Never Google Heartbreak (20 page)

‘You know I’d never hurt you. I don’t want . . . what happened between us to mean you get hurt.’ I feel my eyes unexpectedly fill and put my hand to his neck, pulling him to me and pressing my lips on his. ‘But I’ve been . . . I am a bit lost.’

‘Viv, don’t worry,’ he says, taking my hand. ‘It’s cool. I know you haven’t made your mind up.’ I squeeze his fingers. ‘I’m in no hurry. I’ve loved you for ages already . . . from the moment we met.’

‘That’s because you don’t really know me.’ I pull a geeky face.

‘I know you.’

He looks into my eyes. I glance away and lean back in my chair. He takes a drink. I look back at him and he nods once, raising his glass.

On the journey home I cling to his leather-clad back as we speed through the rolling Downs. Maurice the toy orang-utan clings to my waist, one leg blowing behind, free in the slipstream. I feel a drunken kind of freedom until the cluttered streets of London begin to close around us again like a trap. Max stops at a mini-market to get supper and I stay by the bike while he goes inside. I check my phone for the first time today. Christie has called, Nana has called, Lucy, then Christie again. I listen to the messages.

‘Hi, Viv! It’s only Christie. Just checking you’re okay. I’ve looked in your diary and you had a suppliers’ meeting down so I’ve cancelled it. Let me know if there’s anything you need me to do. Bye!’ Shit, I forgot about the bloody suppliers’ meeting. But I’ll rearrange it. I mean, I’d have to if I really was ill, wouldn’t I?

Then it’s Nana. ‘Hello, darling. Listen, I think I might have done a bad thing. I called you just now and you didn’t answer, so I rang your work number. They seemed to think you were with me because I’m ill! I wasn’t sure what to say, so I just hung up. I’m terribly sorry if I’ve caused any trouble. Could you give me a little tinkle because now I’m wondering where you are . . .’

She rang work! She never rings work. I feel the familiar tension rising. This is bad. There will be reprisals.

Then it’s Lucy, talking and eating something. ‘Hi, it’s Luce. Listen, call me. I want to know how it went at Rob’s. I hope you got your stuff and kicked his arse. I just had the most amazing experience with Reuben – he did this thing with his tongue and a little rubber device he’s got and oh my God! Anyway, call me.’

I look into the shop; Max is queuing. Lucy having great sex is not news. Me having great sex, however . . . I watch him putting the shopping down for the till girl, smiling and saying something. I notice how she cocks her head and fiddles with her ponytail. Max is actually what you’d call hot, and I really fancy him suddenly after all this time.

It’s Christie again. ‘Hi, Viv, me again. Sorry to bother you. Just wanted you to know that some old bat claiming to be your nan rang up. I told her she can’t be your nan because your nan’s ill in hospital and you’re with her. Then the cheeky cow hung up! So I don’t know what that’s about. Anyway, Snotty’s on the warpath and wants to know when you’ll be back in. Call me!’

Thank God Christie answered the phone – anyone else and I’d be busted.

I call Nana. The long rambling of the answer machine clicks in, beginning with Nana speaking to someone in the room: ‘. . . not sure about it . . . Hold on, I think it’s on . . . Hello? Hello, you’ve reached seven one eight nine double oh. There’s no one here at the moment. Uh, this is a recorded message. You can leave your name and number and I will ring you back when I’m home . . . Is that it? It didn’t beep . . .’ I tell the machine to tell Nana not to worry, I’ll call and explain soon.

Max appears with a bag of groceries. ‘I got dinner.’

‘It’s a yam.’

‘Yeah, I liked the look of it.’ He tosses it in his pannier. ‘What happened? You look like Daddy said no to the pony.’ He pulls his helmet on.

I hold up the phone. ‘Just . . . life.’

He takes the phone, chucks it into the pannier next to The Yam and starts the engine. Then he mounts the bike, manoeuvring it backwards with his legs, and motions to me with a jerk of his head.

‘Get on, darlin’.’ His eyes crinkle inside the helmet. I tuck myself in behind him, resting my head against his back, and we take off with my worries flapping behind like big black birds.

The dusty light in Max’s place is fading when we walk in. Dave blinks from the sofa but doesn’t move. Max lights a tatty lamp and a couple of candles; then I wander into his studio while he gets drinks. On the easel is a new painting. A large arresting canvas, a woman’s back and huge bottom, bold brushstrokes of purple, gold and green. The face turns slightly to the right and the straight nose contrasts with the voluptuous curves. One sloping breast points upwards. I’m transfixed by the womanliness and grace of it.

Max appears at the doorway. ‘You like that?’

‘I love it.’ I turn to him. ‘Are you selling much?’

He hands me a glass of wine. ‘More than before.’

‘So, how much for this one?’

‘Er . . . two grand, to you.’

‘Two grand?’ I stare at the colours, wondering at how he’s painted the light.

‘All right, call it a straight grand and I’ll deliver.’

‘I was thinking it’s worth more.’

‘Ah, I’m shit at negotiating.’

‘Don’t you have a dealer or something?’

‘I’m working on it.’

‘If you’re selling more than before, you must be doing okay.’

‘Well . . . before I wasn’t selling any.’

I wander further into the room stopping to admire his painting of Lula, her ivory limbs and distant gaze. Max follows. ‘You’ve slept with her.’

‘No.’

‘I can tell by the way she looks. She’s sated.’

‘Not by me.’

‘I don’t believe you. You seduce all your models . . . it’s obvious.’ I hate sounding like a jealous child.

He shakes his head. ‘She’s insane.’

‘Cute insane, though?’ I look at the beautiful pert mouth.

‘Uh, more chop-off-your-bollocks insane.’

‘And where’s the portrait of me?’

‘Not here. It’s in the show.’

‘At the Academy?’ He nods. ‘Max!’ He stands grinning, his arms hanging loosely by his sides. ‘That’s amazing!’

‘Yeah.’

‘I’m in an exhibition!’

‘You are.’

‘You’d better not have made me ugly.’

‘I couldn’t really do much about that, to be honest.’

I put my arms around him. ‘So you’re not such a sad loser after all, then?’

‘Ah no, I still am.’ He grins.

‘Yeah, you are,’ I say. He rests his forehead against mine. ‘Congratulations.’ I touch my lips against his.

‘For what? Getting into the exhibition, or pulling you?’

‘Er, you have not “pulled” me.’

‘Haven’t I?’ He squeezes my bottom.

‘No. I pulled you, actually.’

‘Whatever,’ he says, and I kiss him gently. He responds. ‘I can’t believe you’re here. With me.’

‘Well, it
is
unbelievable . . . You are one very lucky guy.’ I kiss him, opening my lips a little. He lifts my T-shirt and I help him get it over my head until I’m standing in my bra. He turns me round and unclips it, slipping off the straps and kissing my shoulders as it falls. He slides one palm over my belly button. I shiver. He lifts my hair and kisses the back of my neck.

‘You’re beautiful,’ he whispers, close to my ear. His hand slides under my belt, the fingers exploring and discovering my wetness. I feel my breath coming in short gasps, as his fingers press against me. ‘My beautiful friend,’ he murmurs as he unfastens my belt. ‘I can’t believe you’re mine.’ The jeans fall to the ground and I kick them away. I hear him taking off his shirt, then feel the warmth of his chest against my back and still his hand is kneading and sliding between my legs, making me gasp, bringing pleasure in waves. I look up at the easel – the gold and purple buttocks, the pointed nipple and secret smile. Max leans over me, biting my shoulder; I’m pushed forward and I steady myself on his table, my hands clanking against jars of brushes. I feel him stroke my bare bottom, feel the warmth of his breath there, light butterfly kisses. I hear his belt buckle coming loose, the rush of fabric as he undresses. He doesn’t speak as he moves close behind me. I’m shivering with anticipation as I push back into him and he takes me there in the studio, under Lula’s jealous gaze.

Afterwards we lie down on the dusty floorboards and I’m shaking. He puts his arm around me and lights a cigarette with the other hand. Something about it is too practised and I suddenly feel foolish.

‘Do you always do that?’

‘What?’

‘Smoke after sex.’

‘No.’ He kisses my hair. I try to pull away, but he holds me close.

‘How many women have you had in here?’

‘Millions.’ I turn to look at him, but he’s gazing at the ceiling. ‘Yeah, they all fall for the tortured artist thing . . . I put out a few cheap canvases and boom, they drop like flies.’ I try again to wriggle out of his arms, but he’s got me wrapped tight. ‘I think I’ve had every person who’s ever set foot in this studio – men and women.’ I see him smile as he exhales a curl of smoke. I thump him on the chest, making him cough.

‘Don’t tease me.’

‘Viv, what do you think I am?’

‘I don’t know. I feel a bit vulnerable.’

‘Well, don’t. I can’t believe my luck.’ I curl back into him and we watch the last of the daylight fade. He strokes my arm. The air is warm, but I have goose bumps. He gets up, lights some more candles and pulls a musty throw around us.

‘Max?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Got anything to eat?’

He stretches. I watch him get up. He looks down at me and smiles. ‘I’ll see what I can do.’

I stay wrapped in the throw and study my emerging reflection in the darkening window. I’m naked here in Max’s studio, enjoying myself. Fucking hell!

He fetches bread and cheese, and goes back for wine, laying a little picnic out on the floor. I can’t stop staring at him. He’s slicing the cheese with an enormous carving knife. He looks up and I’m aware I’m smiling in wonder at him, ready to hang on his every word.

‘What do you do with a yam?’ he asks. ‘Do you know?’ I shake my head, watching him carve a wedge of bread. He places it in front of me and lays the cheese on top. Then he fills the little vase glass for me. ‘Cheers,’ he says in his soft Irish accent, looking into my eyes. He seems incredible to me now, with the light making his bare skin glow. His eyes full of humour and sex and . . . life. I’m suddenly aware of a power shift, like he could kill me just by being a bit cool.

He flashes his wide, sexy smile. ‘What’s up?’

‘Nothing. Just . . . you.’

‘What?’

‘Just . . . who knew?’

‘Me. I knew.’ He laughs.

‘All that time . . .’

‘But you didn’t know.’

‘So why didn’t you tell me?’

‘I did – all the time.’

I think about this and realise I’ve always known he fancied me a bit. I’d just never thought of him that way. A struggling artist wasn’t my idea of a catch and anyway, he did this to other women, women who rang and cried to see him again. How can sex change the way you view someone? He’s still scruffy and disorganised and . . . poor, but as I look at the curve of his shoulder, the messy studio, the beautiful canvases, I see only his talent.

In the morning I wake early. It’s bright outside and I dress while Max is half awake. Before I leave I go to kiss him. He pulls back the quilt, growling.

‘Stay with me.’

‘I have to get to work.’

‘Come here.’ He pats the bed.

‘I have to go. Come round later.’ I stroke his chest.

‘Stay with me.’

‘I’ll cook something for us.’

He rolls onto his stomach and puts his hands behind his head as I look for my bag. ‘Don’t go. I’ll die.’

‘I’ll call you.’ I smile.

‘Vivienne!’ he shouts as I walk across the bedroom. ‘VIVIENNE!’ His roar makes Dave leave off licking his arse. He’s sitting next to the savaged body of Maurice the orang-utan, and blinks disdainfully as I close the door.

A summer morning in north London is just cranking into life. Commuters rush to the tube; a delivery van with trays of croissants idles outside the coffee shop. I think about work, mentally compiling a to-do list, waiting for the familiar panic, but get nothing. I think about Rob and I remain calm. I know it’s a total cliché, but for the first time in months, I have a spring in my step. I’m exhilarated. Max has woken me from a nightmare and I realise that when I’m with him, everything is proper and brilliant and in colour.

1. Do you genuinely like each other and seek to spend time in each other’s company?

2. Do you take it in turns to play the role of the lover and the loved?

3. Are you both able to say sorry and talk about how to move the relationship forward?

4. Do you both laugh at the same kinds of things?

5. Are you able to talk about money without fighting?

6. Are you both willing to change any habits that upset each other?

7. Do you have similar expectations and life plans?

8. Are you any of these zodiac combinations: Leo + Aries, Taurus + Virgo, Gemini + Libra or Cancer + Scorpio?

Answers

Mostly Yes
– highly compatible (yay).

Mostly No
– don’t bother (boo).

I’m at my desk by eight. The office is deserted. I’ve only missed one day – what could have gone wrong? I read my emails. Nothing from Rob. A couple of suppliers can’t come in with the prices they promised. A competitor has bought up all the tartan there is in the world, and Snotty wants to see me first thing. I leave a wheedling message on her voicemail, mainly to let her know I was in at eight.

Pretty soon I find myself gazing out of the window at the blue sky. I look at my phone to see if there’s a message from Max. There is.

‘
Vivienne! You ravaging beauty. I smell you on my skin. M x
’

I feel my body respond as I text back: ‘
Have a shower! V xx
’

I open a spreadsheet and look at some costings, trying to work out if we can still afford the product range as it stands, but my mind begins to wander. I decide to have a proper look at the website. I haven’t had a chance to explore it until now. I type in the link that Michael gave me and a webpage design appears; the title in dark blue, joined-up font stands out against a pale grey background. The home page is striking, with its ‘Top tips’ choices. I click on ‘How to end it’ and there’s a list and a forum where you can post your own story and advice. I click on ‘Date my ex’ and there’s a photo of Michael. He stares out solemnly, reminding me of a high-school murderer. I find it hard to believe an ex of his has written this profile: ‘
If you like sex and good times, then this guy is for you. He’s all about fun, and he’s really well hung.
’ I cruise the heartbreak forum where break-up emails are posted. There’s the ‘Ask Lucy’ page with my life story laid out as this week’s example. I’m getting more excited with each page. I send a message to Michael, thanking him and asking how soon it can go live. He replies, ‘
Live now ;
)’ I type the address and there it is!