Never Google Heartbreak (32 page)

‘I’m so happy to hear you.’ She laughs and it turns into a cough. ‘When did you wake up? I wanted to be there.’

‘This morning. I didn’t know where I was. They had to do some tests so I was pushed from pillar to post. I’m in a different ward now. It’s a bit nicer, not so many old codgers, you know?’

‘I can’t believe it’s you. I’ve been so worried.’

‘I know. Sorry, love.’

‘No, no, I didn’t mean . . . It’s not your fault. Oh, I can’t wait to see you.’

‘They say I might be going home tomorrow.’

‘Are you sure? I mean, isn’t that a bit soon?’

‘God, no. I can’t wait to get out of here, and anyway they need the beds for all the old fogeys. Soon as you’re awake they tip you out.’ She sounds like her old self, just croakier. I want to cry with relief.

‘Well, if you think you’re strong enough . . . but don’t you need the doctor to keep an eye on you?’

‘Dr Begg is only round the corner.’

‘But will you call him if you need him? Reg said you wouldn’t let him get a doctor before.’

‘Oh yes, I think I’ve learned my lesson.’

‘Good, because there’s no point being stubborn. When you’re ill, you’re ill.’

‘Viv?’

‘Yes.’

‘I have something to tell you and I don’t want you to be cross.’

‘Okay.’ What has she done? Bequeathed her house to the cats’ home?

‘I’m getting married on Saturday.’

BLOG TO MAX #1 – WHERE ARE YOU?

It’s been four hours and four days. Remember how you said if either one of us didn’t contact the other for twenty-four hours, it would be because one of us had died, so the other one should go and break their door down? Well, I’ve been to your place but the door is heavy iron with double locks, I only had an emery board on me, and anyway your bike is gone so I know you’re not dead. Where are you? Not knowing is killing me, and if I die, who’ll break
my
door down?

I’ve filled your voicemail box . . . and your inbox. I called your mother. She says can you call her, by the way? You have your very own Facebook group! I know you’ll hate that, so if you come back, I’ll close it. I’ve kidnapped Dave and I regret it already – he’s evil and semi-feral. Maybe he just misses you. I miss you so much. I’d do anything just to hear your voice. I’d eat liver. I’d sing in public.

If you are reading this, look how hard I’m trying! Let me off ? Or if you can’t forgive, maybe you could call and shout. Just please don’t take your love away like this. I love you. I know that now and I’m sorry I didn’t know it before. I really do love you, Max.

V x

I get to Nana’s early. It’s still cool and quiet in the street. I knock a couple of times and try the door; it’s unlocked so I go inside.

‘Only me!’ I check myself in the fluted hall mirror and straighten my hair. Is it my imagination or has the place acquired that old-person smell? Sort of TCP and mildew. I take chocolates and a net of oranges out of my bag, ready to present to Nana. ‘Hello?’ I start downstairs to the kitchen and I’m met halfway by Reg. There’s an embarrassing moment where we both step aside together.

‘Shall we dance?’ he says.

‘Not on the stairs, hey, Reggie?’

He turns and makes his way down more carefully than I thought he’d need to. I look at the crosshatched skin at the back of his neck and suddenly he appears somehow vulnerable. I feel a pang of shame at how I’ve treated him.

‘She’s in the garden,’ he says as we reach the kitchen. ‘Shall I take those for you?’

I hover, unsure of what to say. ‘Is she . . . is she all right?’

‘Right as rain. Bossier than ever!’ He laughs and our eyes meet; he looks wary.

‘Congratulations,’ I say.

‘Thank you, Vivienne.’ He lifts his chin as if waiting for a punch.

‘I mean it. I’m very happy for you both.’

‘Thank you. That will mean a lot to her.’ He looks me straight in the eyes and I notice that his are a lovely dark blue.

‘And I wanted to say . . . I’m sorry. Those times in the hospital, I know I wasn’t nice to you. I think it was, you know, the shock of it . . .’

He clasps my shoulder. ‘No need to explain. Go on out. She’s been looking forward to seeing you.’

The garden has been transformed since the hot July day when Max and I were here last. The patio is swept, the lawn is mown, and the roses are in full bloom. All along the neat edges of the grass, new flowers and shrubs have been planted, the colours bright as paint. A new arbour has been built over the patio with roses climbing over it. Even the stone angel is clean. Reggie has been busy. I hesitate at the doorstep as my eyes get accustomed to the sunshine and then I see her, a small, thin figure in a wheelchair under the shade of the pear tree. I feel a lump in my throat remembering the last time – her and Max, their cocktails and silly hats. I go over to her, checking my face to hide my feelings. Her shrunken, brittle body against the backdrop of this vibrant garden adds to the shock; she’s like a skeletal leaf blown onto a new lawn. I notice her curled fingers and thin hair. Despite the heat, she has a bright crocheted rug over her legs.

‘Nana.’

She turns, the side of her face waxy like soap. ‘Viv!’ I kneel in front of her, taking her hands. ‘Hello.’ She smiles and moves a strand of my hair from my face. I don’t know how to be with her.

I tap the wheelchair. ‘What’s this, then?’

‘Oh, I know. Not exactly the height of fashion for a bride-to-be, is it?’

‘It could catch on.’

She smiles and her eyes flick over me. ‘You’ve lost weight,’ she remarks.

‘Not as much as you.’ I circle her wrist with my thumb and forefinger.

‘No. Well . . .’

I lean up to kiss the soft skin of her cheek. ‘Welcome home, Nana. And congratulations.’

‘Thank you.’ She pauses. ‘I’m glad you’re pleased for us, Viv.’ I look into her eyes and catch a glimmer of her spirit. A spark of fun.

‘I mean, it was a bit sudden, but . . .’

‘Well, sometimes you need a scare like this to kick you up the bum.’

‘I suppose you do.’

Reg is coming across the patio with a tray of drinks. He puts it down on the steps and they bicker about bringing a table before he goes off to get one, humming to himself. Nana notices me studying Reg as he shuffles away.

‘He’s a very good man, you know. Kind.’ I smile at her. ‘And he’s a few good years in him yet.’

‘I’m not worried about him.’ I squeeze her hand.

‘And don’t worry about me,’ she says with some indignation, as if she’s never been ill in her life.

‘Okay, because you say so, I won’t. I had thought I’d be getting married before you, though.’

‘Well. Yes. Any news of that Rob fellow?’

‘No, that’s not happening.’ I smile at Reg, who is now shuffling back, carrying a small card table. He places it next to Nana’s chair and turns to collect her drink.

‘Not that table, Reg! I meant the one from the kitchen.’

He rolls his eyes at me. ‘Fruit punch, anyone?’ he asks, holding up the jug.

‘Isn’t it Pimm’s?’ she asks.

‘No, my love, they said no alcohol for you – as well you know.’

She sniffs and gazes out over the lawn. ‘Look at the plums!’ We turn to see where she’s pointing. ‘That tree’s laden.’

I stand, take a glass from Reg and hand one to Nana.

‘Well, I’d like to propose a toast,’ I announce. ‘To you, Nana, and to you, Reg, and to love.’ They look at each other and smile, and in that smile I see a glimpse of a great friendship, a real knowing affection. I raise my glass. ‘And to me finding my love . . . wherever he is.’ We all drink.

‘That’s not bad, actually.’ Nana drains hers. ‘Although a bit of gin wouldn’t go amiss.’

‘So, this wedding, then,’ I say. ‘Have you booked the hot-air balloon?’

‘Ah!’ She laughs. ‘The wheelchair is a little heavy, I fear.’

‘Where’re you having it?’

‘Well, for the legal stuff we’ll nip to the registry office, but the real ceremony will be right here. This is our cathedral.’ Reg waves his arm around the garden. ‘We’ll make our own promises under the arbour; seats for guests along here, you know, making a sort of aisle.’

‘Perfect.’

‘Viv, you’ll give me away, won’t you?’ asks Nana.

‘’Course I will.’

‘You’ll have to wheel me, I’m afraid.’

‘I can do that. Shall we practise?’ I grab the handles of the chair and go to wheel her across the patio. It’s lighter than I expected and at first I use too much force and she lurches forward. ‘I can do your first dance too, if you like.’ I rock her sideways. ‘What shall we do if you get cold feet? We could have some sort of signal, like you hold up your bouquet and I’ll turn you round and we’ll scarper?’

‘That won’t be necessary!’ she shouts and it makes her cough. She coughs for a long time. Reg passes her a napkin and she holds it to her face before folding something inside it carefully.

‘How long will you be in the chair?’

‘Just till I’m strong again.’

‘Soon, then,’ I say.

‘Oh yeah, very soon.’ She smiles.

I open the door of my flat late in the afternoon. I left early to get to Nana’s and the curtains are still closed. It smells of cats. Dave comes running and makes an escape attempt, darting between the door and my legs. I catch him in the stairwell and haul him back. The litter tray is overflowing. There are dishes in the sink.

I open the bedroom curtains and the sun pools through the dusty glass. At least nothing’s been savaged, I suppose. I feel irritated by the place. The washing basket with the lid that doesn’t fit, the windowless bathroom and leaky shower. It’s not that it’s a bad space; it’s just not where I expected to be. I’d imagined a big square kitchen with a huge table and kids and dogs. Well, I’d imagined that with Rob. Now that I know I love Max, life seems golden and exciting, stretching ahead and glittering with possibilities. If I could just find him and if he still loves me . . . I sit on the arm of the sofa.

What if he doesn’t love me any more? I imagine him the last time we were together – not at the gallery, before that when things were good. He said he’d always love me. But when I think of his face at the gallery, I feel a hot dart of shame. I hurt him. I never wanted that. I feel a rush of self-loathing looking around at the low-level mess and begin to pick up crisp packets from beside the sofa. I never thought I’d be giving my own nana away – but then what does it matter what I thought? I thought I wanted Rob. I thought Max was a skint loser. I thought this place was cool and edgy. I notice scratch marks on the chair leg. I thought it’d be fun to have a cat. Obviously I can’t trust what I think.

I wander into the kitchen. I hate that there’s never any food in here. I open the fridge and pull out a tub of something that could once have been taramasalata. I lift the edge of the lid, unleashing an unholy stench. I throw it into a bin bag and search around the flat throwing other stuff in, topping it off with the contents of the litter tray. I grab my purse and drag the bag downstairs, flinging it on top of the pile in the sweaty rubbish bay. I head round the corner to the mini-market and start to fill a trolley with coffee, milk, biscuits, carrots, tomatoes, I don’t know – whatever I can find that might be made into a meal. It’s time to grow up; it’s time to start looking after myself. I get proper wine, not just the cheapest I can find. I throw in some cleaning stuff with the word ‘Bang’ on the side. That’s exactly what I need – a bit of Bang in my life. I add some scourers and get to the checkout.

I wait as a young woman with severe scraped-back hair and a tattoo on her neck slowly passes each item over her scanner.

‘That’s ninety-two pounds twenty,’ she mumbles without looking up.

‘Whoa, cleaning stuff is expensive, eh?’ I say, feeling suddenly hot. She chews gum, slack-jawed, as I put my card in the reader and press in the PIN, trying to calculate if there’s enough money in this account. ‘PIN OK,’ it says. ‘Remove card.’

I get the shopping home, put the kettle on and start to clean up. I’m taking control of the situation now, so things will be better. I straighten out the bed and squirt Bang in the toilet, the fumes making my eyes water. I am in control. I will find him. I fill the kitchen cupboards with packets and tins. I make tea and turn on the laptop to check Facebook. The ‘Where’s Max?’ group has 102 friends already! Mostly very romantic people thinking I’m sweet and wishing me well.

I check my own Facebook page. I’ve been invited to Michael’s engagement party. I can’t go and face Mole, can I, after my dramatic exit from work? But some strange loyalty to Michael makes me accept. I check my mail. Nothing from Max, anywhere. If he’s on some art road trip brooding and sulking, he might not see my blog or the Facebook page and realise that I love him. He doesn’t have a clue about Facebook, and I doubt if he’d visit the website after what happened. I need something else, something bigger. I call Christie, and we arrange to meet at a tea shop she knows.

Whoopie pies are big at the moment, I notice. Here in the window they’re piled onto vintage glass cake stands in pastel-coloured towers. Inside there are floral oilcloths on the tables and painted wooden chairs with heart-shaped seats. The place is called Mad Hatters; all the teapots are oversized. It’s full of women of the same type, slightly dotty and girly. Among them sits Christie in denim cut-offs, a long sequinned waistcoat and boxing boots. Her hair’s arranged on top of her head, wrapped in some sort of orange bandage.

‘Christie, you’ve really got to stop reading
Vogue
.’

‘Oh, hi! Hi!’ She kisses the air, both sides. ‘No, Viv, you probably don’t understand this look; it’s direct from the catwalk. Remember my friend Nigel?’ I think of the ruined feather dress, the one I’m paying for in instalments for the rest of my life. ‘Well, he’s doing a show at the college – this is one of his.’

‘Hmm, well, I guess you carry it off. Will I be wearing it a year from now, then?’ I eye the bandage headdress.

‘Maybe. In a really watered-down way. Anyway, all the buyers go to the shows. Topshop were at Nigel’s . . . Ooh, let me get you a cake.’ She jumps up and I watch her animatedly ordering. Other people are watching too. Christie has this ability to attract attention wherever she goes. She is a pretty girl, but it’s not that . . . She startles people; they just don’t
expect
her. I wonder if there’s a way to harness this talent. Nigel the designer has recognised it, obviously, giving her his outfits to model. The sequins of the waistcoat sparkle as she picks up the tray with a ridiculous polka-dot teapot balanced in the middle, and wiggles back to the table.