Never Google Heartbreak (3 page)

Oh God, I feel a panic attack starting. I try to breathe slowly as I scrabble in my make-up bag for tinted moisturiser. I draw on eyeliner and lipstick, but to be honest my face is so puffy from crying there’s only so much I can do.

What about Bob and Marie? His parents love me. Marie knits me a new winter hat and mitt set every Christmas. Does this mean I’ll never get to sit in their conservatory sipping sweet white wine from their best crystal ever again? What about the golf lessons Bob promised? What if Marie’s already started on the knitting? I walk back into the living room. Oh, when will I see Bob and Marie again? I’d imagined them as the grandparents of my children – kind and patient, grey and bespectacled like in a storybook. They were the only normal, stable thing in my life. Now they’re gone. I can’t stand it. I throw myself down onto the scatter cushions and sob for the loss of them.

After a while my left leg goes numb. I get up and check the clock. It’s half seven. I look at the huge French mirror I thought was cool when I moved in here. Now it seems silly. Rob wouldn’t like it. It’s too heavy to hang. I thought it looked arty leaning against the wall, but it gives a funny reflection – my thighs are not really wider than my shoulders; I’ve checked. I stand in front of it now and take a long look: a puffy-eyed, brown-haired girl in a plain dress. I suck in my tummy, open my eyes wide and fluff up my fringe a bit. I wipe away smudged liner. I stand up straight, then collapse into my normal posture. There’s no getting away from it, I look like I feel: shit. I need help. Luckily I have Lucy on speed dial.

‘Lucy speaking.’

‘Hi, it’s me.’

‘Viv, this isn’t a good time.’ She sounds like she’s holding her breath.

‘Yeah, it won’t take a minute. I just want to know – how would you describe me? Am I pretty?’

‘Yes.’

‘In what way? Sexy pretty? Girly pretty? Sophisticated pretty?’

‘Sexy pretty,’ she gasps.

‘Hmm. Vamp sexy pretty, or understated sexy pretty?’

‘What would you like to be?’ She seems to be panting now.

‘Well, I think ideally I’d be . . . not-trying-too-hard sexy pretty.’

‘You’re that.’

‘I’m not, though – I do try hard.’

‘I don’t care, Viv! There’s a man under my covers and I don’t want to hear your voice any more.’ She hangs up.

I can’t believe it. How selfish. Actually, Lucy can sometimes be selfish . . . and hard. I mean, she knows I’m heartbroken. And who’s the man under the covers, anyway? She isn’t even seeing anyone. I can’t believe she’s seeing someone and hasn’t told me. She’s secretive as well as hard and selfish.

I go into the kitchen and stare into space a bit. I think about making coffee. I look around at the pink high-gloss kitchen; it seems so stupid now next to Rob’s handmade walnut units. What was I thinking, renting this place? I open the fridge and stare inside. Sighing helps. What do people do in these situations? Probably they go home to their parents and cry and have a cup of tea, but I don’t have that kind of set-up. Officially I guess you’d say my mother is a traveller. She got pregnant while still at school and wouldn’t ever say who’d done it. She had me when she was seventeen and by the time I was seven, she’d decided motherhood was not for her and ‘took off with the gypsies’, as Granddad put it. I could go home to Nana, though. Why don’t I? I’ll ring her. I close the fridge and find my mobile.

It rings out. Where is she? I fall onto the sofa pressing ‘redial’ again and again. She’ll be pottering around the garden dead-heading, wearing one of her linen sack dresses and bizarre cow-toe shoes, oblivious to my pain. I dial once more. She answers breathlessly.

‘Seven one eight nine double oh?’

‘Nana! I’ve been ringing. Where were you?’

‘Oh? Just . . . here.’ She sounds strange, uncomfortable, like a kid telling a lie.

‘He’s found someone, Nana,’ I wail, feeling a flood of sorrow.

‘Who has, love?’

‘Rob. My Rob.’ There’s silence. ‘Remember we were getting married?’

‘I thought you’d broken it off with him.’

‘I did, but now he’s
with
someone! I didn’t expect him to be
with
someone!’ My nose fills and I hear my own shrill voice rebounding. There’s a clatter like a tin bucket hitting tiles. ‘Nana? Are you all right?’ I hear muffled giggling. ‘Nana?’

‘Yes, dear, all okay. Reggie’s here and he’s just knocked the champagne bucket over.’

‘Champagne bucket?’

‘Yes. Reg, pick it up – the ice is going everywhere!’

‘He’s in your house at this time in the morning, drinking champagne?’

‘That’s right, love.’ She sounds pleased.

‘It’s not even eight o’clock.’

‘We’ve got smoked salmon. We’re having a champagne brunch!’

‘Brunch? People have brunch at eleven.’

‘Do they? Well, champagne breakfast, then.’

This is a cruel new twist of the knife. Everyone in the world is having a great time except for me.

‘Well, Nana, I’d better let you go. We don’t want my heartbreak interrupting your breakfast, do we?’

‘Okay, love. Will you call back later?’

‘I might.’

‘Bye bye, then, sweetie pie.’

I hang up. Sweetie pie? Champagne brunch? This is all the influence of ‘Reggie from next door’. He’s always round there, especially since Granddad died. He even answers the bloody phone! God. The last thing I need is Nana all loved up. She’s not supposed to be having a better love life than me, is she? She’s seventy!

I throw the phone into my bag. I should leave for work now. I dither, wondering if I need a jacket. I step into the stairwell, go back in twice for keys and purse before taking the smelly carpeted stairs to the street.

All my thoughts shriek in my head; they all need exclamation marks. It’s a nice day, I think. A nice day for a white wedding! Jane and Hugo’s wedding! Three days away! What am I going to do? I can’t go! But I can’t not go! I’ve already accepted the invitation!

I jump onto the bus just before the driver closes the doors and stand leaning against the luggage racks as we cannon through the streets of London. I was going to pop along to the wedding in my old blue cocktail dress and get back with Rob. Now everything’s changed. I’ve got three days to find a killer dress, lose a stone and get a new boyfriend. It’s hopeless. I concentrate on the window displays of passing shops as we jerk towards town, picturing myself in the various dresses I see, comparing myself to this perfect-looking adversary and coming up wanting until it’s my stop.

I join the stream of workers and cross Marylebone Road to Baker Street, wondering at each woman I pass, Is that
her
? I cross the street to be swept up by the revolving doors of the Barnes and Worth offices.

I board the packed lift and the doors close. The little arrow of light points upwards and then disappears as the door opens again and a tall man with salt-and-pepper hair squeezes in. I step back to avoid his giant polished shoes. The arrow appears. We’re off. No we’re not. The door opens again for an apologetic woman in a too-tight jumper. She slides into a corner, standing on tiptoe. Okay, this time. Arrow. Good.

For God’s sake! The door opens and I see us in the mirrored tiles opposite, a little crammed sardine tin of people. Some fella with off-putting wet-look gel in his hair tries to board. Now the doors won’t close. It takes an age to dawn on him that he’s the reason and to get out. The doors close and open again because he’s pressed the bloody button.

‘No one else can fit in here! Stop pressing the button!’ I shriek from behind Salt-and-Pepper Man. A little ripple of excitement passes through the lift as the doors close and we’re winched up. The eggy smell of a fart mingles with aftershave. I study flakes of dandruff on Salt-and-Pepper Man’s collar, feeling stares on my back. I glance around, expecting a smile or even a comment, but all eyes avoid me. The faces are mute and faintly surprised like shocked cattle.

I don’t care. I know not how, but I swear, by the time I leave here today I will have a dress and a plan. I will, I will, I will.

Mooncake:
Can anyone help me? My boyfriend left me and I feel like a pile of shit.

Alicat:
Poor you, Mooncake. It will get better. I was cruelly dumped last year and know how you feel. All I can say is take it one day at a time.

Rayofsun:
Never get the letter B tattooed on each butt cheek.

Mooncake:
BB? His initials?

Rayofsun:
His name’s Bob. (It was a cute and funny gesture at the time.)

Alicat:
Give up on loving him, but don’t give up on love.

Rayofsun:
Also destroy
all
the videos of you having sex with him.

Alicat:
You really will get over this and be so much happier one day.

Mooncake:
Thanks, everyone. I guess one day I’ll feel more hopeful.

Koola:
Bunch of freaks.

My office is on the thirteenth floor. I say ‘office’, but it’s more ‘work station’. We’re penned in by felt-covered dividing panels, like cows in a milking shed. I can look over the top down the length of the office. It’s very, very grey and the fluorescent lights buzz in a headache-inducing way. I’m sure this building has that sick syndrome thing. I sink into my swivel chair and try to ignore the knot in my stomach.

This morning we’re having a ‘lessons learned’ meeting. We’re looking at past product mistakes to see what we can learn from them. My assistant, Christie, is supposed to have put together a table of products from previous ranges that didn’t sell and written up the results from customer opinion panels. She begged me to give her the opportunity to present to Snotty, who is the head buyer and our boss. It’s a bit like chucking a fluffy puppy into a pen with a Rottweiler, but I agreed – I didn’t have time to do it myself anyway.

I watch Christie sashaying back to her desk, her platinum-blonde hair combed into a tight bun, her skin suffocating under dull tan make-up. Red high heels and a blue skirt suit complete a look I’d call ‘air hostess’. I guess this is Christie’s idea of a corporate outfit.

‘Morning!’ she sings. ‘Have you heard about the cuts?’

‘What cuts?’ I try to kick-start my ancient computer.

‘Belt-tightening here at Barnes and Worth. Cutbacks. Budgeting and all that.’

‘Who said?’

‘Paul heard it on the radio.’

‘Oh, the recession measures.’ I try to sound authoritative. ‘I wouldn’t worry. People buy more useless gifts in a recession anyway, so we’ll be busier.’

‘Oh yeah!’ she says, pleased.

Belt-tightening? I don’t like the sound of it. I can’t say I love my job, or even like it some days, but it’s quite creative and it pays the rent. I definitely don’t fancy being unemployed.

‘Are you ready?’ I ask.

‘Well, I looked at the sales figures from last year and picked each month’s three worst-performing products.’

‘Great.’ I switch the monitor on and off.

‘Oh, and I’ve got the customer panel’s reactions, so we can analyse them.’

‘Do you know what you’re going to say, then?’

‘What I’m going to say?’

‘What you think about the products?’

‘Oh, I hadn’t thought of that.’

‘Well, Snotty’s bound to ask.’

I search through my emails. Nothing from Rob. I wonder if he’s now sending messages to this new girl and feel a stab. I try to calm myself and think about work, glancing at the list Christie has prepared and making mental notes. My stomach’s churning with nervous energy and I’m totally on edge. This meeting cannot drag on. I need to find a dress. I don’t care how much it costs, or what style it is; it just has to be amazing – the kind of miracle dress that covers big thighs and accentuates boobs . . . so I hope Christie is organised. I stand up.

‘Shall we go?’

She grabs papers and notebooks and clip-clops next to me down the corridor to the meeting room.

We take our places at the large oval table, the vicious air conditioning making me shiver in my sleeveless dress. Snotty arrives, dropping a file of notes down with a slap. Her half-moon specs rest low on her short beak nose and she peers over them without warmth.

‘Good morning, Vivienne.’ She nods to me and then to Christie. ‘Christine.’

‘Morning,’ we answer together like schoolgirls.

‘First off, Vivienne, let me say that I do like to schedule my time, so I would have appreciated an emailed agenda including all the lines we’re looking at today.’

I asked Christie to do this; she was supposed to take full responsibility for the meeting. An uneasy sensation prickles at the back of my neck.

‘I have a hard copy here.’ I slide my own printout across the table. ‘Apologies for not emailing it – we were still processing the focus group’s results late last night and they affected how the agenda worked out.’ Where do these lies come from?

‘Well, that’s . . . something.’ Snotty studies the paper, eyebrows arched. ‘Right then, point one: Christine’s presentation of the failing ranges.’ Her red lips pleat. The hard amber eyes scan Christie.

Christie stands up and begins to read shakily from a crumpled sheet of paper. ‘The reason we need to have this meeting today, which I believe is very important, is so that we can look at products that have not sold very well and analyse why they haven’t sold very well and then think about how not to do badly selling products again.’

Snotty mutters something like ‘Jesus wept’ and pours herself a glass of water.

Will I need to buy new shoes to go with the dress? Maybe I could take a long lunch today and go to Oxford Street. I wonder what Rob’s ‘someone’ will be wearing.

Snotty is looking into her lap, shaking her head.

Christie holds up a bath hat and mitt set and reads the panel’s comments chirpily. ‘“It’s too old-fashioned” . . . “My gran had a hat like this and she’s been dead ten years” . . . “I wouldn’t buy this” . . . “Strongly dislike bath hats” . . . “I would expect a product like this in a cheap bargain store, but not at Barnes and Worth.”’