Never Google Heartbreak (6 page)

On the bus I check my diary in case there’s something at work I’ve forgotten. I look at Saturday. I’ve drawn a big heart shape on Saturday. The day I will win back my man! But also Jane’s wedding day, obviously. I’m not sure we’ll see so much of Jane once she marries Hugo. He never lets her out of his sight as it is. You try to talk to her about
anything
and he’s there fondling her arm or breathing little kisses into her hair. It’s very off-putting. He’s small and squat; she’s thin and petite. It’s as if a pygmy hippo in a suit is marrying the fairy off the Christmas tree. Still, they say it takes all sorts and there’s your proof. There are no work-related matters in my diary today, though, except I am supposed to be putting together a new range of gifts for Christmas.

A nasty little thought of Christmas without Rob pops up, but I bury it. We might even be married by then. I think about winter weddings – all that white fur and red roses and candles – until it’s my stop.

Then it’s a dull morning at the office. I can’t think straight with the hangover and the nerves about tomorrow, so how can I start anything serious? Christie has declared my new hair ‘edgy’. I’ve added all the loose elastic bands on my desk to a ball I started a year ago and tested the power of the paperclip magnet. I’ve emailed a few suppliers, played solitaire, and now it’s time for . . . drum roll . . . ‘the Spa’.

When I get to Selfridges, I take the lift and step out on the top floor into some futuristic clinic, white and green and shiny. Only beautiful people are here. I’m ushered into a treatment room and into paper knickers before I can spoil the aura and a stunning-looking black girl appears.

‘Let’s do the Brazilian first, shall we? Get the worst bit over with?’ She flashes a brilliant smile. I don’t normally have a bikini wax unless I’m about to wear a bikini, which is rare, but the package and the free eyebrow thing enticed me. Also, imagine if Rob and I get back together tomorrow and one thing leads to another and we end up in bed . . . Well, he’ll have a nice surprise, won’t he? I mean, he was always saying I should do something about my wild muff.

‘The Brazilian? Is that where you end up with just a strip?’

‘Everything off including underneath, and then a strip or a shape left on top.’

Underneath? Does she mean the bits that poke out of your swimming costume underneath or . . . something else?

‘
Everything
off underneath?’ This seems a bit extreme.

‘Yep.’

‘Do people like that?’ I ask, nervous suddenly.

‘Honey, I have nothing at all down there. My boyfriend goes crazy! He tries to follow me around all day long.’ I think of Rob following me around, begging me to take him back.

‘Let’s do it,’ I say.

‘Just bring your knees up and let your legs fall open,’ she says.

I have to say what follows stings a bit. At one point she is between my legs with tweezers, just finishing off. I’m left with a perfectly trimmed heart shape for a muff. After that the legs and eyebrows are a piece of cake. My skin is red and swollen and throbbing.

‘You have a lot of hair,’ she says, clearing up.

‘Not any more,’ I mumble, and hobble out to pay.

* * *

That afternoon I keep surprising myself every time I go to the loo. I’m grateful when five o’clock rolls around and I can nip to Boots for some aloe vera.

As soon as I’m home I ring Max.

‘Hello.’

‘Hi, it’s me. You sorted for tomorrow?’

‘What’s tomorrow?’

‘The wedding!’

‘Hold on there, baby, I never proposed.’

‘Max! Stop pissing about. Jane’s wedding. You’re coming with me.’

‘Okay.’

‘You forgot, didn’t you?’

‘No.’

‘So you have your suit, right?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, what you have to do is, put it on in the morning and wait for me to pick you up in the taxi. I’ll be at yours before twelve.’

‘Okay. What’ll you be wearing?’

‘A dress. Why?’

‘Well, I might want to match with you.’

‘Match with me?’

‘You know, like wear a flower the same colour as your dress, to show we’re together.’

‘We’re not together. I’m getting back with Rob.’

‘Right. Got you.’

‘Right, so . . . see you in the morning?’

‘Unless I die in the night.’

‘Bye, Max.’

I close my phone and sit for a moment listening to the sirens and the traffic outside. Everything inside the flat is still and silent. I hang the dress on the wardrobe door and place the shoes underneath. I write a ‘getting ready’ countdown list and place it on my dressing table. I manage to go to bed quite early but struggle to sleep and end up reading self-help books until midnight. ‘Hear the roar of the lion within!’ Mine’s a tiny kitten.

Miaow.

‘
I once carried my coffee table down two flights of stairs and into the park. I cooked a full Thai banquet and laid it all out with cushions to lounge on and cold white wine. I waited; I drank the wine; I fed the rice to the pigeons. It got dark; I fell asleep. He didn’t show. Someone nicked the cushions.
’

Maria, 34, Battersea

‘
I run a small bakery in the city with my boyfriend, Andy. We do these little cakes with alphabet letters on. Well, one day I made a window display with the cakes. It said, “Marry me, Andy.” I thought he hadn’t noticed, but when I checked the display, he’d rearranged the cakes.

They said, “Any day.
”’

Rachel, 30, Liverpool

I wake up to the sound of hammering. It’s eight o’clock. The sun dazzles in lines across the blind – a perfect day for a wedding. I pull open the side of the blind and squint into the street. Two men in multicoloured wigs are rolling barrels into position in the road.

I guess there must be some sort of party today at one of the bars on the high street. I pull on my silk kimono bathrobe. In the bathroom I scrutinise myself: I’m looking tired around the eyes, and not in a good ‘I’ve been partying all night’ way. I pat on a little cooling eye gel. The packaging claims that it will relieve puffiness and smooth away fine lines. Truly a miracle! And only £2.49. My heart flips when I see the dress hanging by the mirror, the shoes carefully arranged underneath. I feel like a nervous gladiator inspecting my armour, except I have no idea of my opponent.

Briefly I imagine her curled next to Rob, sleeping in post-coital bliss, without the faintest worry to wrinkle her perfect brow. This thought sends my stomach cartwheeling. God! I concentrate on making proper strong coffee, setting the pot on the gas and reading my countdown list while I wait.

Around the edges I’ve doodled flowers on stalks with leaves. Christie once told me if you doodle flowers, it means you want to get married and have children. Amazing how accurate these things are! The pot hisses as I pour the coffee. I can’t eat anything. I feel like I’m facing the
100-
metre hurdles on school sports day all over again.

I pull up the Roman blind at the balcony. The police are in the street, calmly chatting in shirt sleeves and bulletproof vests, their helmet badges glinting in the sun. A guy wanders across the road to join them, so achingly good-looking he’s on the cusp of ugly. They’re pointing down the road to where a truck is parked. Obviously they’re solving some logistical problem with deliveries to one of the restaurants. I wander off to run the bath.

* * *

Okay, it’s eleven thirty and no taxi. I’ll ring them.

‘Kins Cars,’ says a bored voice.

‘Hi, it’s Vivienne Summers. I have a car booked for eleven thirty, but it hasn’t arrived.’

‘Hold on, please, madam.’

I’m blasted with what sounds like ‘Greensleeves’ played on a kazoo.

‘Madam, I’ve spoken with your driver. He says five minutes.’

‘Well, I hope it’s no more than that. I have a wedding to get to, you know.’

‘Yes, five minutes, madam.’

Okay, it’s eleven forty-five. It’s fine, it’s okay, it’ll be here soon. I’ll just look out of the window and probably see the car waiting there. Weirdly, there’s an unusual number of men milling about. I wander to the mirror again, inspecting my eyeliner. I don’t normally wear so much black. It looks good, but is it a bit clubby rather than weddingy? My hair has been blasted into submission and is now passable. The dress looks great, though – cool and edgy.

Shit, it’s five to twelve! Where the hell is the taxi? I ring again.

‘Kins Cars,’ says the can’t-be-bothered voice.

‘It’s Vivienne Summers again. Where is my taxi? It’s now twelve o’clock!’

‘Hold on, madam.’

Kazoo Favourites
has moved on to ‘La Cucaracha’.

‘Madam, so sorry, your car is stuck in traffic. He will be there in half an hour.’

‘No! That’s no good! Get me a taxi here now!’

‘Madam, so sorry, half an hour is best we can do.’

I feel the breath being knocked out of me. ‘Oh my God! What is the point of making a booking with you if you’re just going to turn up when you feel like it? I have to get to a wedding and I booked a car for eleven thirty!’ Suddenly I’m listening to a kazoo version of ‘Nobody Does It Better’.

‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’ I run a lap of the flat like a demented goose, before grabbing my handbag and flapping onto the street, feathers flying.

‘Let there be a taxi. Let there be a taxi!’ I get to the end of the street to find the whole road closed off and blocked with carnival floats. A steel band covers Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’. An Adonis wearing some sort of harness is dancing along the pavement. I grab him by one of his flying straps. ‘Excuse me, what’s going on?’

He shimmies and pouts. ‘It’s Gay Pride, darling!’

I look left and right. The floats line up as far as I can see, each one with a different theme. There are banners proclaiming, ‘Gay, Catholic and Proud,’ and, ‘Parents of Gays and Proud.’ The truck in front of me, the one with the steel drums, has been turned into a wicker bowl full of gay people dressed as fruit. Two cherries are joined at the head by a green stalk; the bananas in yellow thongs hold a flag declaring, ‘Fruity and Funky.’ Normally I’d be interested, but why my road? Why now? It’s ten past twelve! I call Max.

‘Hi, I’m ready. You downstairs?’ he asks.

‘No! I’m fucking stuck in a Gay Pride march, and I can’t get a taxi!’

‘Oh shit.’

‘We’re going to be late! I don’t know what to do.’

‘Okay, okay. Okay. Viv. We can do this. Where are you?’

‘Outside the flat. On the main road.’

‘What about if you go down the alley? Is that street open?’ I walk to the end of the alley with my head down, phone pressed to my ear, swearing as offensively as I can, and check.

‘There are police cars there too.’

‘Walk down there and go down the next alley and wait outside that nice deli, okay? That’s a cul-de-sac – they won’t be going down there. I’ll come and get you.’

‘You won’t be able to get a taxi close enough.’

‘Go there and wait for me. I’m coming to get you.’

My heart is thumping. I turn and run down the alley, sending beer bottles clattering and dodging bins. I feel my heels sink into the cracks between the cobbles as I go, and imagine the filth of the street rising up and sticking to my beautiful, delicate dress. The next alley is worse. There’s something living in a pile of boxes. I scuttle past, trying not to breathe. I round the corner and walk briskly to the deli.

It’s at a crossroads. The streets to my left are deserted, all cordoned off for the march. I look at my phone and a minute has passed, then look again and it’s ten minutes.

‘Fucking hell! What fucking fuckery!’ I feel a film of moisture on my skin and think about crying. I hear the rumble of an engine, turn towards it and a motorbike with two bug-eyed headlamps rounds the corner at speed, the rider in black leather and full helmet. As he gets closer, he raises his arm and circles to a stop alongside me. Max removes his helmet, grinning. This could not get any worse. He expects me to get on the back. No, it
is
worse – I’ll have to put on a helmet and get on the back! I shake my head.

‘Oh no . . . no way.’

‘What? Like you have a choice.’

He dismounts and opens the carrier, getting out a canary- yellow open-face helmet and a huge leather jacket, and offers them to me. I take a step backwards. He gets back on the bike and starts it up, shouting over the rhythmic cough of the engine, ‘It’s half twelve!’

I grab the helmet, whimpering as I ram it down over my hair and fasten the strap under my chin. It compresses my head, turning my face into a squashed arse. I heave on the heavy jacket. It nearly reaches my knees and the enormous steel cups at the shoulders and elbows dig into my bare skin. I feel sweat trickle down my spine. I scramble up onto the bike, resting my high heels on the footrests. I’m about to arrange the dress when the bike lurches forward and the feather skirt foams around me. We’re away and he canes it down the road, overtaking a bus. I’m perched precariously, clinging to his tasselled shoulders. If I try to look ahead, the wind hits me full in the face, splattering me with dust and airborne insects. I can feel something struggling in my right eye. I take cover behind his back, squeezing my arms around his chest like I’m clutching a log in the rapids. This bloody helmet must belong to a child; it’s squeezing my head like a vice, but I can smell a spicy perfume over the oil and petrol of the bike, so maybe some pin-headed woman. It’s destroying my hair, and the dress is being whipped by the wind over the back of the bike, so God knows what ruin is happening there. We stop at traffic lights and he places one foot down. I notice his shoes; I’m pleased they’re smart and clean – thankfully he’s made an effort. He lifts his visor and half turns, patting my thigh.