You're Not the One (9781101558959) by Alexandra Potter

writes lists only to lose them and once hit Reply All to a friend’s birthday Evite and asked if she was still having sex with her ex.
    â€œAh, yes.” The doorman nods gravely. “I’ve been given instructions to expect you.” Pushing his half-moon glasses up his nose, he flicks his eyes to the paintings, which are being unloaded onto a cart by Mikey. “I’m to take you up to the penthouse.”
    My stomach gives a little flutter. It’s that penthouse thing again.
    â€œIf you’d care to follow me.”
    With Mikey in charge of pushing the cart, I dutifully follow the doorman through the entrance to a large marble lobby, complete with trickling water feature, button-back leather sofas, and oversize vases filled with the kind of exotic flower arrangements that you know cost an absolute fortune.
    â€œThe elevator is straight ahead.”
    I’m trying to appear completely nonchalant and unimpressed, but my head is swiveling from side to side like a barn owl’s. It’s a bit different from my lobby, with its obstacle course of bikes, strollers, and piles of mail to negotiate. And that’s before you even begin to climb the three flights of stairs to our apartment. Stairs, by the way, that are so steep they make the ones up the sides of the Mayan pyramids at Chichén Itzá, in Mexico, seem like a walk in the park.
    â€œWhoa, fancy,” Mikey says, whistling from behind the cart. “You must have some celebrities living here, right?”
    â€œI’m afraid I’m not at liberty to disclose that kind of information,” replies the doorman stiffly.
    Mikey throws me a look and mouths, “Madonna.”
    I break into a grin, despite myself, and stifle a giggle.
    Ahead of us, I notice a lift, the doors of which are just about to close. “Oh look,” I say, gesturing to it, “just in time.” I make a mad dash toward it, but the doorman stops me.
    â€œThe penthouse has its own private elevator.”
    â€œIt does?”
    He turns the corner, where another lift is waiting for us.
    Crikey. There’s posh and then there’s posh . Maybe Mikey’s right. Maybe Madonna does live here.
    Buzzing with anticipation, I step into the lift. It’s quite tight inside and we have to shuffle up against each other as the door slides closed. The doorman presses the button with a ceremonious stab of his white-gloved finger and we start traveling upward, climbing steadily higher and higher. I feel my stomach drop as we gather speed. Gosh, we really are going quite high, aren’t we? Now my ears are even starting to pop. I try swallowing to unblock them. Nope, they’re still blocked. I know, maybe if I yawn . . . Hiding behind my hand, I try yawning, but nothing; my ears are still well and truly blocked. So much so I can’t hear anything.
    Out of the corner of my eye I notice the doorman. He’s looking at me expectantly, the way people do when they’ve asked you a question and are waiting for your reply. Shit. Trying to look as natural as possible, I throw him what I hope looks like the confident smile of someone who knows exactly what she’s doing, and not someone who can’t hear a bloody thing as her ears are popping like crazy.
    Honestly, you’d think I never go in elevators.
    You don’t , pipes up a little voice. You hate them. Ever since you got stuck in one at art college and had to be rescued by the fire brigade.
    I feel a flash of panic but ignore it. I’ll be fine. This is New York. Home of the skyscraper. People use elevators all the time here.
    Elevators are just lifts in American clothing, and you’re scared of lifts. You have nightmares about the cords snapping and plunging to your death.
    I slow my breathing and stare fixedly ahead. I’m being ridiculous. I bet if you told a New Yorker you were scared, they’d think you were crazy.
    I glance at Mikey for reassurance, but he’s