You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,3

months

b) A year

c) More than a year

My mind flicks back. We met in the summer of 1999. I was nineteen. Which makes it . . . As my mind does the calculation, I feel a thump of realisation. Quickly followed by a left jab of defensiveness.

OK, so it’s ten years. So what? Ten years is nothing. My mum’s known my dad for forty years.

Yes, but your mum’s married to him, pipes up a little voice inside me.

Ignoring it, I quickly circle option c. Right. Next question.

3. Can you see yourself getting married to this guy?

a) 100%

b) 50%

c) Zero

Well, that’s easy. It’s zero.

In fact, I’d say the chances of marrying him are less than zero. But that’s OK. I’m perfectly fine with it. That’s just the way things are, and that’s cool.

All right, so in the past I might have thought about it. And maybe for a moment I imagined myself in a white dress (actually, more of a calico, in antique lace, with full-length sleeves and a sweetheart neckline) and him in top hat and tails with his messy blond hair and tatty old Converses peeping out from underneath. Dancing our first dance under the stars to ‘No Woman, No Cry’, our favourite Bob M F€vourite ght M F€voarley song. Leaving on our honeymoon in his old VW camper van . . .

Zoning back, I notice I’ve been absentmindedly doodling a love-heart around a) 100%. Shit. What did I do that for? Flustered, I grab my pen and start scribbling over it furiously. It’s not as if that means anything. It’s not like it’s in my subconscious.

I suddenly realise I’m pressing so hard I’ve torn the page.

4. Do your friends think you’re obsessed with this guy?

My body stiffens defensively.

I think about him from time to time, but I wouldn’t say I’m obsessed. Not at all. I mean, I’m not stalking him or anything. Or hounding him with Facebook messages. Or Googling him relentlessly.

OK, I confess. I Googled him once.

Maybe twice.

Oh, all right, so I’ve lost count over the years. But so what? Who hasn’t gone home and Googled a man they’re in love with?

Hang on – did I just say the L word?

Out of the blue my stomach flips over like a pancake. I flip it straight back again. I didn’t mean that at all! It’s this silly quiz – it’s making me think all kinds of things.

I circle b) No.

As the number six train makes its way uptown, I continue through the questions. They get progressively more ludicrous, but it passes the time. In fact, I’m just on the last question . . .

10. What film best describes your relationship?

a) Love Story

b) Brief Encounter

c) Nightmare on Elm Street

. . .when I’m suddenly aware of the overhead announcement – ‘This is Forty-Second Street, Grand Central’ – and I realise I’m at my stop.

Stuffing the magazine into my bag, I start politely trying to excuse my way through the packed carriage. Of course, no one pays any attention. Since moving to New York from London a few weeks ago, I’ve begun noticing that all my ‘Oh, sorry’s, ‘Excuse me’s and ‘I beg your pardon’s fall on deaf ears.

It’s not that New Yorkers are rude. On the contrary, I’m finding them to be some of the friendliest, warmest people I’ve ever met. It’s just that our terribly British way of apologising for everything has zero effect. They don’t understand what we’re apologising for. To be honest, half the time I don’t understand what I’m apologising for. It’s just something I do. A habit. Like logging on to Facebook every five minutes.

For example, yesterday I was crossing the street when this man bashed right into me and spilled coffee all over me. And get this – I was the one who said sorry! Yes, me! About a million times! Even though it was totally his fault. He was on his mobile and not looking where he was going.

Sorry, I mean cell phone ­– well, I am in New York now.

At the thought I get a tingle all the way up my spine. I can’t help it. Every time I catch myself glancing up at the skyscrapers towering above my head, or walking down Broadway on my way to work, or hailing one of those distinctive yellow cabs (which I’ve only done once, as I’m broke, but still), I feel as if I’m in a movie. I’ve been here six weeks and still can’t believe it’s real. I almost expect to see Carrie, Miranda,