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

that nearly trampled to death a rambler who had dared cut across his field.
    Right now I feel a bit like that rambler.
    â€œMeatballs, mmm ,” I enthuse, groping around in my head for something to say about meatballs and trying desperately to dismiss images of school lunches. “How . . . um . . . meaty!”
    Meaty? That’s it, Lucy? That’s all you can come up with? I cringe inwardly, but if my boss suspects anything, she doesn’t show it. Rather, the corners of her mouth turn up slightly and I see her thawing.
    â€œMy favorite,” I add.
    Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.
    â€œThey are?” Magda’s ample chest swells.
    â€œAbsolutely.” I nod, crossing my fingers behind my back. “In fact, I could eat them all day every day.”
    Now I’ve started, I don’t seem able to stop.
    â€œYou could?” Magda is positively beaming.
    â€œOh, yes.” I nod. “In fact, if someone said to me, ‘Lucy Hemmingway, you can only eat one thing for the rest of your life,’ it wouldn’t be chocolate or Ben and Jerry’s Chunky Monkey ice cream. Oh no.” I put my hand on my hip and waggle my finger theatrically, suddenly feeling a bit like when I played Annie in the school play.
    â€œDynamic” is how the local newspaper described me. Mum has the cutting in a frame in the downstairs loo, along with a picture of me as Annie. Which is very unfortunate—me at thirteen in braces and a curly ginger wig is not a pretty sight, and not something I want to see every time I use the loo. It’s the reason I spent my entire teenage years whizzing boyfriends straight out through the front door, despite their bursting bladders.
    â€œNo. Do you know what it would be, Mrs. Zuckerman?” I ask, throwing my arms out wide. I’m now in full pantomime mode, complete with hand gestures and over-the-top facial expressions. I’m quite enjoying myself. Perhaps amateur dramatics would have suited me.
    Had I actually been able to act, that is.
    â€œNo. Tell me,” whispers Magda with anticipation.
    â€œMeatballs!” I declare. “Nothing but meatballs!”
    OK. Maybe I got a bit too carried away there.
    Surprisingly, though, Magda looks like all her Christmases have come at once. Or, I should say, Hanukkahs.
    â€œOh, Loozy.” She reaches for my hand. “If only you were Jewish, I would beg you to marry my youngest son, Daniel. Nothing would make me happier.”
    â€œOh . . . um, thanks.” I smile uncertainly, not sure how to take this compliment.
    Magda discovered my single status within thirty minutes of my first day at work. By noon she’d demanded my entire relationship history since primary school and by closing time had declared them all schmucks.
    â€œYou would be the perfect couple,” she says, reaching into her enormous tote and pulling out a concertina-type thingy, which she opens out like an accordion. It’s filled with photographs of her family. “See! Here he is!” She thrusts a picture at me.
    I stare at it, my face momentarily frozen in shock.
    Think Austin Powers in a yarmulke.
    â€œI know, he’s handsome, huh?” She beams, misinterpreting my reaction. “Look at those green eyes! And that smile! Have you ever seen a smile like that before?”
    â€œUm . . . wow,” I manage, trying to find a positive angle.
    Then I give up.
    Well, really. I’m not shallow. I know looks aren’t everything and that it’s personality that counts, but, well . . . I glance back at the photo and his giant rabbit teeth.
    OK, sod it. Call me shallow.
    â€œAnd an architect too!” Magda is swelling up so much I’m fearful she’s going to burst with maternal pride.
    â€œWow,” I repeat. My vocabulary, it seems, has shrunk to one word. Not that Magda has noticed, mind you. She’s too busy beaming at her son’s photograph and polishing it with her