Never Google Heartbreak (19 page)

‘Not sexually.’

‘You can sleep with me anytime, sexually or not.’

‘That’s very neighbourly of you.’

We go to his bedroom; he straightens the covers and finds me a T-shirt to wear. ‘I’ll get water,’ he says as I change and slide between the cool sheets. I turn towards the wall, closing my eyes and feeling the soothing relief of not facing this night alone. He gets into bed beside me and fidgets. After a minute the light clicks out. I listen to his shallow breathing and the distant rumble of a night bus on the main road. I try to consider the implications of being in this bed with Max, but all I know is I can’t be on my own.

‘Max?’ I whisper.

‘Hmm?’

‘Give us a cuddle.’ He shuffles up behind and puts his arm loosely over my shoulder, keeping his body away. I nudge him with my elbow. ‘A proper cuddle.’

‘I can’t.’

‘Why?’

‘I have an erection.’

‘Oh . . .’

‘I’m sorry, but I just got a glimpse of your arse as I lifted the covers. Don’t worry, you’re safe, but if you don’t mind, I’ll just keep to me own side of the bed.’

Outside I hear girls shriek and start to sing. I listen to their voices trailing down the street, then the quiet. I can’t rest. I’m alert, distracted by the presence of Max: the male essence of him gently lying so close, the size of him, the stubble, the weight of his arm. The idea of just turning over and quietly loving him seeps like ink. I feel my skin come alive and burn with the possibility of it. My mouth feels dry; I moisten my lips.

‘I do mind.’

‘What?’

I hear our hearts beating hotly in the dark and swallow hard. ‘I do mind you staying on your own side.’

There’s a pause and I hear his breath get heavier. He turns onto his back and speaks carefully. ‘What are you saying?’

I open my eyes, making out the grainy grey shape of the window. My heart hammers in my throat. I turn over, resting my head on his chest, lifting my bare knee over his hairy legs, skimming the hardness pressing against the cotton of his boxers. I lift my chin and put my lips against his face.

‘I want to be with you.’ I kiss him again at the side of his mouth. He turns, slowly lifting himself onto one elbow, and brushes his lips gently against mine. He hesitates and I gaze up at the outline of him, the curls of hair and the cross of his shoulders.

‘Are you sure?’ he whispers.

I kiss him, tasting toothpaste. The tip of his tongue brushes my lips and I feel myself melt and flow. I move closer to him, touching his face, feeling his heart beat. His hand strokes over my thighs, pushing up the T-shirt, sending currents of excitement darting over my body. I feel an irresistible heat pulsing between my legs. I arch as his hand grazes the lace of my pants. He stops.

‘Viv. Are you sure?’ he breathes. I brush my fingers over his boxers and his cock leaps.

I breathe close to his ear. ‘Max . . . just fuck me,’ I whisper.

It’s morning. I’m not at home. I think of Rob, waiting for the familiar stab in the heart. It comes, but it’s deadened. I open my eyes to the green glow of Max’s sunlit curtains. I stretch my legs out to the bottom of the bed, finding my balled-up knickers with my toes. Max shifts in his sleep, stretching his arm over my waist. I examine the relaxed hand, the long fingers and clean, square-ended nails, the remnants of paint in the creases of his thumb. I let the fact that I’ve slept with Max sink in, expecting panic. But I feel totally calm. I slept with Max! I don’t feel strange. I’m here, naked, in his bed and my mind is . . . at ease. I look at the lines of his palm, this hand, a hand I know so well. I put my own hand into it and he squeezes gently. The sex with him was so easy, like taking a cool drink of water in the desert – healing and natural. I listen to his dozing breath and wriggle around to face him.

‘Morning,’ I whisper. He sniffs, still sleeping. I study his face: the dark pelt of his eyebrows and the curl of his lashes, the curve of his mouth, the large straight nose. I’ve looked at this face many times, but never
looked
. The small scar near his ear is new to me, so is the pock-mark in the cleft of his chin.

I twang his lower lip and he grabs my hand, smiling, eyes still closed. ‘What you doing?’

‘You’ve got quite big ears, haven’t you?’

‘Hmm.’

‘They get bigger with age, you know.’ I lean on one elbow, rubbing my eyes, then look down at him. ‘Hey!’ I shout.

His eyes open and focus sleepily on me. ‘Hello. What do you think you’re doing naked in my bed?’

I snuggle into his neck and breathe in a male smell, pepper and earth. ‘Hiding,’ I reply. His fingers trace up and down my spine. ‘What time is it?’

He reaches down for his phone and squints. ‘Coming up to eight,’ he says, patting my shoulder.

I gaze at a warm wedge of sun turning the bedcover pale and consider rushing across town to work. I stretch onto my back. ‘I’m not going in.’ He caresses my arm and we lie in the warm room, listening to snatches of breakfast-show music blaring close then fading from passing cars, heels drumming towards trains, buses hissing.

He turns to me and strokes my hair. ‘Viv, about last night . . .’

‘Don’t say anything.’ I pull the duvet over my head.

‘Are you okay with it?’

‘Yes.’

He pulls it down. ‘Are you sure?’

‘Why, are you going to give me my money back?’

‘No returns or refunds – did you not read the small print? I mean, I don’t want you to think I took advantage or anything.’

‘You didn’t. I started it,’ I reassure him.

‘But I probably shouldn’t have let you. You were upset.’

‘Max, shut up.’ I flick him on the nose.

‘So . . . you’re okay with it?’

‘God! Yes! I said yes, didn’t I? Why? Are you not okay?’ I peer at him, eyes narrowed.

‘I am very, very okay.’ He looks tenderly over my face and I realise I’m grinning like a monkey. ‘Geeky.’ He smiles. ‘I’ll get us some coffee.’

He rolls out of bed and I watch his bare arse as he swaggers to the kitchen, admiring his broad tanned back, even feeling affection for the ugly tiger tattoo on his shoulder. I lie back, smiling to myself. I slept with Max. I slept with Max and it was good. I slept with him and I think I might like to do it again. As long as I stay here basking in his warm energy, nothing can hurt me. It’s like some kind of force field. I try to concentrate on the concerns of yesterday, the struggle and heartbreak, but my mind bounces back to Max, to this bed and last night.

He returns, still naked, with a tray. I can’t help but notice his penis bounce against his thigh. We sit in bed with half-filled mugs of strong black coffee. He spoons sugar into both, then downs his in two gulps.

‘It’s a kick in the head, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I don’t get tea drinkers.’

I play with the curls at the back of his neck. ‘You know, I’ve always thought you have lovely hair.’

‘And all these years you never said.’ He squeezes my leg; I watch his tanned hand on my pale skin, aware of electricity spreading to my toes.

‘I’m sure I must have . . .’ I feel his fingers trace over my thigh, stroking and stopping, returning. I move my leg slightly, allowing him higher.

‘Well, I’ll let you off. There are lots of things I didn’t say before that I guess I can say now,’ he murmurs.

‘Yeah? Like what?’

‘Like how gorgeous you are.’ I look at his dark eyes wandering over me. He kisses my ear. ‘How delicious you smell.’ I feel a tingle travel from my neck downwards. His hand moves over my chest, circling my breasts, and he gazes at them, his eyes as black as pools. ‘How beautiful you are.’ I lie completely still, barely breathing with desire, with the weight of him over me, amazed at the effect he has on my body, feeling myself instantly melting for him. ‘How many times I’ve dreamt of fucking you.’ He moves my legs apart and I feel him push inside me slowly. ‘And how I’ve always loved you. How I love you, Vivienne Summers,’ he says into my neck.

Standing naked before the bathroom mirror, I inspect my wanton self as I speak on the phone. My hair stands in matted peaks at the back; my lips are red and bitten, my chin stubble-scratched.

‘My nana is very ill,’ I say to Snotty’s voicemail, ‘and there’s only me to take care of her. I think I’ll need a couple of days, but I’ll ring tomorrow . . . Sorry again, thanks, bye.’ I zip the phone into my bag, feeling briefly uncomfortable, wondering if Nana is actually okay or if this lie could be somehow tempting fate. I turn on the tap and the shower splutters into life, blasting a curly black hair to the drain. The room fills with steam and I step under the thudding jet, letting it hammer my back. I turn my face into the flow, spitting water from my mouth. What am I doing skipping work, shagging my best friend, refusing to go home? I find a thin scrape of soap and wash the smell of sex from my tingling skin. Max said he loves me, but something about that makes me uncomfortable. I can’t deal with love. I feel alive and a bit reckless and I have what Lucy would call a freshly fucked grin. I’ve fucked Max! And who knew it’d be so good? But I can’t think about love. I just want to feel good. I deserve to feel good without thinking about anything else, don’t I? I step out of the shower and cold drops of condensation drip on my shoulder from the cheap ceiling tiles. I wrap myself up in a crispy towel and step into the bedroom.

Max, still naked, sits on the edge of the bed, strumming a guitar. His eyes are narrowed, and a cigarette dangles from his lips.

‘Oh no, not “All Along the Watchtower”!’ I smirk, remembering how he humiliated himself in a talent show at uni. How serious he was. People threw things.

‘It might have been. Now you’ll never know.’ He lowers the guitar to his lap and puts out the cigarette.

‘Isn’t that all you can play?’

‘No, I also do “Happy Birthday”.’

I open the window to clear the smoke. Cool air rushes in, sweet and clear despite the London traffic. The sun’s a pale eye in a white sky. ‘It’s going to be a hot day.’

‘So, how will you spend it, Miss Summers?’ he asks. I step from the towel and use it to rub my wet hair.

‘With you, I thought.’

‘Ah. You presume that I’ll just drop everything because you’re at a loose end?’ He gazes over my body.

‘Yeah.’

‘Okay, I will.’

I walk over to him and kiss him on the lips. ‘Thank you very much. And I feel like seeing the sea.’

‘Let’s do it.’ He leans to kiss me again, but I dodge away.

‘So lend me some clothes.’

We walk along Brighton seafront arm in arm. The heat strokes the turquoise sea, calming it like a cat. The water glitters, occasionally gathering itself up and crashing to shore, scattering pebbles and sending children squealing. I’m wearing Max’s jeans and T-shirt with yesterday’s heels, feeling faintly stupid as we pass bikini-clad lovelies on rollerblades. I notice he doesn’t even glance their way. He wouldn’t lend me shorts; we came down on the bike.

‘I want to get everything seasidey,’ I say.

‘Like cockles and mussels, alive, alive-o?’ He stops by the cockle van.

‘Uh, no – they look like genitals.’

‘I love ’em!’ He buys a tub, scooping up dripping yellow-grey bodies with a wooden fork. He waves one in my face, saying, ‘Mmmm, fishy!’

‘We have to have fish and chips in the paper, candy floss and ice cream, and you have to win something for me on the pier.’

‘That’s your definition of seasidey?’ He laughs.

‘So what’s yours?’

‘A deckchair on the beach, a few beers . . . and a tub of genitals.’

‘We have to get a stick of rock.’

‘And a lewd postcard.’

I frown at his profile as he marches along in his biker jacket, the wind in his hair. ‘What’s
wrong
with you?’ I say, and he laughs, putting his arm around me. We go down to the beach and pay for two deckchairs, setting them up to face the sun. He lies back and lets his arms flop, lifting his face to the sky. I roll up my jeans and wonder about taking off the T-shirt, weighing up whether or not my bra looks enough like a bikini. I watch a fat lady in a frilly bathing costume hobble over the pebbles, her lumpy legs like roughly sculpted clay. Some young men half wrestle in front of a beautiful Spanish-looking girl. I turn to study Max and something flickers in my heart. His large straight nose and wide smiling mouth definitely make a sexy combination, but it’s more than that. I’m so at home with him, there’s no awkwardness between us. I brush my fingers over beach stones, gathering one up.

‘Oh my God, this stone looks exactly like your head!’

He opens his eyes and squints. ‘It’s way better-looking than me. That stone could be in films.’

‘He just never had the ambition and now he’s all washed up.’

‘Funny!’ He closes his eyes again. I aim bits of gravel at him, missing each time.

I watch the waves rush over the shingle, letting the rhythm soothe me for a while. After a while I hear a light snore.

‘Max! Go and get fish and chips,’ I whine.

He stretches his back. ‘Will I bring them down here?’

I nod, shielding my eyes from the sun. I watch him clamber comically over a bank of shingle and up the steps to the street, then focus on the shimmering horizon beyond the pier edge. I close my eyes and sigh. London and all its waiting worry is a world away. I know I’ll have to face it, but not today. I think of Rob, like pushing my tongue into the wound of a lost tooth. It aches, there’s the pang of something missing, but it’s no longer life-threatening.

Max wins a luminous orange orang-utan in the sitting-duck shootout on the pier. It has Velcro hands and feet, and when I refuse to carry it, he arranges it around his body where it clings like a manic grinning baby. He calls it Maurice and buys it a doughnut. At the end of the pier we sit in a bar drinking glasses of cold beer and looking out to sea. I feel his stare, turn and smile.

‘What?’

‘I’d love to sketch you now.’ We look into each other’s eyes like a cliché.

‘Max, I feel scared to leave you,’ I suddenly blurt out, taking his hand. ‘Like you rescued me or something, and if you let me go, I’ll have to face up to everything.’

‘I won’t let you go.’ He squeezes my hand. ‘You’ll be the one to decide.’