don’t, obviously.
‘Actually, I’m not sure,’ I reply.
Well, that’s the honest answer, isn’t it? I’m not sure. I was planning on spending most of my free time with Nate, but then we had the row.
The row. Suddenly I realise I haven’t thought about it all day. Followed by another thought. I haven’t thought about Nate all day either.
‘In other words, you’ve got a boyfriend.’ He smiles and I blush beetroot.
‘Sort of,’ I hear myself saying before I can stop myself.
Unknown
Sort of? Er, hang on a minute, Lucy. This is Nate, the love...
I feel a twinge of sur€€€. SiPlaf sur€€prise and guilt, all mixed up together. I quickly try to backtrack.
‘What I meant to say—’
My voice is suddenly drowned out by a wailing siren and a loud announcement saying the gallery is closing. Already? I glance at my watch in shock. The day has flown by.
‘Well, I better rush,’ says Adam, interrupting my thoughts.
‘Oh, yeah . . . me too.’ I nod, but it’s as if the easy mood has been broken by an awkwardness that wasn’t there before.
‘Bye.’
‘Um . . . bye,’ I murmur.
He strides away across the gallery. I watch as he turns briefly and waves, then disappears. And suddenly it hits me.
I know who he reminded me of back there. It was me.
Chapter Fifteen
When I switch on my phone, I discover I have eight missed calls and one, two, three . . . I start counting as all those little envelopes come beeping in . . . six texts.
All from Nate.
R U OK?
It’s lunchtime. Where R U?
I’m sorry, babe. I was a jerk. Call me. xx
Hey, lovely. R U still mad at me? Love U xoxoxox
OK, U R obviously ignoring me. If you want to speak, U know where I am.
It’s 6 p.m. Where the hell R U? I don’t have time to play these games. Stop being so childish.
As texts go, it’s a bit like going from the beginning of a relationship – polite and friendly – to the middle madly-in-love bit and ending up at the angry, pissed-off and arguing part. My emotions follow the same arc. I start off feeling pleased and relieved and thinking, Aw, isn’t Nate wonderful? but by the time I’ve reached text number six, I’m back to being annoyed a V€ing anno¦nd indignant.
Which makes two of us, I muse, listening to one of his cross-sounding voicemails.
I call him straight back.
‘Why haven’t you been answering your phone?’ he demands as soon as he picks up.
I bristle. ‘I turned it off. I was at the MoMA.’
‘All day?’ He sounds disbelieving.
‘Well, I had no other plans,’ I can’t help replying, then not wanting to argue, add, ‘Anyway, I’m sorry I didn’t get your calls.’
There’s a beat, and then, ‘Yeah, me too,’ he replies, his voice softening. ‘So how was the MoMA?’
‘Amazing,’ I gush, then catch myself. I don’t want to sound like I had too good a day. ‘I mean, the art was amazing, not the actual day . . .’
‘I really missed you,’ he says, sounding contrite. ‘Did you miss me?’
‘Of course,’ I answer automatically. Only now, saying those words, it occurs to me that I haven’t missed him at all. To be truthful, I didn’t think about him once. But that’s only because I was surrounded by such incredible paintings and I just lost track of everything, I tell myself firmly. It had nothing to do with Adam.
Adam? His name catches me by surprise. Why did he just pop into my head? What’s he got to do with anything?
‘So, when are you coming home?’ asks Nate, interrupting my thoughts.
I feel a warm glow. See, we’re back on course again. It was just a silly row. Nothing more.
‘Well, I was going to head back to my apartment. I need to feed Jenny and Simon.’
‘Jenny and Simon?’
‘My roommate’s dogs,’ I explain, realising that of course he wouldn’t know anything about them as he’s never been to my apartment. ‘She’s away on a course all day and not back until late.’
‘OK, well, a producer friend of mine is having a little drinks thing. It’s nothing too fancy, just some TV people . . .’
Just some TV people? I feel a flash of nervous excitement.
‘ . . . I wondered if you wanted to go.’
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‘That sounds fun,’ I hear myself saying.
‘Cool.’ Nate sounds pleased. ‘Give me your address. I’ll pick you up in an hour.’
One hour. Sixty minutes. Three thousand and six hundred seconds.
That’s it?
To rush home, nearly have a heart attack racing up