Romance.’ My eyes glide over the spines of the hundreds of books. There’s even a whole shelf about the One: How to Find the One, How to Keep the One, How to Know He’s the One, Is He the One?
‘Actually . . .’ I turn back to Emily, the smiley-faced assistant.
She beams eagerly. ‘Yes?’
U€stify">‘Do you have any books on how to get rid of the One?’
Arriving at Number Thirty-Eight ten minutes later, I’m surprised to find the gallery closed. That’s odd. Where’s Magda? Standing on the pavement clutching my magazines and obligatory extra-shot latte, I stare, perplexed, at the electronic grilles, tightly laced over the windows. Not once in the whole time I’ve been working here has Magda not been here to greet me. I check my watch. Knowing me, I’ve probably got the time completely wrong. But no, it’s just a few minutes after 10 a.m.
Puzzled, I balance my coffee and magazines in one hand, fish my set of keys out of my bag and unlock the front door. As I step inside the darkened gallery, the alarm starts beeping, counting down its twenty seconds or whatever it is for me to punch in the code. For an instant I panic. Shit, what is it? Then it comes to me in a flash. Of course, Magda’s date of birth – I remember her telling me once.
One, nine, six, five.
The alarm falls silent, and pressing the button for the window grilles, I flick on the lights. A blaze of colour bursts out of the shadows as the artwork is illuminated and I feel a rush of pleasure. There’s something magical about being alone in a gallery. Once, when I was little, I remember losing my parents in the Louvre in Paris and finding myself alone in a room filled with paintings. Most kids would have probably been scared, started crying, tried frantically to find their mum and dad, but I can still recall that feeling of excitement, of being surrounded by all the different faces, characters, colours. It was like being lost in a world of imagination.
Unfortunately my mum took a rather different view of it and I remember getting severely ticked off when she finally found me and being made to stick by her side for the rest of the trip.
Scooping up the mail, I walk across to the reception desk and dump it, along with my magazines, on the counter. Sipping my coffee, I flick on the computer and check our emails. There’s nothing much of interest . . . a few press releases, an enquiry about an internship from an art student, an invoice from the caterer we used for the gallery opening, entitled ‘Unpaid. Urgent.’ I frown. I thought Magda had sent a cheque for that last week. I feel a slight twinge of anxiety, but I brush it aside. It must just be an oversight. The cheque and the email must have crossed, that’s all.
I look up from the computer, but still no sign of a golden beehive, so I click on to Facebook. Well, I’ll only be a minute . . . Feeling a flicker of excitement, I log in. Over the past few days Adam and I have been exchanging emails. It’s all been very light and friendly. He sent me a few lines to tell me about the short film he’s been working on; I sent a few carefully constructed lines back about my week at work.
Carefully constructed, as I want to appear keen but cool. Chatty but relaxed. Busy but not too busy. As i b€"> busy.ÛAs n, if he wants to fix up a date to watch a movie, my diary isn’t that full.
OK, the truth is, it’s completely empty, but I can’t let him know that. I can’t let him know that I’ve been agonising over every email I’ve sent him, trying to make sure I get it just right.
God, it used to be so much easier when you just picked up the phone and spoke.
Ooh, look, I have an unread message in my inbox. My stomach flutters as I open it. It’s from Adam.
I’m free this week if you want to hook up.
Call me.
Underneath he’s added his number. I stare at the message, as if trying to wring some more meaning from it, other than just he’s free this week and he wants me to call him. Oh, for God’s sake, Lucy, what are you like? He wants to see you! My stomach gives another nervous flutter. I