Never Google Heartbreak (13 page)

‘Oh shit. Oh shit! Okay. Check the sample cupboard. Just grab whatever you think might fit and we’ll work around it.’

She flaps away like a tropical bird. I return to the spreadsheet, trying to work out profit margins in percentages. I think we can get away with it by showing the mood board and the projected figures, then giving them other possible ideas from the sample cupboard and making out we’d ordered them especially. We can wing that bit. I’ll get Christie to prepare samples while I work on the report. I type numbers and the spreadsheet calculates totals. I glance up at Rob’s photo. It could all still be okay.

It’s not okay. Christie’s hands tremble as she stands before Mole, visibly shrinking under her deadpan gaze. I have no idea how to intervene. If I bail Christie out, it makes her look incompetent. If I don’t, I look like an imbecile. I study Mole, trying to read her thoughts and wondering about her life. I think it’d be hard to be more unattractive than her. It’s like she’s made a project of it. She should have a badge: ‘Say no to plucking! Let your blemishes shine!’ Three raisin-like moles across her cheek, like the stars of Orion’s belt, are not even notable compared to the coin-shaped, hairy patch that nestles between the folds of her double chin. It’s shocking when it pops into view, riding like a tick on the waves of her skin. Her watery blue eyes regard the sample before her. She begins to unwrap it. Christie shoots me a look of panic and I try to appear calm. Snotty is quiet. She sits, red mouth puckered like a dog’s bottom, jotting something on her pad. Mole pulls a tiny pink edible thong from the packet. She opens it out on her blunt fingers like a cat’s cradle. She takes a bite and chews thoughtfully.

‘I don’t think they’re supposed to taste really great,’ Christie simpers.

Mole slowly grinds and swallows. She turns the packaging over, looking for listed ingredients. ‘Extraordinary. What on earth are they made of ?’

‘Erm, I think just rice paper and flavouring,’ Christie answers, pretending to look at her notes.

Snotty, sensing a chance to shine, picks up her packet and turns on her death glare. ‘Edible underwear, Christine? Edible underwear? Would you explain how you think this is in keeping with the Barnes and Worth brand?’ She smiles conspiratorially at Mole.

‘It’s just—’

‘I mean, have you any idea of our customer base? Have you walked around the store and seen the kind of people who shop in our gifting department?’

Christie looks down at the table, shifting uneasily in her heels. I gather myself to stand up and explain but can’t for the life of me think why she chose bloody edible knickers from all the things in the sample cupboard. I know for a fact there was a carriage clock and even a cuddly hot-water bottle in the shape of a moon. Why didn’t she choose them? I’m learning, yet again, to check everything she does. I feel a damp film of nervous sweat prickle across my back. I don’t care about this! All I wanted was to look good for Rob. On Monday all the rest of the samples are being couriered over. I would have been ready on Monday. Today should have been calm, quiet. I could have focused on the date, on being ready. Now I’m sweaty, stressed out of my mind, and Christie is fucking up. Again.

As I push back my chair, she suddenly rallies, raising her voice over Snotty. ‘It’s just a bit of fun. A novelty for Christmas and you never know, it might spice up a few lives.’

Mole examines Christie with renewed interest and then starts to laugh, a surprisingly girlish tinkle. She looks at Snotty’s stricken face and laughs more. ‘She’s quite right! I love them! Do they do them for men?’ She winks at me, poking her tongue into the corner of her mouth. I smile, inwardly horrified by the image of Mole eating someone’s pants off. ‘I want samples, ladies,
tout de suite
! I want Christmas colours, cheeky slogans. I want them for both sexes. I want fun packaging, and we need to know what they’re made of. Have they been safety tested?’

Christie gawps. I answer no, they haven’t.

‘I want these in store this Christmas, so get on to it, Viv. Get me costings.’ She widens her eyes in my direction, then turns back to Christie. ‘Good work, young lady.’

Christie flushes and sinks into her chair.

Mole turns to Snotty. ‘This is a good PR opportunity. Let’s get on to the press with something . . . Something like . . . “B&W gets spicy this Christmas.” You know the sort of thing.’

Snotty nods while writing frantically. I catch her eye as she closes her notebook. She looks quickly away.

We move on through the afternoon, product by product. The scarves are in, but the ethnic beads are moved to the summer range. They go through the figures in detail, studying each profit margin and asking about suppliers. They want the costs down. They want to know how much more they’ll make if they buy in bulk or use less ethical suppliers. They send out for pizza at six. At seven they’re arguing about the cost of packaging on the chocolate fondue kits. They pick through my brain with chopsticks, selecting details like juicy morsels. I have to leave. How can I leave? I imagine Rob making his way to the pub and finding a seat. How long will he wait? They want to know if there’s a supplier of tartan or tweed in China. I say I’ll find out. I suggest that we have another meeting when I have more information. They ignore me and continue the bombardment. I note everything down, watching the hands of my watch shift, my heart knotting. We have a few more products to go through and each one is taking at least half an hour.

I’m looking at the door and thinking about bolting when Mole lifts her hands above her head, stretching her back. I glimpse the grey shadow of armpit stubble and expensive black lace through the sleeve of her tent dress.

‘Right! It’s late. It’s Friday. Let’s go to the pub and I’ll buy us a bottle of wine.’

Christie, high on her edible knickers triumph, claps her hands. ‘Yay!’ She looks excitedly at me.

‘I can’t come, unfortunately. I have a dinner date.’ I stand, gathering my notes.

‘Shame!’ thunders Mole.

Snotty walks with me to the door. As she holds it open, she murmurs, ‘I would have thought at times like these it would pay to be a team player, Viv. Enjoy your evening.’ She gives a disappointed smile.

‘Have a good weekend,’ I say as she turns back into the room, letting the door close on me. I can’t worry about it now. I run to the lift, trying to redo my hair as I go.

The Shy Horse pub clings to tradition. In a street of cocktail bars and minimalist stripped-wood eateries, its cosy red lamps glow reassuringly through diamond-latticed windows. The last clips holding up my hair have collapsed in the rush across town. I drag out the dangling pins as I walk and make what I hope is an artfully scruffy ponytail. I stand for a moment outside the window. I can see a group of girls in strapless tops and heels standing at the bar, a few couples sitting in the snugs, and old blokes on bar stools. Then my heart flips. He’s here. He’s sitting reading the paper in the next bay. The light warms up half his face, flattering his fine profile and catching his gently tousled hair. His golden skin is complemented by a pale grey suit and baby blue silk tie. Suddenly I’m inadequate. I smooth down my dress and tuck some stray hair behind my ears. I take a deep breath, mentally playing Christina Aguilera.

‘I am beautiful,’ I say to myself as I heave open the door. The chatter and laughter hit me. The room smells of boozy carpet and wood, making me desperate for a drink. Not my usual Pinot, though – something nostalgic, involving whisky. I feel as if a pulley heaving a great weight has been installed in my stomach. It goes up, smashing into my heart, before thumping down to my guts. I’m standing in front of him now. He hasn’t looked up from his newspaper; there’s still time to scarper. I get a sudden wild urge to do a monkey impression.
Oh shit, oh God.

I flash my sexiest smile. ‘Hi, Rob.’

He looks up, his perfect face frowning. ‘Hello. Finally! You’re fifteen’ – he glances at his Cartier – ‘no, seventeen minutes late!’

‘I’m really sorry. Glad you waited, though.’ I sink into the chair opposite him and place my hand over his. It’s warm and dry. He pulls away and taps his index fingers together. I get a waft of a scent I don’t recognise. I bet it’s something she bought; spraying her territory, like a cat on heat.

‘You smell nice. Is that new?’

‘You know, I think being late is the height of rudeness.’

‘It is. You’re right. I’m sorry, it was unavoidable.’

‘Late people have an arrogant disregard for other people’s time. I’ve wasted seventeen minutes of my life waiting for you today.’ There’s a long silence. In all my imaginings of this meeting, I hadn’t prepared for this. I sit, aching to touch him, more sure than ever that I must get him back. I glance at his beautiful face a couple of times, forming the beginnings of sentences in my mind, then thinking better of them. I notice he hasn’t, in his seventeen-minute wait, bought himself a drink. That’s my ‘in’. I lean across the table and clock him glancing briefly at my cleavage.

‘Rob, I am truly sorry for being late. I don’t expect you to forgive me, but perhaps you’d let me buy you a drink, by way of an apology?’ I look into his eyes.

He laughs and he’s more gorgeous than ever.

‘Well . . . since you put it like that, I’ll have a vodka tonic, lots of ice, no lemon.’

Triumphantly, I struggle to the bar and elbow my way into position. I know how to handle this; it’ll be fine. Rob has always needed soothing; he needs me to bring out the best in him. Like a salve, I calm him and make him laugh.

I get his drink and a whisky Mac with a cherry for myself. He takes a sip, watching me wince as I sip mine. I’d forgotten these were so strong.

‘What the hell are you drinking?’

‘Whisky Mac. It’s whisky and ginger wine, very warming. I’m feeling all Christmassy.’

‘It’s July.’

‘So?’ I look deep into his eyes. There’s definitely a spark of something there as he smiles.

‘Odd girl, aren’t you?’

‘Unique. Yes.’

He holds my gaze before his face closes like a trap. He takes a gulp of his drink. He’s looking around the room now. He’s disengaging. He’s resisting.

‘Do you want to eat something? They do okay food here, I think. I’m starving, aren’t you?’ I blurt out quickly.

He shifts in his chair. ‘Viv . . .’

‘I’ll get some menus!’ I get up and half jog to the bar. There’s a mirror behind the bottles and I watch the reflection of a happy Friday scene: a fat guy desperately chatting up one of the strapless girls. Rob looking at his watch. A small, pink-faced person with a scruffy ponytail. I straighten up, realising it’s me, and turn my head slightly to get my best side.

Don’t look, I say in my head, that’s an ugly mirror. Like those thin mirrors they put in changing rooms . . . only different. I look back at Rob; he’s checking his phone. I reach for the menus. Don’t lose him! Concentrate. I turn back to the table, composed.

He puts the phone away. ‘Viv, I know we said dinner, but I don’t think I can stay to eat. I have to be somewhere else.’ As his look of sympathy fades, I realise I have no hold on him. He expected to meet me for . . . what? A swift goodbye? A pat on the back and a ‘no hard feelings’ handshake? He’s bloody well arranged something else later! It’s amazing how he never fails to be insensitive. I want to tell him I too have a date later, with an oligarch who’s hung like a horse, but (a) it’s not true, and (b) I can’t bear for him to leave. If he leaves, I know my heart will just shatter. Pride has no place in this.

He’s finishing up his drink as I touch his arm. ‘Please, Rob. Don’t go,’ I plead.

‘Viv.’ He pats the top of my hand.

‘Just have something to eat with me first.’ I meet his eyes. God, I thought I’d be looking into that face on my wedding day and I thought my children would have those eyelashes. He’s gazing at me blankly. ‘Please. For old times’ sake?’ I say.

He picks up the menu.

A harassed barman in baggy jeans brings two pies and chips with cutlery rolled in serviettes and a salt cellar with a dribble of gravy down the side. I’m still here with Rob! He’s taken off his jacket and tie. He’s on his third large vodka and seems to be enjoying himself.

‘I love the way you eat, Viv.’

‘Really?’

‘Yeah, the way you eat like a man. I mean, what girl eats pie and chips washed down with a pint?’ I smile, not sure where he’s going with this. ‘But you do. I like that. I like that you’re not forever counting calories and picking at salad.’ I think of the citrus and vinegar diet I once tried, of the boom and bust of my eating habits.

‘No, not me! It’s boring all that, isn’t it?’ I hope I’m insulting Sam with this. The skin of his throat and the scribble of chest hair just visible above his shirt make me ache, they’re so familiar.

I feel a kind of relief, like waking from a bad dream. He’s here, it’s okay. We chat about work and family, managing to avoid the subject that’s sitting like an elephant between us, until he puts down his knife and fork and refuses another drink. He says he has to go. He’s meeting Sam and ‘a few friends’. I feel a sharp point of pain under the ribs. I’ve nothing left to hold him here.

‘So . . . congratulations on your engagement!’ I blurt.

He smiles. ‘You don’t mean that.’

I line up the beer-mats with great precision. ‘No. But I do want you to be happy.’ I smile.

‘Well . . . thank you.’

‘And are you? Happy?’

He looks at me as if measuring the level of pain I can stand. ‘I think so.’

Is he leaving the door a crack open with that? Is there a hopeful chink of light to drive a wedge into?

‘Happier than when we were getting married?’

‘Viv, please. I don’t want to go over all that. It’s history. I’m with someone else now.’

‘Of course. I know. But, well, you’re here now. With me. There must be a reason for that.’ I hold his hand. ‘It must count for something.’

‘I just thought I owed it to you to tell you myself, to say goodbye properly.’

Oh my God, this is hard, like being repeatedly punched on the nose. But faint heart never won fair man. I try to keep my voice even. ‘I don’t want to say goodbye, Rob.’