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

head popping out of the back office to remind me it’s time to eat. Again . I swear I could set my watch by her. Bang on one o’clock she sends me out to her favorite deli, Katz’s, for her usual order of a pastrami sandwich on rye and matzo-ball soup. Though with her tiny size-zero figure and twenty-inch waist, I have a sneaking suspicion it’s Valentino, her Maltese, doing most of the eating.
    Katz’s is a New York institution that’s been around forever. For tourists and those new to the city, like me, it’s famous for Meg Ryan’s faked orgasm in When Harry Met Sally . It happened right in the middle of the deli. There’s even an arrow pointing to the exact table where it was filmed.
    â€œGod, I love that scene.” Taking a ticket, I turn to Robyn, who’s just popped out between appointments to meet me with a set of keys she’s had cut for the apartment. She works at Tao Healing Arts, not far from here, in Chinatown.
    â€œMen don’t.” She grins, also taking a ticket and following me to the counter, where, as always, there’s a long queue. “It scares them. Women who fake it are like the tooth fairy. We don’t exist.”
    I laugh. When she’s not quoting Oprah, Robyn can be very funny.
    â€œAnyway, I’ve never needed to fake it.”
    I stop laughing abruptly. “You haven’t?” My voice comes out a little higher than intended.
    â€œNope, not me.” Shaking her head decisively, she leans closer. “I’m like a hair trigger.” She snaps her fingers and I jump slightly.
    â€œA what?” I ask in confusion.
    â€œYou know, I respond to the slightest stimulation,” she says cheerily. “What about you?” She meets my eyes with that shiny, happy confidence that Americans seem to ooze from their pores.
    â€œOh, um. Just a few times,” I fib, pushing my sunglasses back on my head and flicking my hair about, like I always do when I’m avoiding. Well, I’m not going to admit I can’t remember the last time I didn’t have to fake it to little Miss Hair Trigger over here, am I? “You know, sometimes, when I’m a bit tired.”
    â€œHave you tried sensual massage?” she suggests helpfully.
    That’s another thing about Americans—they are always so completely earnest. With fellow Brits, this conversation would have already descended into lewd jokes and leg-pulling, like the recent afternoon I spent in a bookstore with Kate sniggering at the illustrations in The Joy of Sex . She was going to buy it as a wedding gift for her friends, but after seeing the pictures of the hippie guy with the long beard and skinny legs, she was scared it might have a detrimental effect on their love life. She ended up buying them a set of steak knives instead.
    Still, I am an adult, not a teenager. I should be able to have a conversation about orgasms and sex without being immature and having to make silly jokes, I tell myself firmly. I mean, I’m not that childish.
    â€œIt can really help get you in the mood.”
    â€œWhat? The mood for lurve?” I joke, doing my best Barry White impersonation.
    Robyn’s steadfast gaze doesn’t waver. “You know, I’ve got some Chinese herbs you can take for that.”
    â€œFor what?” I say, pretending to look at the menu, even though after six weeks of doing the lunch run, I know it by heart.
    â€œLoss of interest in sex, lack of libido . . .”
    â€œThere’s nothing wrong with my libido,” I snap, then blush with embarrassment. “Thanks very much, but it’s fine, honestly.”
    â€œYou know it’s important to get in touch with your sexuality,” she continues matter-of-factly. “You Brits can be so uptight. You’re never going to come with that attitude.”
    â€œI do come,” I gasp indignantly.
    The queue of people in front of me turn to stare. I feel my cheeks turn