Never Google Heartbreak (17 page)

‘I see. Well. All I would say is, be careful, Christie. Remember, “Ruth” will only ever look after herself.’ I see her face fall. She’s deflated and I’m holding the pin. I know that whatever’s going on, Christie won’t have a clue. It’s not her fault; they’ve made her a pawn. She looks down at her Mary Jane heels. I smile at her, suddenly sorry. ‘I’m sure they will offer you something, though . . .’

‘Well, they said
your
work has been missing the mark recently . . .’ she fires after the bell. ‘Yeah, they said you’ve had your eye off the ball for a while now . . . that you let personal matters interfere with your work.’

‘Did they?’

‘Yeah.’

‘And what did you say?’

‘I said you’ve been through a difficult time recently.’

‘Right.’ I feel something scratch in my throat. I stare at a poster about fire regulations behind Christie’s head, trying to will away tears. ‘Okay, Christie. Give me a moment and then we’ll have a meeting about our range. All right?’ I turn to my desk, staring at the screen and swallowing hard.

What’s wrong with me? I must not start crying! I’m furious that they discussed me in the pub like that – I know I’ve not been as committed as I might normally be, but I have been dealing with a personal crisis. Would they cut me some slack if I were actually getting divorced? I’m losing the love of my life here, I can barely cope with tomorrow, so forgive me if I’m not
so
interested in Christmas gifts . . I blow my nose and a new email pings onto my screen.

Good morning, Vivienne,

The website is ready for your perusal . . . when I see you.

Mike

This is all I need. How has he managed to make even his email seem creepy? I reply quickly.

Hi Mike,

Thanks so much! I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with. I’m in meetings all morning, but are you free after lunch?

Viv

His reply appears almost instantly.

See you tonight after work. 6 p.m.

Is he expecting me to buy him a meal tonight? I had thought the website would be up and running before I ‘paid’. What choice do I have? I owe him, and a Monday-night dinner is less painful a sacrifice than any other day. I agree and, feeling like I’ve just made a deal with the devil, I close the email and print out our product spreadsheet. Missing the mark recently? Not any more. I swivel on my chair to face Christie’s desk. She senses me there and quickly shuts down a fashion website.

‘Are you okay to meet now?’ I ask. She turns round, nettled.

‘I think so.’

‘Good. So, edible knickers, then?’ I smile encouragingly.

‘Actually, I want to handle that line myself. The buying team think I should bring something from idea stage to store shelf on my own.’

‘The buying team?’

‘Yes.’

‘Who, Snotty and Mole? S and M?’

‘That’s right.’

‘Well, then, isn’t that a great plan? May I ask if you’ve found a supplier?’

‘Not yet.’

‘Okay, did you come up with any slogans?’

‘Yes, actually. I have a few that I think could work.’

‘Would you like to share them with me?’

She seems to loosen up a little, even smiling as she picks up a notepad. ‘Well, there’s “Hairy Christmas” – it’s a play on merry Christmas, but because it’s going on pants, it’ll be close to pubic hair . . .’

‘I get it.’

‘Then there’s “Suck it and see.” And “Deck your balls” – that’s for the men’s range,’ she reads.

‘Right . . .’

‘Then I was thinking of variations on traditional Christmas food. I mean, it won’t be these actual ones, but I thought things like instead of mince pie we could have “Minge pie”, instead of Christmas pudding we could have “Christmas pussy” . . .’ she says, with a straight face.

‘Or maybe instead of Christmas turkey you could have “Last turkey in the shop”?’ I laugh.

She looks up to the ceiling, chewing her pencil thoughtfully, then frowns. ‘No, Viv, I don’t get that one.’ She looks at the notepad. ‘“Cranberry saucy”?’

‘What about just “saucy”?’

‘See, the point you’re missing, Viv, is the theme. It’s Christmas food.’ She speaks patiently, as if to an imbecile. ‘Anyway, those are my ideas for now. I’ll let you know if I need any more help.’

I search her face, looking for a scrap of the Christie I recognise, but Snotty has replaced her with an android.

We carry on through the morning, finalising the range. Christie dodges anything I try to delegate, saying she has to concentrate on her own ‘line’. She’s calling it ‘pantalise’. Because it sounds like tantalise, she explains. She’s being really very annoying, so I insist she cover the decorative candles and check out the ‘made by prisoners’ issue; then I’m left with the other ten products. It will be good to keep busy – it’ll keep my mind occupied. I’ll be heroic, working all the hours. Everyone will be amazed. A daydream of Rob in Sicily, on our last holiday, rolls golden and honey-coated through my memory before bursting like a pretty bubble as it hits the wet pavement of reality. Real life: work, and a date with creepy Michael.

The lift doors open and there he is, leaning greasily against the marble foyer wall with studied confidence, one of his legs juddering. I have the urge to dart past like a startled deer and disappear into the undergrowth of home-bound commuters, but instead I walk slowly across the gleaming square. His darting eyes clock me, but bizarrely, he pretends he hasn’t seen. He looks round casually, both legs now bouncing at the knee. He greets me with fake surprise when I’m standing in front of him, leaning forward, taking me by the elbow and kissing the air next to my ear. I take in the faint vegetable smell of his breath and a hint of spice on his collar. He avoids eye contact and nods towards the exit; then there’s an embarrassing scuffle as we approach the revolving door and end up squashed in the same segment, shuffling round in silence and being spat out into the warm, rushing evening.

‘Where are we off to, then, Michael?’ I ask breezily.

‘Mike.’

‘Sorry . . . Mike,’ I say. He stares off down the street, eyes narrowing as if assessing a combat zone, then turns and faces the other way.

‘I think drinks at O’Malley’s first,’ he replies with a little satisfied gasp, then walks away, taking quick, short steps. I run a bit to keep up and fall in line beside him, thankful that I’m wearing flat shoes; his eyes are level with my throat. I glance at his rat-tail beard as he stares straight ahead.

‘O’Malley’s. I don’t think I’ve ever been.’

‘Oh, you’d know if you’d been!’ He sniggers into space.

I look down at the pavement, at my sandals and his scuffed synthetic loafers. We walk against the crowd, buffeting our way through. At times he walks ahead along the kerb, never checking to see if I’m following. At least we don’t look like we’re together, walking like this. I feel a strange combination of anxiety and dread, mixed with a pinch of curiosity. I remind myself I had nothing better to do this evening and that it’s important to get out of your comfort zone – it says so in
Find Your
Own
Way, Be Free
. Also, I must remember he’s done me a huge favour. I catch up with him as we hit the pavement again.

‘So, Mike, how’s the site looking?’

‘All right.’

‘I can’t wait to see it.’

He looks at me sideways, like I’ve tried to trick him out of a windfall. We lapse into silence until he comes to a stop in front of some formal-looking black railings. Concrete steps turn downwards to a wooden door. He skips down like a gameshow host and I see the white of his scalp through his thinning hair. I take a longing look at the golden sunlit evening, like taking a last breath before plunging underwater, then follow.

He pulls at the door and we’re hit by the muggy belch of an underworld bar, all dark wood and burgundy upholstery. My eyes adjust to the murky light and I make out figures hunched in booths around the walls; here and there the glint of a facial piercing. Behind the bar a beautiful obese brunette leans, her skin shining white as a cream cheese in the gloom, her chalk-smooth bosom contrasting starkly with a shiny black corset.

‘All right, Mike? What can I get you?’ she calls as we approach.

He glances at me triumphantly. He orders a pint of bitter, takes his glass and moves off to a booth, leaving me to get my own drink and pay. I slide into the bench opposite with my vodka and tonic.

‘I’ve had her,’ he says, licking beer foam from his upper lip and nodding towards the bar.

‘Well, she’s very pretty.’ I nod.

‘I love big girls.’

I feel the table vibrate with his shaking legs and take a big gulp of vodka. I look around the room and back at him, smiling thinly.

‘You’re probably not big enough for me, but you’ve got a good-sized arse on you. I like that,’ he elaborates.

‘Thanks, that’s . . . er . . . nice of you to say.’

‘No problem. You’re not stacked enough in front, though, strictly speaking.’

‘Oh.’ I feel the skin of my inadequate cleavage crawl. My striped T-shirt keeps me covered up, but it’s clingy. I catch his eyes darting away from my nipples. His bony fingers tap a beat on the table and he looks around with shoulders hunched, nodding his head to a beat only he can hear. Then he laughs suddenly, a sort of bray ending in a giggle.

‘You’re not comfortable here, are you?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s mad in here.’

I look around at other people quietly drinking, thinking there must be something about to happen that I’m not aware of. Maybe a bell will suddenly ring and we’ll all have to swap trousers and do the Macarena.

‘Mike . . . about the website . . .’

He quickly throws down a slip of paper with a web address written on it. ‘All on there, for your . . . perusal.’

‘Great!’ I reach for it, but he snatches it back, his scrabbling fingers catching my hand.

‘Not until
I’ve
had a good evening, sister!’ He smiles. ‘One thing you should know about me is this: I know women. I know what you’re like.’ He taps the side of his nose and shakes his head. ‘If I give you what you want up front, you’re going to run off home as soon as you can, aren’t you?’ I stare at him. Does this mean he regularly bribes women to go out with him? Knows they’d avoid him like chronic candida if he didn’t have a carrot on a stick? He jiggles in his seat. ‘I’ve got what you want’ – he taps his pocket – ‘so you give me what I want. That’s only fair, isn’t it?’

‘I wasn’t going to run off home!’ I laugh. ‘I just thought we might talk about the site, that’s all.’ He stares at me like a wolf outside the chicken pen. ‘And you wanted a meal, right?’ I feel the need to clarify suddenly.

‘That’s right. Chinese banquet, I think.’ He smacks his lips.

‘Well, that’s fine.’ I down my drink. ‘Shall we go?’

‘Not until the belly dancer’s been on.’

* * *

Quite a lot of vodka later, I’m sitting in the Golden Garden, feeling a warm sense of goodwill and chatting excitedly to Michael about facial hair. He has a closely trimmed patch of whiskers just below his bottom lip, above the long, beaded beard.

‘Women love it,’ he claims. He spins the turntable round so that I can reach the crispy fried seaweed. I take some with plastic chopsticks, and add a spring roll from the red dragon dishes.

‘What kind of women love facial hair?’ I screech.

‘
Real
women do.’ He grins. I laugh and the caramel-coloured ducks in the window seem to sway and dance. He sucks up chop suey, gathering escaping noodles from his chin with his tongue. I stare at the tongue; it seems obscenely long. I stuff my face with prawn balls. He leans forward conspiratorially. ‘They call it my clit tickler,’ he giggles. I look at his glistening whiskers, imagining. He suddenly flicks out the tongue.

‘Oh my God!’ I scream with my mouth full, then begin to choke on a bit of prawn. Mike leaps up and starts hammering me on the back with such force that I feel my eyes might pop out. I think he’s winded me. I manage to nod and gasp, ‘I’m okay!’ before he stops and returns to his seat. I take a sip of water.

‘I thought I’d have to do the Heimlich then. I’m advanced first aid trained,’ he tells me.

‘Mike, you’re everything a woman could ask for! First aid trained and . . .’ I can hardly complete the sentence ‘. . . you have a clit tickler!’ I’m obviously hysterical. I can’t stop laughing and he’s laughing too, spraying bits of noodle. We sit like a pair of giggling children, quietening and suddenly hooting again. Someone approaches our table.

‘Viv! Hello. Having fun?’ I turn and look up, wiping my eyes. Rob stands over us, bemused. In an instant I’m sober and nothing’s funny. I spot Sam hovering in a sparkly dress, her Bambi eyes wide and innocent.

‘Hi! Rob!’ I clear my throat.

‘I thought someone was going to have to throw a bucket of water over you two.’ He smiles, eyeing Michael.

‘Oh, Rob – this is Michael, a colleague.’ I turn to Michael. ‘Michael, this is Rob, a . . . uh, a friend, and his fiancée, Sam.’ I feel like he’s holding the bucket.

‘All right?’ says Michael. Rob looks from me to him and back again.

‘Well, nice to see you,’ he says formally, and places his hand in the small of Sam’s back, guiding her to the door. Her stilettos click like a thoroughbred’s hooves as she takes a few steps. ‘You’ll let me know about collecting your stuff, then?’ he adds. Sam tosses her chestnut mane and looks over her shoulder to check my reaction.

‘Sure. What about tomorrow?’ I reply, staring at Sam.

‘Tomorrow?’ He checks with her; she smiles in my face. ‘Tomorrow’s fine, Viv,’ he says. ‘See you at, say, seven thirty, then?’ I nod. He looks at me for a moment and smiles a little intimate smile. I watch them leave. He says something to her and she laughs as they step into the night. I turn to Michael, feeling my insides deflate. He’s scooping up baby squid with chopsticks; it’s disgusting.

I shiver as we pick our way through Chinatown and Michael drapes his jacket around my shoulders. We pass the fart smell of decaying bins outside the back of restaurants. He’s walking me to the tube, trying to persuade me to stay at his place. Apparently he has an aquarium I should see.