You're Not the One (9781101558959) Read Online Free

glorious paint-splattered years later I graduated and moved to London. I had all these big dreams: I was going to have this amazing career as an artist. I was going to have exhibitions in galleries across the country. I was going to have my own studio in this super-cool loft in Shoreditch. . . .
    Er, actually, no, I wasn’t. For starters, have you any clue how expensive lofts in Shoreditch are? No, neither 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 head toward 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, organizing 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 wouldn’t? New York is where the art world is right now, and careerwise it’s an amazing opportunity.
    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 breakup, 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 loved 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 sure exactly 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 organized 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