Never Google Heartbreak (4 page)

Oh my God. Christie is making a total idiot of herself reading out the actual customer comments instead of a nice glossy summary. What is she doing? She’s been in so many of these presentations; hasn’t she learned a thing? I thought she could do this. I’ll kill her later, but right now an emergency rescue is needed. How can I do it without humiliating her? Under the table I dig my nails into my palms.

‘“Strongly dislike. What colour is it supposed to be?”’ sings Christie.

Snotty presses a manicured finger into her cheek and then points it like a gun. ‘And stop. Why you didn’t do the customer panel at design stage before we produced five thousand of these “sets” beggars belief.’ She picks up the bath hat between thumb and finger as if it were a pair of soiled underpants and tosses it at Christie.

‘Tell me, Christine, would you buy this?’

Christie laughs. ‘No way!’

‘Then who the hell dreamt it up, and who gave it the green light?’ Snotty shouts.

There’s a silence like the one that happens as an expensive crystal vase topples from a table, just before it shatters. Christie looks at me, her huge eyes moistening.

I stand and pick up the hat. ‘Can I explain the placement behind this line? The hat and mitt set were part of the “bathing beauties” range and we went with a fifties screen-siren design. The three other products – pedicure set, bath foam and body lotion, handwash and handcream – did extremely well for us. The customer panels at design stage gave positive feedback to the range as a whole, but I wonder now whether some sort of hair turban and bright sponge might’ve been better. I actually dreamt it up and, er . . . you gave it the green light.’

We limp on through the morning and through lunch. I try to shield Christie, but the guy who empties the bins could have performed more convincingly. These are our lessons learned:

1. Ensure all products in the range are equally strong.

2. The customer must feel like they are getting a quality product.

3. Christie will be sacked.

We gather up our failed products in silence. I feel Christie’s discomfort rising off her like steam. I nod to Snotty and we head for the door, but Snotty calls me back.

‘Vivienne, may I have a word?’

‘Of course.’ Christie hovers at the door.

‘Off you go, Christine.’ Snotty shoos her with an accessory-bedecked arm. The door swings closed and we sit back down at the table.

‘Vivienne, I won’t beat about the bush. I’ve been asked to make cutbacks, and some people in the department are to be let go. I’m looking at everybody’ – she stares hard into my eyes – ‘but quite honestly I think your assistant, Christine, is inept.’

‘It’s Christie.’

‘What?’

‘Her name . . . it’s Christie, not Christine.’

‘Whatever. I’m letting her go.’

‘Right. Can you do that, I mean just like that?’

‘Yes, I can.’ A sad smile crosses her face as if the burden of this responsibility is killing her; then she sweeps up her papers and stands in a stifling waft of perfume.

‘What if I gave her more training? She probably hasn’t had enough experience. I probably haven’t given her enough responsibilities.’

‘Vivienne, it’s so sweet of you to defend her, but really, if you’re to make upper management, you’ll have to get used to this sort of thing.’

‘Right . . . It’s just that I feel responsible. Today was her first presentation. And wouldn’t it be cheaper to keep Christie than to employ a new assistant and train them up?’

She laughs. ‘We aren’t replacing her.’

‘Oh . . . well . . . I think it’s unfair.’ I clasp and unclasp my hands, feeling my ears burning.

‘Okay, look, give her a verbal warning. She can have a chance to improve. But she’ll only get one; next time she’s out the door.’

She stands up and I notice her astonishing feet. Phlegm-coloured sandals with pink socks. She holds the door open. ‘You’ll have the lessons learned written up and circulated by . . . ?’

‘Er . . . Let’s see now, Friday?’

‘Tomorrow. I have a buyers’ meeting at nine.’

I sit alone, listening to the air conditioning rattle, feeling as if I’m floating adrift a huge rolling sea. It’s okay if you concentrate on the floating feeling, but look around and there are terrifying mountains of water about to crush you. I’ll have to work through to finish the stupid report. Today was dress-finding day. On my pad I write, ‘
bollocks
,’ and go to talk to Christie.

She’s at her desk, head bowed, a red flush creeping up her neck. In front of her is the pile of failed products and her meeting notes, and I see at the top she’s written, ‘Do not fuck up,’ and underlined it twice. I sit quietly beside her.

‘God, that was terrible, wasn’t it?’ she says.

‘Hmm, I suppose it could have gone better.’

‘I really worked hard preparing everything.’

‘I know.’

‘She didn’t like hearing the comments, did she?’

‘The thing is, buyers think customers are beneath them. She actually winced at that granny comment.’

‘Oh God, what did she say?’

‘I have to give you a verbal warning.’ Christie starts to say something, but then her mouth begins to crumple. ‘Hey, don’t get upset.’

‘A verbal warning. So what . . . how do you do that, then?’ she wails.

‘I don’t know, maybe if I just say “be warned” or something.’

She shakes her head. ‘I shouldn’t have started with the bath hat. No one likes bath hats.’

I take the bath hat from the pile and put it on. ‘I do.’ She manages a weak smile. ‘Be warned,’ I say, wagging a finger.

‘Oh God.’ She puts her head in her hands and starts to cry.

I whip off the hat. ‘Oh come on, Christie, don’t cry. You know what Snotty’s like.’ I pat her back. ‘Christie, you’re good at your job.’ She lets out a surprisingly loud strangled cry. A few heads turn in accounts. ‘Christie, come on, this is my fault. I should have told you not to read out the comments.’

‘Should you?’

‘Yes.’

‘Well, why didn’t you, then?’ She stares, tears glistening.

‘I forgot.’

‘Thanks very much.’

‘Well, I didn’t think you’d ever do it, did I?’

She just looks at me with these huge watery eyes and something about her pancake foundation starting to run makes me feel very guilty and bad. Why didn’t I check what she was going to say? I thought she could handle it, I suppose, but really I was thinking about other things. I was thinking of websites and relationships and Saturday and the wedding and my Rob with someone else, wasn’t I?

Before I know what I’m doing, I’ve told Christie the whole story, which totally amazes her because we’ve never even discussed our lives outside the office before, apart from to reply to ‘Good weekend?’ or something.

‘How are you going to find a dress in such a short time? When are you going to get it?’ she asks, and I feel a fresh injection of adrenaline making me want to run around in a figure of eight.

‘I don’t know. Not today, am I? I have to write the report.’

‘Oh no!’ she shouts, making me jump. ‘You need to go shopping!’

‘Yes,’ I squeak. Wow, how enthusiastic she is suddenly about my problems.

‘Could I do the report? No, no, I’m crap at reports so that won’t work.’

‘It’s all right, Christie. I’m sure I’ll get it sorted somehow.’

‘No, I’ve got it! My friend Nigel’s a fashion designer – well, he’s a fashion student, but really talented. He could maybe lend you one of his sample designs. I’ve done that before now – you know, when I needed a wow dress.’

‘Have you?’ When has she needed a wow dress? I’m interested for a nanosecond, then remember Christie’s style ideas are so fashion forward that she’s quite often a laughing stock, like the time she wore white furry leg wraps and everyone kept baaing.

‘Thanks, love, but I don’t think fashion designers make dresses in my size.’

‘What are you? Fourteen?’

‘Ten,’ I snap. Her eyes shoot to my hips. ‘Okay, twelve in some shops.’

‘I could ask. The last one he lent me was just amazing, a total one-off. If he has something, he could bring it round this afternoon. He’s only at St Martins . . . I’ll ask him, shall I? It could be the answer to your prayers.’ The answer to my prayers would not be a dress. But then again, imagine if I didn’t have to schlep out in a panic and try on every dress in the high street while being lit from above in a smelly changing room . . .

‘Okay, Christie. It’s worth a try, isn’t it?’ I look at her expectant face. ‘Thanks.’

‘No problem.’ She smiles. ‘Viv, you’ve made me feel so much better.’

‘Good!’

‘Hearing about your life has really put my shit into perspective.’ She gets up and smooths down her skirt.

‘I’m so glad.’ I blink my eyes sweetly.

‘I’m off to get lunch. Want anything?’ I shake my head and watch her leave, then pick up her notes and start the report.

An hour later I’ve only written the first paragraph. I can’t concentrate. Terrible, panic-inducing thoughts keep dive-bombing in like seagulls. I take out my notebook and turn through all the website notes to a new page. I write a title and underline it.

To do (before wedding)

1. dress – get one

2. shoes – get some

3. hair – do something

4. body – ???

Not a very useful list. Oh hell, normally I’d love this – all the preparation and fuss would be part of the fun. But I only have two and a half days and the stakes are so high. I know I should be running up Oxford Street in a shopping frenzy, but I feel frozen, like I’m already beaten. He’s with someone else. What can I do about that? What kind of dress can change that? And when I think along these lines, my heart swells up with hopelessness, rendering me a staring, whimpering wreck.

And that will just not do.

I look out of the window at the hazy sunshine. It really is a beautiful day, a day that stretches out long and lonely. The unwritten report hangs blinking on my screen, but I have an uncontrollable urge to go outside. And I don’t want to be alone.

What kind of person would have nothing better to do than hang around with me on a sunny Wednesday afternoon?

* * *

Max lopes into the snug of the Crown, wearing jeans and a T-shirt and his old black biker boots despite the heat. He pushes enormous red-framed sunglasses up onto his forehead, where they sit like an extra pair of eyes, and blinks, accustoming himself to the dark. I wave from my little corner table.

‘What are you, some kind of bat lurking in here? It’s a beautiful day,’ he says.

‘See, that attitude really annoys me. At the first glimpse of the sun everyone’s going, “Beautiful day! Beautiful day!” Running outside doing things they never normally do, flocking to the parks, probably injuring themselves. I always sit inside pubs. I’m normal. It’s you that’s changed.’

He regards me for a second or two. ‘It’s worse than I thought,’ he says. ‘What can I get you to drink? Pint of virgin’s blood?’

‘I’ll have a white wine, please. Large. And don’t get crisps – I can’t resist them.’ I watch him lean on the bar and chat up the barmaid. She tosses her hair and laughs as she pulls his pint. He comes back to the table with the drinks and a leftover smile.

‘So what’s up with you?’ He pulls up a bar stool.

‘Weren’t you busy painting a masterpiece or something?’

‘Never too busy for you.’

‘I don’t know how you earn a living when you’re skipping off to the pub at the drop of a hat.’

‘Jesus, you’re right. I should go!’ He sips his pint and I try the cold wine. He opens a bag of pork scratchings. I watch him put them in his mouth one by one, crunching and swallowing loudly. ‘What? You don’t like piggy scratchin’s?’

‘Pork scratchings.’

‘Do you want one?’

‘No.’

He lifts the pack, pouring the last bits down his gullet, and makes a great show of forming the bag into a small ball that’ll fit into the ashtray; then he picks bits out of his molars with his tongue.

‘Well, this is certainly lovely,’ I say.

‘What’s up with you?’ he asks.

‘Oh, I can’t think . . . Maybe it’s the fact that on Saturday I have to go to a wedding alone and face my ex-fiancé with his new girlfriend.’

He takes a gulp of beer. ‘So don’t go.’

‘I have to go, Max. I, unlike you, honour my commitments.’

He scowls, raises his eyebrows and stares out of the door. ‘I’ll come with you, then.’

‘You?’ I laugh. ‘It’s a free bar – you’d get wasted. It’d be too messy.’

‘I’m not doing anything Saturday.’

‘Like that black-tie dinner where you showed your arse.’

‘I have a suit . . . somewhere.’

‘Is it your graduation suit?’

‘No. Why, what was wrong with that?’

‘I can’t believe you’re asking.’

He smiles and I notice his chipped front tooth. Why doesn’t he get it fixed? Dentists can do wonders these days.

‘Well, all I’m saying is, if Daniel Craig’s busy Saturday, I’m willing to step in.’

And in my desperation I’m actually entertaining the thought of turning up with Max. Max, my really good friend, who scrubs up nicely if you can stop him wearing trainers or an orange cravat, or both. I can’t pretend he’s my boyfriend because Rob knows him, but I just can’t turn up on my own.

It could work. I’ll look dignified. Still single, not needing to jump into another relationship, and crucially, not alone.

‘What colour is the suit?’ If it’s anything other than black, blue or grey, he can’t come.

‘Navy, with stripes.’

‘Pinstripes or deckchair?’ I narrow my eyes.

‘What do you take me for, Viv? It’s a great suit. I look great in it.’

‘And you wouldn’t mind coming with me?’

‘No, I wouldn’t mind coming with you,’ he says with exaggerated patience.

‘Okay, I’ll ask Jane if she minds.’

‘She’ll love me! She single?’

‘It’s her wedding! Now, you won’t forget that you offered, will you?’ I scowl.

‘Nope.’

‘I just want you to stand with me, right? No going off chatting up bridesmaids – and if Rob comes over, you’ll have to disappear.’

‘Got it.’ He mock salutes.

‘Thanks, Max.’ I pat his knee. ‘Thanks a million.’