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

staring at his feet and muttering something under his breath. I notice he’s wearing a small gold cross round his neck. And he’s clutching it.
    Fuck. This is not good. This is not good. This is—
    The elevator suddenly comes to a halt and the door springs open.
    Wow.
    My fear instantly evaporates as I’m hit with the most breathtaking view of Central Park. Stretching out ahead of me, as far as the eye can see, is a vast carpet of trees. On and on it goes, as if someone just plopped a big piece of the English countryside in the middle of Manhattan.
    â€œHoly shit.”
    As we step out into the apartment, with its huge floor-to-ceiling windows, I turn to Mikey. Eyes out on stalks, he’s gripping the cart as if for support. “I’m not good with heights. I get dizzy,” he mutters gruffly, a queasy expression on his face as he gazes out at the skyline and the towering skyscrapers we’re now rubbing shoulders with.
    â€œI would recommend putting the crates here in the hallway,” the doorman is saying in the background. “That way, they’re not causing an obstruction.”
    â€œSure, good idea,” Mikey says, nodding. Immediately he gets under way unloading the crates in an eager bid to get out of here.
    â€œIt’s very important not to cause an obstruction,” continues the doorman somberly. “Fire regulations, you know.”
    â€œUm, yes.” I nod distractedly, my eyes flicking around me. Gosh, this place is enormous.
    â€œFire?” repeats Mikey. His voice sounds a little strangled. “Did someone just say ‘fire’?” He starts unloading faster, his biceps popping like pistons.
    And white. Everything’s white, I notice, glancing around at the white rugs, white sofas, white walls. I feel nervous just looking at it, as if I’m going to get this sudden impulse to chuck a glass of red wine somewhere.
    Not that I go around chucking glasses of red wine everywhere, but I have been known to spill things occasionally. Not that I’m clumsy; I’m just—
    Oh, who am I kidding? If I lived here, I’d have to take out shares in OxiClean.
    Anyway, I don’t need to worry about that, I reflect, thinking about my cluttered little shoe box downtown with its clashing color schemes and eclectic mix of East-meets-West-meets-thrift-shop. Which is something, I suppose.
    â€œI like art, you know.”
    I drag my eyes back to the doorman. “Oh, really?” I nod politely.
    â€œVan Gogh, he’s my favorite,” he confides. “Got any of his stuff?” He jerks his head toward the paintings.
    â€œEr, no.” I smile apologetically.
    The doorman’s face drops with disappointment.
    â€œOK, well, I’m all done here,” interrupts Mikey, straightening up. Digging out an invoice from his back pocket, he holds it out for me to sign.
    â€œGreat. Thanks.” I scribble my signature and pass it back.
    â€œRight, I’m outta here.” Diving back to the elevator, he stands by the closed door with his cart, waiting for the doorman. He reminds me of my parents’ dog when it’s time to go for a walk and he’s sitting by the door, desperate to go out.
    â€œIf you’ll excuse me, miss . . .” Clearing his throat, the doorman adjusts his peaked cap and strides into the elevator, like a pilot climbing into his cockpit. “Any problems, buzz down.” He jabs at the button with a white-gloved hand. “I’ll be straight up.” And with that, he and Mikey disappear behind the sliding door.
    I listen to the hum of the lift as it descends, gradually getting quieter and quieter. Then it’s gone.

Chapter Seven
    O K, so now what?
    Alone in the penthouse, I stand motionless for a moment, looking around. The owner might not be back for ages. What am I going to do now?
    Out of the blue I get an image of Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone , rushing wildly from room to room,