a plan!’ I snap impatiently. ‘What are you going to do? Shoot me?’

Heaving a sigh, Nate sits down on the edge of the pink frilly bedspread and presses his temples. ‘Well, that would be a plan at least,’ he