Never Google Heartbreak (11 page)

‘I know, but Reg is here now and I’ll see you Sunday.’

‘I didn’t know you were coming. I could have put Reg off if I’d known.’ She looks forlorn.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ I’m secretly a tiny bit pleased she noticed the dig. I step outside. ‘I’ll see you soon.’

‘I love you!’ she calls as I walk away. I suddenly can’t wait to escape from her life. As I turn the corner and glance back, she waves from the doorstep.

On the journey home, as I lean into the seat of the London-bound train, there’s an ugly lump squatting in my gut, something I can’t put my finger on. I don’t understand why I acted that way at Nana’s. I feel really bad now for making her uncomfortable. I guess I just couldn’t face being the odd one out again, and maybe it’s unreasonable but I expected her to be there for me, no matter what, to send Reg away. Perhaps she couldn’t see that I need help. How are you supposed to show your heart is breaking? How do you ask for help? And who is supposed to come to your aid? I realise now that my family and friends didn’t think very much of Rob. But just because
they
didn’t like him, they’re acting as if I shouldn’t either, and dismissing my pain. Do I have to wear a banner? ‘Warning! Heartbroken. May cry.’ But it’s not that they don’t see it; it’s just that they can’t help. I have to go through this by myself.

Heartbreak is so lonely, and this is why the website is a good idea. Other people must be feeling like this. The site will be somewhere where everyone on it knows what you’re going through. I take out my notebook and jot, ‘Chat room, heartbreak hotel?’ then immediately feel like a loser. If you’re in a chat room like that, you’d have to accept the loss, wouldn’t you? You’d have to realise you’d been dumped, that it actually was ‘the end’. For Rob and me, it isn’t like that. I mean, I know he’s getting married and everything, but
he
hasn’t told me, we haven’t talked.

If I could see him, actually have a conversation, I know he’d realise his mistake. Maybe it’s time to swallow my pride and just contact him. I rest my forehead on the window and read the graffiti outside as the train squeals to a stop. An enormous blond youth gets on and despite the carriage being half empty, plonks himself down next to me. I smell stale cigarette smoke and pull my handbag onto my lap, squeezing up to the window. From his earphones comes a loud, tinny beat. He opens a packet of greasy fried chicken in his lap and begins to chew at the flesh, dropping the stripped bones at our feet. I look out of the window as dreary Greater London slides by. The smell of chicken makes my stomach lurch. I look at him pointedly. He smacks his lips, crumples the oily paper and throws that down too. He glances at me and nods. I motion to him to take out his earphones and point to the mess on the floor.

‘Oh come on. Who do you think is going to pick that up?’

He looks at the floor and back at me, then speaks in an exaggerated Jamaican accent. ‘You can, darlin’, and blow me while you down there.’

‘Oh very nice!’

He nods. ‘Straight.’

‘What about the other people who have to use this train?’

He shrugs. ‘Man, I don’ mind if dey wan’ eat dey chicken too!’

‘Right. Let me out. Come on, move over.’ He slides his legs to the side. I scrabble out of the seat, feeling a blush rising from my neck. I’m furiously trying to find a way to contact the guard when I notice a button directly opposite the boy. I jab it and glare at him. There’s a rustle, then a voice.

‘Guard speaking.’

‘Hello there, I’m in the fourth carriage, I think, and a young man is eating chicken and throwing the rubbish all over the floor!’

‘Okay, madam, I’ll make sure the cleaner finds it when we reach our final stop.’

‘But don’t you want to speak to the person? He’s still here,’ I say, exasperated.

‘Madam, the cleaner will deal with the mess.’

‘Yes, but what about the person who did it?’

‘Nothing we can do, madam.’ The line crackles and he’s gone.

I glare at the youth and sink into the seat opposite so if the guard comes, I can point him out. He mutters something and I swing round.

‘Sorry, what did you say?’

‘I saying, you need to chill . . . serious!’

I stare straight ahead, suddenly aware of other passengers looking my way, but when I look up, they avert their eyes. I championed them, sticking my neck out to keep the train clean, and now they’re treating me like some sort of freak! I spend the rest of the journey burning with indignation while the youth repeatedly mutters, ‘Serious,’ like a spell.

Finally I’m home. I close the door and lean on it feeling like I’ve been set on by wolves. Why did I go outside? I’m obviously mad with grief. I’m out of sync with the universe.

Right now I wish I had a pet. A pretty little cat with a bell on her collar who’d come running at the sound of my key in the door. That would be nice – take the edge off the loneliness. I’d buy gourmet cat food like in the adverts. We’d curl up in front of the TV together. But the litter tray, though – all those little turds covered in granules . . . barf. No, I’m better alone with my pain.

I’ve decided to contact Rob, so that’s something good – positive action. What I’ll do is email him. I chuck my bag down and turn on the computer. The screen flickers into life and my mailbox beeps. I have a few messages – a couple from Christie, one from a catalogue company and one from him! I swallow and lean further in to the screen, heart thumping.

Hello Viv,

I hope you’ve recovered from Saturday. That was quite a performance!

I’m glad you met Sam. I gather she told you about us getting hitched. Sorry you found out like that. I wanted to tell you myself and had thought to ask you out for dinner or something. So much has happened recently.

Anyway, wish me luck?

Rob

I feel like he’s reached through the screen and whacked me in the throat with a bat. I type quickly.

Hi Rob,

Congratulations! I think your new fiancée is a very interesting person.

It would be good to meet for dinner. I would like to wish you luck face to face.

Viv

I should take time to reply, really think about this. The mouse hovers over ‘send’ and then I just click and it’s gone! Good, at least I’m in contact with him. I’m shaking. He’s the only man in the world I want and here he is getting married and telling me by email. I mean, ‘getting hitched’ is so casually put, as if the last five years of planning our wedding was a rehearsal.

He replies immediately.

Where and when for dinner?

He still wants to see me, then – this a good sign, and such a quick reply must mean he’s been waiting for me to get in touch all along. I feel a rush of excitement. Now, where would be good for dinner? Not a restaurant – too formal. Nowhere we used to go – too sentimental. I think we need a foody pub, somewhere casual and cool.

How about the Shy Horse on King Street? I’ve read good things about it. Shall we say Friday 7.30?

Whoosh – sent.

I wait five minutes, staring at the screen, but there’s nothing. I open up the messages from Christie, neither of them about work. The first is to say she misses me and she went to our favourite sandwich bar for lunch but didn’t get the ‘all-day breakfast roll’ as she noticed the calorie content, which was more than a gorilla’s daily allowance. The second is to say she hopes I’m coming back tomorrow as the sales are starting.

I begin to reply, but hear the soft ding of an incoming message . . . not him. It’s a photographer with a link to view photos of Jane and Hugo’s wedding. I take a deep breath and click on it.

The bride and groom appear in various poses outside the church. There are a couple verging on the ridiculous, where he’s doing a star jump and she’s running with the wind in her veil. There’s a twee shot of them kissing over the top of a superimposed wishing well. Then I feel a stab as I get to a photo of Rob with Sam, posing in the churchyard. He looks gorgeous, the sun catching his hair; she looks like a model, standing with one leg forward, tummy in and head back. I glare at her, muttering,‘You cow, you cow, you cow!’ I think I’ll print her out and show Christie.

I scroll further down the thumbnails and find myself. There I am, smiling blearily while strangling Max with one arm, champagne glass dangling precariously from my hand. In another I’m staring, devil-like, in the background of the happy couple’s portrait. I’m at the table, with smudged eye make-up, mouth open, midway through a bread roll. There’s one of Max and me, heads joined at the temple, grinning like goons. Finally, there I am standing holding the bouquet next to Rob and Sam. Oh my God. I’m a pale pink giant next to her, red puffy nose and smeared lipstick. He’s looking slightly away, but she stares straight into the camera with a defiant, tight little smile, symmetrical brows, glossy hair, groomed and ice cool. She looks as if she’s about to dispatch me with a flick of her skinny wrist. The title of the picture is ‘Rob and Sam with friend’. I can’t remember it being taken. What kind of photographer takes pictures like that? I drop my head into my hands, cover my eyes and then peer again through my fingers. Yes, it is
that
bad.

Ding!

Fine, see you there.

How to tell if he fancies you

1. Does he listen to everything you say?

2. Does he comment on your appearance?

3. Does he lick his lips more than usual when you’re near?

4. Does he maintain eye contact with you for more than two seconds?

5. Does he smile a lot and laugh at all your jokes?

6. Does he ask if you’re seeing anyone?

7. Does he go out of his way to bump into you?

8. Does he try to make himself seem more important/stronger/wiser/funnier/richer than he really is?

9. Does he text you all the time?

10. Does he try to touch you?

If you can answer ‘yes’ to three or more of the above, you’re on to something.

It’s oppressively hot at the office; the air like a thick blanket too tightly tucked. The photo above my computer, of Rob and me, lifts and flicks lazily with the oscillating fan. Visualisation is a skill I have been teaching myself for a few years: in my mind I create a picture of what I want, make it as vivid as possible, add colour and see the picture in animation. It really works and you can use it for anything – to make someone chat you up, make interviews go your way, even to get a parking space. This photo will bring Rob back. It’s a close-up of our laughing faces. We were on top of Primrose Hill and he took it by holding the camera outstretched. The sun makes a halo around his head, his eyes are shining blue, and his perfect smiling toothpaste advert mouth makes my heart beat faster. I kiss my finger and press it to his cheek.

Beside me, Christie is studying the printout of Sam using a magnifying glass. I’m amazed at her efficiency yesterday. She cleared all the filing, wrote the reports I asked for and even made a start on the Christmas gift offer. She’s created an impressive mood board, pasting together pictures of the main trends from the autumn/winter fashion collections. It’s all luxury folk and animal print with tartan and tweed.

This is obviously the new improved Christie, but alarmingly she’s taken to wearing spectacles with clear glass lenses. She says they make her look intelligent; I didn’t like to argue. I tell her I’m making tea.

‘Tea is full of caffeine, which will dehydrate you. No. Not for me, Viv.’ I ask what about coffee? ‘Coffee? Coffee is worse!’ She wants some herbal brew with soya milk. I wish I’d never offered. Returning from the kitchen, I put her strange-smelling drink on her desk and perch on the other side, sipping my Nescafé. She puts down the magnifying glass and looks up at me with a pained expression.

‘She’s gorgeous, isn’t she?’ I nod. ‘I mean, I’ve tried to find a flaw, I really have, but she’s stunning, isn’t she?’ I nod again; Christie looks sadly back at the picture. ‘She’s really stylish too, isn’t she? I wonder where she got that dress.’ She studies the picture. ‘God, look at her figure! I would kill to have a body like that, wouldn’t you?’ I snatch the photo away. She looks up in surprise. ‘But looks aren’t everything. Like you said, she’s an absolute bitch. Actually, that’s probably just a really good shot of her.’

Avoiding her eyes, I slide off her desk, take the two steps to mine and slump into my chair. I look at the picture, crumple it into a ball and fire it at the bin; it misses and rolls into the walkway, coming to rest beside the pointy shoes of Paul from technology. He picks it up, smooths it out and gives a low whistle.

‘He’s one lucky fella. I wouldn’t mind a crack at that!’ He hands the picture to me with a Frisbee-throwing motion. I ball it up again and this time throw it successfully into the bin with a sarcastic smile. He holds up his hands and starts to back out of our little section, but, noticing Christie’s legs, he stops.

‘Are those fishnet tights you’re wearing there, young Christie?’ She slides her chair back and stretches out her legs.

‘Yes, Paul – stockings, actually.’ He puts a fist in his mouth and, with his other hand over his groin, shuffles away. She giggles, watching him go.

‘You should report him. That’s sexual harassment.’

‘Not if I don’t mind,’ she laughs.

‘Well, you should mind!’ I snap. She sighs and turns back to her screen.

I look out at white-hot shimmering London. The dome of Madame Tussauds rises above cluttered rooftops. A toy-like red bus crawls along. Outside this window, millions of lives are running their course. People are breathing, loving, eating, fucking, dying. Riding on buses, boats, bikes, taxis and underground trains, talking on phones, hustling for deals, queuing for coffee. This world is moving on while I sit here feeling like I’ve swallowed a great big jagged rock.

I pick up my phone and text Lucy: ‘
Fancy lunch?
’ She replies, ‘
Could do
1
p.m. for half an hour otherwise can’t get away until
3
.
’
I stare at the words. It seems like everyone else is moving at a different pace to me, cruising along with purpose in the great sea of life while I’m stricken and slowly sinking. I agree to 1 p.m. I skim through my inbox, feeling despondent. I have a lot of work to catch up on and Christie and I need to sit down and decide on the lines we’ll put forward for the winter gift range, but I keep thinking of new ideas for the website. I jot down, ‘A one-stop shop for the heartbroken.’