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

opening cupboards and jumping on beds. Not that I’m going to do that, of course. I’m a professional, twenty-nine-year-old woman, not an eight-year-old child.
    Saying that, I’d love a quick snoop—er, I mean a look —around.
    Tentatively I venture down the hallway and into the spacious living room, still marveling at the incredible view. Awestruck, I manage to drag my gaze away and continue tiptoeing around, but I’ve gone only a few steps when a thought strikes. Swanky pads like this probably have some super-top-of-the-line security system. What if there’s CCTV cameras and I’m under surveillance? And I’m standing on a pristine white shagpile rug with my grubby old flip-flops.... Looking down at my feet with dismay, I quickly step backward. Only one of my feet has sort of stuck. Hang on, what’s—
    Chewing gum.
    On the white shagpile rug.
    Shit.
    Dropping to my knees, I quickly pick at the greasy gray blob with my fingers. Eugh. This is so sticky and disgusting. I pick harder, but it’s welded itself to the rug and won’t come off. I feel a stab of panic. Crap! I know, maybe if I use my nail scissors . . .
    I scramble around in my bag. I carry so much rubbish with me that I’ve probably got a pair.... Aha, here they are! I start digging at the tufts of shagpile with one of the blades. If I just scrape those . . . Painstakingly I work on the tufts, scraping each one, until after a few minutes there’s just a couple of stubborn little bits left. I know, what if I just trim those? No one will ever notice. It’ll be as good as new.
    Fuck. There’s a hole. I’ve made a hole!
    With my heart thumping hard in my chest, I stop my frenzied topiary and stare at the rug in frozen horror. The hole stares back at me. Oh my God, Lucy! You’re left on your own for five minutes and this is what happens ?
    In a desperate attempt I try ruffling it with my fingers, but it’s no good—there’s definitely a space where more tufts should be. It’s almost like a bald patch.
    Suddenly I have an idea. I know! What about doing a sort of comb-over?
    Using my fingers, I get to work trying to arrange the tufts just so, but it’s not easy. They keep springing back and I have to flatten them with my hand, then wrap a few more strands round.... God, now I know how Donald Trump feels. Exasperated, I continue tugging a piece this way and that, until finally I seem to have it covered.
    OK, now it just needs to stay that way. Rummaging around in my bag again, I pull out my little can of hair spray and give the rug a generous spritz. Perfect. You’d never even know the difference.
    Triumphantly I survey my handiwork. I feel rather pleased with myself. Disaster averted! Still, perhaps I should just sit down and wait for the owner to arrive home, I think as an afterthought. It’s probably safer that way. After all, I don’t want any more accidents.
    Padding barefoot over to the sofa, I perch gingerly on the edge of a cushion, being careful not to de-plump it. A fan of magazines is neatly spread out on the coffee table in front of me, but I resist the temptation to flick through them. I’m not going to touch anything, remember? I’m just going to sit right here and wait until the owner arrives. I’m not going to move a muscle.
    Instead I glance at the titles: Variety , The Hollywood Reporter , Vanity Fair . I feel a beat of excitement. Gosh, I wonder if it’s someone famous? There was me thinking it was some boring old banker, but maybe it’s a big-shot director. Or even an actor.
    No, Magda would have told me, I tell myself quickly. Wouldn’t she?
    Intrigued, I cast my eyes around for clues, but I can’t see any photos or knickknacks or unopened mail. I wonder if there’s anything in the rest of the apartment?
    I last about five seconds. Then my curiosity gets the better of me and I’m up from the sofa and tiptoeing