You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,6
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>
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 you’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