You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,2
impossible,’ he cries, slapping the table wi s€ the tabe owi s€ tth the flat of his hand. ‘Don’t you know the legend of the Bridge of Sighs?’
Nathaniel frowns. ‘You mean the bridge right here in Venice?’
‘Yes. That is it! The very one!’ he exclaims excitedly.
‘Why, what’s the legend?’ I ask, suddenly intrigued.
Like a magician waiting for a drum roll before producing a rabbit, the old man pauses for dramatic effect. Only when we are both quiet does he start to speak.
‘The legend is very famous,’ he says gravely. His voice has the kind of hushed, awestruck respect reserved for churches and museums, and I almost have to stifle a giggle. ‘It says that if you kiss underneath the bridge at sunset, on a gondola, when the bells of the church are ringing . . .’
‘Wow, they don’t make it easy for us,’ whispers Nathaniel jokingly into my ear, but I swat him away.
‘Yes?’ I urge, turning back to the old man. ‘What happens?’
Dragging on his cigar, he exhales a cloud of smoke. It drifts upwards in front of his face, like a smokescreen. As it clears, his dark eyes meet mine, and despite the oppressive heat, a shiver suddenly runs down my spine and I feel goose bumps spring up on my arms. He leans closer, his voice almost a whisper. ‘You will have everlasting and eternal love. You will be together for ever and nothing –’ his eyes flick to Nathaniel, then back to me – ‘nothing will ever break you apart.’
‘Nothing?’ I repeat, my voice barely audible.
‘Niente.’ He nods, his face filled with conviction. ‘You are bound together for ever, for eternity.’
I laugh nervously and press the pendant to the heat of my chest.
‘So you like?’ He gestures to the necklace.
‘Oh . . .um . . .yes.’ I nod, snapping back.
He smiles and holds out our change, and as I take it from him, his sandpapery fingers brush against mine.
‘Grazie,’ I whisper, managing one of the few words I know in Italian.
‘Prego.’ He smiles genially, tipping _€lly, tipce=g _€llhis hat.
Unknown
Then Nathaniel puts his arm round me and we turn and start...
Chapter One
Everyone is looking for their soulmate.
Take our Love Test and find out:
Is He the One?
God, these things are so stupid.
I scan the quiz in the magazine. There’s a photo of a couple looking into each other’s eyes, all lovey-dovey, and it’s decorated with cartoon drawings of Cupids and love-hearts. I mean, please. As if you can find out if he’s ‘the One’ by answering a few silly multiple-choice questions.
Like, for example:
My guy and I go together like . . .
a)
Batman and Robin
b)
Posh and Becks
c)
Lindsay Lohan and fake tan
Honestly, how ridiculous!
I’m jostled by someone squeezing themselves into the >
Dismissively I turn over the page. It’s an article on cellulite. I frown.
Then again, maybe a dumb quiz isn’t so bad. After all, it has got to be more fun than reading about how to get rid of dimpled orange-peel thighs, I muse, glancing at the section on detoxing. Though, frankly, I don’t think you can get rid of dimpled orange-peel thighs. Everyone has cellulite. Even supermodels!
Well, that’s what I like to tell myself, anyway.
I peer closely at the grainy paparazzi photo of Kate Moss’s bikini-clad bottom, which has been magnified a million times. To tell the truth, I can’t actually see any dimples. Or much bottom. In fact, looking at this photo, I’m not sure Kate Moss even has a bottom.
Suddenly I’m struck by what I’m doing: I’m sitting. In public. On the New York subway. With my nose pressed up against a photograph of a left bum cheek. Or is it a right? I grab hold of myself. For God’s sake, Lucy. And you thought the quiz was ridiculous?
Quickly I turn back to it. I notice it hasn’t been filled in. Oh, what the hell. I’ve got five more stops.
Reaching into my bag, I pull out a biro.
OK, here we go . . .
1. Whenever you think about him, do you get butterflies?
a) Yes, always
b) Sometimes
c) Never
Well, I wouldn’t call them butterflies exactly. In fact, it’s been so long the butterflies have probably grown up and flown away. Now it’s more of an ache. Not like the terrible toothache I got when I pulled out my filling at the cinema on a pic’n’mix toffee . . . I wince at the memory.üat e buttmor No, this is more of a twinge. The occasional pang.