Never Google Heartbreak (16 page)

‘She’s such a show-off ! You’re scared of heights, Nana.’

‘But that’s the beauty of a balloon – you don’t have to go very high and you can’t fit many guests in the basket.’

‘It’s genius, Eve! When I get married, I’ll do it.’ He refills our glasses.

‘Who’s going to marry you?’ I snap.

He looks up from pouring. ‘There are scores of women after me, don’t you worry. I’m just choosy, that’s all.’ He winks at Nana.

‘Good for you, Max!’ she squeals.

‘Well, Max, you’re many things, but I’d never have said choosy.’ I lean back with my drink, laughing at him.

‘Ah, but there’s a lot you don’t know about me, Vivienne,’ he says quietly.

‘Is there?’ I smile.

‘Yeah.’ He puts down the jug and turns his face to the sun. I shiver suddenly, goose bumps rising on my arms. We sit quietly for a while, listening to the buzz and twitter of the garden before Nana declares the roast ready.

‘Although it’s the very last thing you want on such a hot day.’

In the kitchen we decide to turn lunch into a cold buffet. Max makes a salad out of the roast potatoes with mayonnaise and French mustard. I make up something weird with the carrots, grating them and adding coriander and orange juice. We eat it with slices of cold beef. Nana interrogates Max with her mouth full.

‘So, Max, tell me about your paintings. Are you planning any exhibitions?’

‘I show a few all the time – a little gallery in north London takes them.’

‘And do they sell?’

‘Occasionally. I pay the rent, anyway.’

I think of his scruffy flat, calculating just how little he must sell.

‘What about commissions?’

‘Not so far. I’m hoping to be part of this art show they’re doing at the Academy. If I get selected, it would be great exposure.’

‘I remember one you once showed me – a naked man holding a cat. It was very striking.’

‘That was part of my first show. I sold that one.’

‘I think it’s amazing to have such talent, Max. You must never give up.’

It’s strange to hear Max talk about his work like this. It seems he has ambitions. I’ve always told him to get a proper job.

He glances at me. ‘Viv thinks creative people are skint losers.’

‘I never said that!’

‘Vivienne, I’m surprised at you.’ Nana frowns as Max laughs.

I try to defend myself: ‘I like your stuff. That painting of Lula is beautiful.’

‘Thanks. It’s not the best. That comes when you really feel something for the subject, like there’s an energy coming from them . . . then something beautiful is possible.’ He smiles at me. His eyes seem incredibly dark. I look away to the garden, my cheeks burning. I’m surprised to find that I want him to be talking about my portrait.

‘Phew, it’s so hot today!’ I move my chair back into the meagre patch of shade.

‘Well, Max, I was hoping you might do a little sketch of me this afternoon.’

He turns his eyes to Nana and I feel as if I’ve been given a rest from electrocution. ‘Sure! Do you have paper?’

I clear away the plates as they settle into their roles. The artist with his jeans rolled up, revealing hairy, skinny legs, sketching silently as the model poses, gazing out to the garden. I fill the sink and wash pots, looking out to the patio. She takes off her hat. He rips off a page. So typical of Nana, suddenly producing a sketchpad and pencils like that. They occasionally rest for a few moments and I hear snatches of easy chatter; what a pair of flirts they are. I change the water and start on the pans. She’s looking straight at him now. In the sketch there’s a ghost of the young beauty she was. A pan lid slides from the drainer and they both turn.

‘Hey, you! Any chance of a drink out here?’ Max shouts over his shoulder.

‘There’s cold white wine in the fridge, darling,’ Nana adds.

I take out the bottle and glasses, and pick up one of the sketches. The smudged lines hold the essence of Nana. ‘These are good.’

‘I hope he’s made me beautiful.’

‘I can only draw what I see.’ Max throws down a pencil and pours the wine.

‘And you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear,’ she adds.

There’s cheese instead of dessert. Nana brings out a Brie, and setting the board down in the sun, she cuts herself a huge slice, scraping up the oozing middle and nibbling the rind. I think she looks very contented these days. I close my eyes and let the sun bathe my face, half listening as she chats to Max about travel plans.

‘. . . then we thought about Santander. Reg has never been.’

‘I love that northern coast,’ says Max.

‘Did you say Reg has never been?’ I keep my eyes closed as I speak.

‘Yes.’

‘So you two are going on holidays together now?’ I sit up.

‘Well, yes.’

I slump down again, sighing.

‘Is there a problem, Viv?’ she asks.

I open one eye, then shut it again. ‘No, not at all. It’s just . . . well, Granddad doesn’t seem very long gone, for you to be off having fun with someone new.’

‘Two years he’s been gone, Viv. Two years is a long time to be lonely.’

‘Well, maybe it’s just me. I still miss him, that’s all.’

‘And so do I. But I’m still alive and while I am, I’ll jolly well make the most of it!’ She stands up, gathering a few plates, and stalks off to the kitchen. I hear the click of a lighter.

Max exhales a curl of smoke. ‘Oh dear,’ he says.

‘What?’

‘Looks like you’ve upset your nan.’

‘Well! This whole thing with Reg is ridiculous.’ I glare at him. ‘She flirted with him even when Granddad was alive, you know.’ Max’s face is calm. I glance to the kitchen but can’t see Nana. ‘I think she started seeing him not long after the funeral.’ I sit back, feeling the heat of the day blazing on the top of my head while he finishes his smoke. ‘And she’s never said anything. She’s never announced it. They just sneak around.’

‘I wonder why.’

‘Because she feels guilty!’

‘Or . . . maybe she doesn’t want to hurt you.’

‘It’s got nothing to do with me.’

‘Well, you’re right about that.’ He smiles. I stare out to the garden, feeling stung. I feel the muffled throb of a headache pressing against my temples. Why should I care if Nana and Reg are spending time together? I want her to be happy. But I feel betrayed in a way I can’t explain. Max wouldn’t understand; he has parents, two of them, alive and still married, and four mad sisters and hundreds of nephews and nieces. They all love him with a neediness and longing that makes him avoid going home. My home and family history are a fragile glass and Reg is tapping at the edges with a hammer.

I struggle to get to the heart of my feelings, and just when I think I can explain, the sense escapes, leaving half a thought like a discarded tail. I give up and go into the kitchen in search of water. Nana is putting away plates in the dresser and I notice her hands tremble as she reaches up to a top cupboard.

‘Can I help?’ I ask.

‘Nearly done.’ Crockery clatters onto the shelf and I stand awkwardly beside her. She closes the glass door, breathing slightly heavily with the effort of the stretch. She turns to me and smiles, her blue eyes full of understanding, places a hand on top of mine and gives it a little squeeze.

‘We’ll have to go soon,’ I say.

‘Just as you like, love,’ she says, and strokes my face with the backs of her fingers.

The heat of the day seems trapped in the feverish London streets. The smell of things fried mingles with the fumes and dust. Max walks with me towards the tube. I tell him I don’t need an escort; he thinks I do.

He’s talking about getting away from the city, taking a sabbatical, a motorbike pilgrimage. ‘Why don’t you come with me?’ he asks.

‘I don’t have a bike.’

‘You’d ride pillion, dummy.’

‘Where’d we sleep?’

‘Under the stars.’

‘What, together?’ I make a face.

‘Okay, I’ll sleep under the stars alone; you can check into a five-star hotel.’

We turn the corner; I look up to the open kitchen window of my flat, thinking how Rob would kill me for being so careless about security.

‘A five-star hotel with a spa,’ I say as we get to my door. I struggle a little with the lock and when I turn round, Max has stepped back into the street.

‘Oh. Are you not coming up?’

‘No . . . stuff to do.’ He smiles.

‘Like what?’

‘Like plan the “stars and spas” trip.’ He starts to walk away, leaving me standing on the doorstep.

‘I’m not coming!’ I shout at his back.

‘Ah, you say that now . . .’

I watch him go, sauntering out of view like a great bear. I feel like he’s taken the sunshine with him.

It’s important not to idolise your ex. Focus on their weaknesses and make a list of everything you didn’t like about them. Read the list every time you start to miss them.

‘
My ex-boyfriend Shaun always said my feet made him feel sick. He used to make this joke about me swooping down and picking things up with my talons. I just look at my feet and remember him laughing and poof ! I stop missing him
.’

Becka, 20, Harrow

‘
My ex-girlfriend wanted me to sleep with her and her eighteen cuddly animals. I’d wake up in the night, rammed against the wall, with all these glass eyes staring at me. I honestly don’t miss her, especially when I think of that evil monkey.
’

Simon, 25, Leeds

‘
If I miss him, I just go, “Spotty back, spotty back, spotty back.
”’

Tanya, 30, Newcastle

‘
The best thing is if you just go out with someone else. Anyone will do – just get out there and get back in the saddle.
’

Katie, 39, Staines

It’s Monday morning and I arrive at work with a feeling of doom, but I can’t put my finger on why. Everything is as it was when I left before the weekend – grey carpet, striplights, overloaded desk – but it feels like I’m walking to the guillotine. I see Christie isn’t in – so much for her new leaf. I look out at the perfect summer sky; a white vapour trail arches across the clear blue. It’s a gift of a day, a day for picnicking with a lover, for waterskiing across a lake, or driving to the coast in a convertible . . . if I weren’t completely and utterly alone.

I look at Rob’s photo, at his perfect smile. A smile that’s no longer mine. I pull him off the pinboard and drop him in my drawer. ‘Goodbye, my love,’ I whisper, and close it. Right, I will seek out every shred of myself that’s still waiting for him and give it shock treatment. I’ll let him go. Even the thought of it makes me want to howl.

I turn on the desktop. It complains I didn’t shut down properly, then pings up the spreadsheet I was panicking over on Friday. Friday! I was so full of hope then. I was seeing him that night. How a weekend can change everything . . . Now I have no future. I’m desolate. All I have is work. I’ll throw myself into that. I write, ‘Slogans for edible knickers,’ on my notepad and check emails. Two from suppliers, one telling me the tartan we chose for the purses is out of stock. The other says the candles with Scandinavian patterns on are made by prisoners in Norway. They wonder – will this fit with Barnes and Worth’s ethical standards? I think about this. Prisoners have to do something, right? It’s not like we’re harvesting their organs or anything. I’ll need to check it before we order. I go to make coffee using the wall-mounted water boiler, thinking how Rob once told me they spread legionnaires’ disease, and search the fridge in vain for any milk labelled ‘Gifting’. I use the one labelled ‘Accounts. Do not even think about it!’ instead. Just as I’m rinsing the spoon, I hear Christie giggling. I step from the kitchen and find her talking shoes with Snotty, who has today teamed leopard-print popsocks with zebra-skin sandal-boots.

‘No, I think just go for it! Life’s too short,’ gasps Christie. They both turn to me and the conversation dies.

I smile. ‘Morning!’

‘Good morning, Vivienne,’ says Snotty, and she squeezes Christie on the shoulder before she walks away, leaving me gawping after her.

‘I think she’s taking this whole animal-print thing a bit far, don’t you?’ I say.

‘I think she looks all right today, actually,’ says Christie.

I feel panic, like a buffalo suddenly finding itself far from the herd and hearing growling in the bushes.

‘What’s going on?’ I ask as we walk back to our desks.

Her cheeks flush. ‘Nothing.’

‘What? So you’re great mates with Snotty now?’

‘No, it’s just—’ She plonks some papers down on her desk.

‘What are those?’

‘Oh, Viv. Ruth, I mean Snotty, asked me to have a breakfast meeting with her this morning – you know, to come up with ideas for products.’

‘A breakfast meeting?’

‘Yeah, and she brought croissants.’

‘Croissants?’

‘Yeah, those ones with chocolate in.’

I stare at Christie. What is Snotty doing having meetings with my assistant behind my back and discussing creative matters that are my concern? Something’s going on. She wanted Christie sacked last week. All I can think is that Mole likes Christie and after the meeting on Friday she must have set this up. Snotty doesn’t like anyone. A scarlet rash creeps up Christie’s neck. She opens her mouth to speak, then thinks better of it.

‘So did you have a good time in the pub on Friday night?’ I ask.

‘Yeah,’ she squeaks uncertainly.

‘What did you talk about?’ We stand face to face and I start to tap my fingers on the desk.

‘Well, the pub was rammed and Marion – Mole – knew nearly everyone in there. It was a right laugh, Viv – you should’ve come.’

‘Uh-huh, uh-huh, and did you discuss work?’

‘Well, a bit.’

‘Right, so, what was said?’

She starts picking bits of fluff from her chair. ‘They were talking about the Christmas offer and how there might be career opportunities for me because I have such good ideas and everything.’

‘Yes?’

‘And that’s when Snotty asked me to have this meeting.’

‘And did she offer you any career opportunities?’

‘No, we just talked underwear really.’ She can’t look at me.