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

sleeve.
    â€œBut it is such a shame, because you cannot marry. The Jewish faith passes through the woman.” She heaves a deep, heartfelt sigh. “It is wonderful for the feminism but not for you and Daniel.” She turns to me, her eyes downcast.
    â€œI understand.” I nod gravely, while inside I feel little bursts of joy, like tiny fireworks going off inside me. I’ve always been an atheist, but now suddenly I’m a born-again.
    â€œI’m so sorry.” She’s still shaking her head.
    â€œIt’s OK. Really, I understand.” I try to look as sad as I can, while stifling a giggle that’s bubbling up inside. “I’ll survive.” Any minute I’ll start breaking out into Gloria Gaynor.
    â€œIt is a crime that a girl like you is single. A crime!” she repeats, passionately thumping the reception desk with her fist. “But don’t worry,” she quickly reassures me. “Leave it to me.”
    I feel a beat of alarm. “Leave what?”
    â€œI married off my brother and three of my cousins. My family call me Magda the Matchmaker.”
    Oh my God, this cannot be happening. It’s bad enough having friends try to matchmake, but your boss ?
    â€œI even found someone for Belinda, my sister’s daughter. A nice doctor from Brooklyn. And that was a tough one,” she confides, lowering her voice. “The girl’s a vegan and refuses to shave her legs. I mean, I ask you.” She throws her hands in the air. “I said to her, ‘Belinda, we’re not in Germany. Buy a razor!’”
    I’m like a rabbit caught in headlights.
    â€œTrust me, your single days are numbered,” she vows, beaming at me triumphantly.
    I stare at her dazedly. Never have I wanted to be part of a couple more than in this moment. “Um . . . great,” I manage. “Lucky me!”
    She smiles in consolation. “Well, it is no substitute for my Daniel, but it is the best I can do.” Then, taking one last lingering look at her beloved son, she snaps the concertina of photographs closed. “OK, enough of this love stuff. We must go to work!”

Chapter Five
    T hankfully I don’t have any time to think about my near miss with Daniel, or who else Magda is going to try to set me up with, as the rest of the morning is consumed in a whirl of activity getting things ready for the gallery event.
    There’s masses to do. True to form, Magda impulsively wants everything to happen right now; the date is set for this Friday.
    â€œ This Friday?” I squeaked in panic.
    â€œYou want Thursday instead?” was her reply. And the scary thing is, I don’t think she was joking.
    So while she clatters around the gallery on her five-inch heels, firing off instructions, I start organizing. First things first, I draw up a list:
    1. Compile guest list.
    2. E-mail invitations.
    3. Write promotional material.
    4. Book caterer.
    5. Hire waitstaff.
    6. Hang paintings ready to exhibit.
    See, I might not have been born with the organization gene like my sister, but I’m not completely useless at it. OK, so I admit I’d rather have a paintbrush than a computer mouse in my hand, and yes, I still type with two fingers (oh, all right, then, one finger), and it’s true that until recently I thought a spreadsheet was that curtain thingy on the bottom of the bed (apparently it’s called a valance, which, quite frankly, is a really stupid name for it; spreadsheet makes far more sense), but how hard is it to write down all the things you have to do, then tick them off when you’ve done them?
    Feeling rather pleased with myself, I look back at the computer screen and my neatly typed list. Actually, hang on a minute, rewind that thought. I have to do all these things? By the end of this week?
    Shit.
    Â 
    1. Panic.
    Â 
    But not right now. It’ll have to wait until later, as it’s lunchtime, I realize, seeing Magda’s