Never Google Heartbreak (18 page)

‘You can walk three hundred and sixty degrees round the outside of it,’ he says as we arrive at the gaping mouth of Leicester Square station.

‘Michael. Thanks for a great night,’ I say, meaning it. He stares at me. ‘I mean that.’ I peck him lightly on the cheek, feeling a buzzing energy emanate from him. No wonder he can’t keep still.

He takes the slip of paper with the web address from his pocket and hands it to me. ‘That, sister, is one great website. Check it through and we’ll get it live, yeah?’

‘I really appreciate it.’

‘And listen, that guy back there, the one that floored you?’ He shakes his head. ‘He isn’t a good guy.’ I smile at him and feel my eyes fill. ‘He could have just walked out. Instead he twisted the knife.’

I hold his hand in both of mine, feeling scaly skin and ridged nails. ‘Thanks,’ I tell him, and watch his black eyes casting about, looking at passers-by and occasionally settling on me before darting away again like flies, and I understand this small shred: the most unlikely people can become saviours in dark times, and the small kindnesses they offer can matter like life and death.

If you hear any of these lines, he’s definitely breaking up with you. Walk away with as much dignity as you can muster.

1. It’s not you, it’s me.

2. You’re such a sweet girl . . .

3. I just need time to find myself.

4. I’m just not ready for a serious relationship, or a casual one, or any relationship . . . with you.

5. You’re better off without me/too good for me/beneath me.

6. I’m moving away/don’t have long to live.

7. I can’t see you any more. This whole thing is just making me ill.

8. If you were slimmer, had red hair and didn’t have the deformed toe, I think I could love you.

9. I think I’m allergic to your saliva.

10. I want to be free to find someone who agrees with me about things.

11. It’s not your fault. I just feel I don’t want to see your big fat face any more.

12. If I were ready for love, it wouldn’t be with you.

13. If you wanted sex more often, I wouldn’t need to sleep with anyone else.

14. I find the smell of you off-putting.

15. My ex is haunting me.

I’m standing outside my old home, looking up at the lit window, my heart flipping like a fish on a deck. It’s okay. I can be calm. I’m just here to get the last of my things and leave, that’s all. So why did I just spend forty quid having my hair blow-dried? While I watch, Sam flits into view and tugs at a curtain.
Intruder! Get out of my house!

I hesitate at the heavy front door, touching the brass number 7. Lucky for some – that’s what I said when we moved in and we kissed on the doorstep. Now there are two round box bushes in Italian terracotta pots; neat, ordered, symmetrical and nothing to do with me. I pick up the lion door-knocker and let it fall. I wait like a ghost, hearing a muffled shout and feet thumping downstairs. Rob throws open the door wearing a striped apron over a pale shirt, no tie. A thermal of curry powder and frying chicken floats into the cool street. He smiles and I’m stunned at the shining health of him. I stare at his perfect jaw, at his fallen-forward curls that make him almost too handsome. I lean to kiss him, but he’s already bounding up the stairs.

‘Come up,’ he says, like I’ve come to read the meter.

Standing in the living room, I see she’s moved in. It’s suddenly frilly and ornate. There’s a patterned lamp with ugly glass beads hanging around the base. Hairy cushions like yetis’ bollocks are scattered on the sofa. Steam billows from the open-plan kitchen. I glance in at copper pans and fridge magnets with slogans about wine making you a better cook.

‘Very homely,’ I say.

‘Uh yeah, so all the stuff is in the spare room – take anything you want and the rest we’ll just clear out.’ He shifts from one foot to the other.

‘Clear out?’

‘We’re turning it into a nursery, you see.’ He runs his hand through his hair, unable to look at me.

‘Is Sam pregnant?’ I almost choke on the words. He looks uncomfortable. ‘Don’t spare my feelings.’

‘No, but she . . . we want to try on honeymoon.’

‘Oh.’ A lump clambers up to my throat like a poisonous toad.

‘Look, sorry, Viv – there’s no nice way of doing this really, is there? It’s a bit like ripping a plaster off, isn’t it? Best done quickly.’

‘If you say so.’

I know I’ve no pride; it’s both a good thing and a bad one. I make a show of myself because of it, but on the other hand I don’t take offence too much and I can’t hold grudges to save my life. Right now, though, it’s a bad, bad thing; at the epicentre of my pain, barely able to keep it together, I’m arranging to clear out my stuff to make space for her
nursery
.

I want to scream at him. What about my babies? I want to demand he give me back my late twenties, but to get out alive, I must cut them off like a trapped limb. He shows me to the spare room where the relics of another life are piled like wreckage around the upended red chair. I step among the discarded things; it’s like walking in a dead woman’s attic.

‘You don’t want this?’ I pick up a framed photo I took of him on top of Mount Snowdon. He looks at his feet. I walk a little further into the room. ‘Or this?’ I throw a designer candlestick onto a cardboard box stuffed with letters, photo albums and other detritus of our relationship.

‘Viv . . . come on . . .’

I realise I can’t hold it together; it’s like digging poison from an infected wound – with a spoon. I’m losing it. A sob catches in my throat.

‘Uh, sorry . . . this is difficult.’ Christ! Pull yourself together. All the books say don’t show emotion. But I don’t care what the books say – this is real and I can’t help myself. ‘I . . . I’ve made a mistake. I don’t want it, any of it. Just clear it, or whatever. Burn it!’ I turn to leg it down the stairs and escape, but he’s right behind me and catches my arm as I get to the door. I swear I see
her
scuttle across the landing like a mocking little elf.

He holds me firmly by the shoulders, making me look into those startling blue eyes and driving home the misery of losing him. I can’t stop my face from crumpling inwards, even as I tell myself, You will not cry.

‘Viv, baby, don’t.’

I let out a silent sob. He hugs me, pressing his chest and hips against mine. I can’t believe he doesn’t miss this.

‘It’s really over, isn’t it?’ I gasp. He looks surprised and then embarrassed, but doesn’t answer. ‘Rob! Don’t you miss me even a bit? Don’t you feel
anything
?’ I breathe in the savoury scent of his neck like an addict.

‘It’s very . . . sad,’ he offers finally, stiffening, pulling from the embrace with a pat on the back.

‘And that’s it? It’s me, Rob. Don’t you know me any more?’ I look into his face, but he looks away down the street.

‘What do you want, Viv? What do you want?’

‘I want you!’ I try to smile through snot and streaky mascara, and reach out to brush my fingers against the side of his face. ‘Don’t you understand? I’ve always wanted you, ever since we met.’

He sighs, holds my face with one hand and rubs his thumb over my mouth, smearing my lipstick. I close my eyes, waiting for his kiss. I feel his breath tingle against my ear.

‘I’m . . . not free,’ he whispers. I search his eyes, but they’re as cold and flat as glass. ‘Sorry, Viv.’ He squeezes me like a murderer pushing the knife good and deep. I break free.

‘Don’t say you’re sorry,’ I sob, and make a sound I’ve never in my life made before, a kind of raspy howl. I run into the night, half hoping he’ll catch me again. As I reach the corner of the street, I glance back at the house, but the door’s closed.
Sam’s
pale face peers from the window, her mouth a perfect crescent.

Loopyloo:
I really, really fancy my best friend. I can’t stop thinking about him and he says I’m acting weird. Shall I tell him and risk the friendship?

Raraskirt:
Ooh – tricky, I know. I just went ahead and slept with my best friend and now he’s my hubby!

Figmonster:
That’s so cute, Rara. Loopy, I’d say do it if you think you can handle any and all of the possible outcomes!

Loopyloo:
I’d hate it if he wasn’t my friend any more, though.

Monkeybiz:
No, do not do this thing you are contemplating.

Figmonster:
That’s a bit black and white, don’t you think, Monkey? Just tell him but don’t expect anything. Not telling him could spoil the friendship and you might regret it.

Monkeybiz:
There is no wisdom in this. Friendship is sacred.

Loopyloo:
I get what you’re saying, but I need to do something or I’m going to burst!

Monkeybiz:
You are young, but you will learn.

Figmonster:
Yoda? Is that you?

I wobble away, wounded, stumbling past streetside bars and packed restaurants, to the Embankment and the slick brown Thames. I lean over the wall with its carp statues, breathing in metallic saltiness, watching the water suck at the shingle. I think of a museum exhibition I once saw of things dredged up from the soft clay riverbed: the remains of a girl who’d died in childbirth, a tiny skeleton trapped inside hers. How sad it was. Life is just so sad. Lonely and cruel and sad. I stare at the water, letting my vision blur. Boys on skateboards clatter past; ‘Do it!’ they shout. A party boat trawls by, flashing green and red to a thumping beat.

I turn away and start walking north, closing my mind up like a shuttered shop. I can’t think about what just happened; instead I concentrate on the rhythm of my steps. I’m rounding corners, hit by channelled winds, jogging across lanes of traffic, dodging proffered flyers, papers and invitations. I go underground and take the tube, rattling ten stops, then surfacing into a light drizzle. I take the short cut through a maze of run-down back streets until I’m standing outside Max’s building.

I hold the buzzer until the door clicks. Thank God he’s home. I’m inside with the smell of damp plaster, looking up the spiral stone staircase. I begin the slow climb to his flat. He answers his door in threadbare jeans and an ancient Ramones T-shirt.

‘Ah, it’s you.’ He looks past me with the shiftiness of a fugitive before guiding me in. I stand silently in the shabby square of his hallway. I hear the rising and falling intonations of a football commentator coming from the TV.

‘Were you expecting someone?’

‘No . . . it’s just . . . sometimes people, uh, pop in unexpectedly.’

‘People?’

‘Yeah.’

‘What, like female people?’

‘Yeah, or police people.’

I stare at his throat, thinking up scenarios where this might be likely. He smooths his hair and shirt, pulls up his jeans.

‘So, what’s up?’

‘I just wanted to see you.’

‘Great. Well . . . never fight that feeling.’ We stand for a moment in silence. ‘Want to come in, then?’ I nod like a dumbstruck child. He slings an arm over my shoulders and we go into the kitchenette. ‘You okay?’ he asks.

‘I’m . . . I . . . No.’ He glances at my face as he opens a bottle of wine with a naked-woman corkscrew. I watch as he squeezes her legs together, then releases them. The cork pops out.

‘God! If she was real, she’d be in hospital.’

‘If she was real, she’d be a millionaire.’ He winks and looks around for glasses; finding a mug and a small goblet-like vase, he pours, handing me the vase. I take a sip and breathe in a heavy woodiness. It’s rough wine, but I swallow more, gratefully.

‘What’s up?’ he asks again.

‘Am I a nice person?’

‘Well, I
am
biased, I know, but . . . honestly? You’re terrible.’

‘I feel . . . broken . . . like, damaged. Rejected. Like an egg with a crack.’

‘Okay.’

‘Like my shell is breaking and something heavy and horrible is about to flop out over the floor.’

‘Flop away, baby,’ he grins.

I stare at his chest, feeling a huge low swallow me up. I look at his kind face and burst into tears. He steps quickly across the lino, throwing down his mug to grab me as I fall.

We watch the second half of the match eating takeaway Thai food. On the narrow sofa, I lean against him, dipping spring rolls into sweet chilli sauce. Dave sits at my feet, blinking his eyes hopefully.

I feel Max’s heart drumming against my back, his hands loosening and squeezing my neck, his fingers smelling of soap. His breath tickles my ear, raising goose bumps on my arms and making a flyaway hair dance and catch the flickering light of the screen. I feel his body tense as the roar of the crowd gets louder.

‘Ah, come on! Fucking defence!’ he shouts, and squeezes my shoulder too hard.

I’m stunned at how much I’ve cried. We finished the wine sitting on the kitchen floor and now I feel tired and heavy. I sigh, closing my swollen eyes. I’d almost forgotten the physical pleasure of leaning on another person’s body, the essence of another life so close, the solidity of muscle, the rhythm of breath and heartbeat, bone resting against bone, blocking out the terror of ‘out there’. I rest in the moment, breathing in the musk and tobacco of his T-shirt, letting my mind float, and I glimpse a kind of peace.

‘Viv. Come on, it’s late.’ I open my eyes; Max is kneeling by the sofa. The TV has been switched off, the takeaway trays cleared. ‘Shall I call you a cab?’

I sit up slowly. Ugh, the cab ride home, the darkness of my empty flat. I look at the face of my friend, the line of his jaw, his dark eyebrows like bold brushstrokes, and I know I’m not leaving. ‘Don’t make me go out there.’

‘Stay,’ he says. ‘I’ll sleep on the sofa.’

‘Can’t I just sleep with you, in your bed? Can’t I just
be
you for a while? It’s really lonely and shit being me.’

He smiles. ‘Viv, always remember, you can sleep with me whenever you like.’