You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,8
comfort eating . . .’
I glance across at my sister. Eyebrows raised, she’s staring at Robyn with a mixture of horror and disbelief. I feel a pang of concern. My sister’s not the kind of person you talk to about emotions. She doesn’t really get emotional. The only time I’ve seen her look slightly perturbed was when she scored 99 per cent in a chemistry exam.
‘ . . . Her husband had run off with her best friend and she gained two hundred pounds by eating cupcakes. Can you believe it? She was so devastated she used cupcakes to try to block out the pain. There were red velvet cupcakes for breakfast, double-chocolate fudge cupcakes for lunch, lemon butter cupcakes for—’
‘OK, so what are we drinking?’ I ask, butting in and changing the subject before we all die of thirst.
‘Whisky sour,’ says my sister without a moment’s hesitation.
‘Robyn?’ Having got the attention of the barman, I turn to her expectantly.
‘Er, wow, I have no idea,’ she gasps, drawing breath for the first time in five minutes. ‘Now let me think. What do I feel like . . .?’ Tilting her head, she winds a brown curl round her finger thoughtfully. ‘Something sweet . . .’
‘A lemon drop?’ suggests the barman, smiling broadly.
She wrinkles her nose. ‘ . . . but not too sweet.’
‘Well, in that case, what about a mojito?’
‘Ooh!’ She gives a little squeal of excitement. ‘I love mojitos!’
‘Great.’ ThÈ€t">‘Great C The barman reaches for a handful of mint and grabs the pestle and mortar.
‘But not tonight,’ she adds after a moment, shaking her head decisively.
The barman puts down the pestle, his jaw clenching.
‘Tonight I feel like something a bit different,’ she continues cheerily. Behind us a queue is forming, but she’s chattering on, completely obliviously.
‘Maybe a martini?’ The barman passes her a menu. ‘We have lots of different kinds. Like the ginger martini.’
‘Mmm, that sounds yummy . . .’ she coos.
The barman flashes a look of relief.
‘ . . . but so does the pomegranate one,’ she says, reading from the menu. ‘Wow, there are so many and they all sound delicious. Oh, look, what about the one with lychees? What does that taste like?’
‘Lychees,’ deadpans my sister.
Robyn looks up, startled. ‘Actually, you know what, I think I’ll just have a glass of wine,’ she says hastily, passing the barman the menu. ‘Anything white. I’m not fussy,’ she adds, avoiding my sister’s glare.
‘And I’ll have a beer.’ I smile. I’ve never been one for cocktails. I get way too drunk on them.
‘Coming right up.’ The barman reaches for a cocktail shaker.
‘Oh, just one more thing . . .’ On tiptoe, Robyn suddenly leans across the bar and studies the barman under the lights. ‘What’s your name?’
I’m taken aback. Crikey. I’ve heard American women are confident when it comes to asking men out, but this is so, well, brazen.
‘Brad.’ He grins, showing off by doing a little impersonation of Tom Cruise in Cocktail with the shaker. ‘Why, do you want my number too?’
Robyn’s face falls in disappointment. ‘No, thanks.’ Leaning back from the bar, she gives a little sigh. ‘Not unless your name’s Harold.’
‘Who’s Harold?’ I ask in confusion.
‘I dunno.’ She shrugs. ‘That’s the problem.’
< Z€n=“justi C”>‘If you’re looking for a missing person, I’ve got some great contacts at the NYPD,’ suggests Kate helpfully.
‘My sister’s married to a cop,’ I explain.
‘Really?’ Robyn’s eyes go wide. ‘How exciting!’
‘Not really,’ laughs my sister. ‘You haven’t met Jeff.’
‘Or Harold,’ reminds the barman, who’s been ear-wigging. He looks vaguely put out that he’s been passed over for a total stranger with a name like someone’s aged uncle.
‘Not yet, but I know he’s out there,’ says Robyn with complete conviction. ‘A psychic told me.’
‘You went to see a psychic?’ Kate looks at her in disbelief.
‘About a year ago,’ nods Robyn, her face serious. ‘She said I was going to meet my soulmate and I have to be on the lookout for a Harold.’ She reaches for the large pink crystal pendant hanging from her neck and clasps it tightly. ‘When it comes to love, I just have to put my faith and trust in the power of the universe.’
I glance at my sister. She’s struggling to contain her cynicism.
‘Did she say what this Harold looked like?’
Robyn pauses and glances furtively around the bar to check no one is listening, as if she’s afraid someone might overhear and steal off with this highly classified information and find Harold first. Satisfied the coast is clear, she