You're the One That I Don't Want - By Alexandra Potter Page 0,4
Charlotte and Samantha waltzing arm in arm towards me.
Exiting the subway station, I pause at the pedestrian crossing to study the little pop-up map of Manhattan I keep in my bag. Some people have this sort of inbuilt GPS, a bit like cats. You can drop them anywhere and they can find their way home. Not me. I get lost in Tesco. Once, I spent over half an hour wandering around the salad bar trying to find the checkout. Trust me. I’ve not been able to face coleslaw since.
I turn the map upside down, then back again. I’m stumped. I’ve arranged to go for a drink after work, but I haven’t a clue where the bar is. I squint at the grid of streets. It all looks quite simple in theory, but in reality I’m forever getting lost. As if it wasn’t hard enough, here in New York you can have East Whatever Street, or West Whatever Street. Which is just completely confusing. I mean, how on earth are you supposed to know which is which?
Looking up and down the street in frustration, I give up and do my little rhyme. I’m
‘Never Eat Shredded Wheat.’
‘’Scuse me?’
I turn to see a fellow pedestrian standing next to me, waiting to cross. He’s looking at me quizzically, his brow furrowed beneath his baseball cap.
Oh my God, did I just say that out loud?
‘Er . . .’ I fluster with embarrassment. ‘Never . . . um . . . cross the dreaded street,’ I manage hastily, gesturing to the little red man, ‘until the little man says it’s safe.’
He stares at me blankly. ‘Sure,’ he replies doubtfully.
He’s got one of those really drawly Noo York accents and I notice he’s carrying what looks like a large video camera and a furry microphone. Gosh, I wonder what he’s doing. He’s probably making a movie or something really cool.
Unlike me, who’s reciting ridiculous rhymes and prattling on about the Green Cross Code, I realise, my cheeks flushing. Feeling totally uncool, I look away and pray for the lights to change. ‘Oh, look, now we can cross,’ I announce with a beat of relief, and shooting him an awkward smile, I stride off purposely into the crowd.
You see, that’s the thing with New York. The city has this amazing energy that attracts all these interesting people. Turn a corner and you’ll stumble across a film set, or a stallholder selling some wacky kind of jewellery, or a group of street artists doing amazing hip-hop routines. You never know what’s going to happen.
Sometimes, late at night, when I see the Empire State Building lit up in different colours, I get this buzz of excitement. Anticipation. Magic. I almost have to pinch myself. For a girl who hails from deepest Manchester, it’s the stuff of fairytales.
Only this particular fairytale is missing one thing.
Walking past a row of restaurants, I glance at the couples cosying up together over a romantic meal. Being a warm summer’s evening, restaurants have flung open their doors, spilling their tables out on to the street. I feel a pang.
I brush it quickly away.
Once upon a time there was a prince of sorts, but we didn’t end up living happily ever after. Like I said bè€ Like I s,’ bè€ Liefore, though, I’m fine with it. It was a long time ago. I’ve moved on. In fact, since then I’ve dated loads of different guys.
Well, perhaps not loads, but a few. And some of them have been really nice. Like, for example, my last boyfriend, Sean. We met at a party and dated for a couple of months, but it was never that serious. I mean, he was good fun, and the sex wasn’t bad. It’s just . . .
OK, I have this theory. Everyone dreams of finding their soulmate. It’s a universal quest. All over the world millions of people are looking for their true love, their amore their âme soeur, that one special person with whom they will spend the rest of their life.
And I’m no different.
Except it doesn’t happen for everyone. Some people spend their whole life looking and never find that person. It’s the luck of the draw.
If, by some miracle, you’re lucky enough to meet the One, whatever you do, don’t let them go. Because you don’t get another shot at it. Soulmates aren’t like buses; there’s not going to be another one along in a minute. That’s why they’re called ‘the One’.