Never Google Heartbreak (33 page)

‘Those sequins . . . they should say something,’ I comment.

‘They say, “Twinkle twinkle!”’

‘I’m thinking they could say something for us, for the campaign to find Max.’

‘“Wanted . . . tall Irish man,”’ she muses.

‘Yeah or something simple like “Where’s Max?”’

‘What, we wear eight-hundred-pound designer waistcoats with “Where’s Max?” written in sequins? Cool.’

‘No. Obviously not sequins, something else.’

‘These are hand sewn.’ She plucks at a loose thread and the fabric shimmers like fish scales.

My mind is racing. I’m thinking of a huge campaign, a fashion show, TV coverage . . . but with no money. Christie pours the tea.

‘T-shirts.’

‘Right.’

‘T-shirts with a “Where’s Max?” logo. Not in sequins but something shiny. Your mate Nigel could do it for us and put it in his show.’

‘Hmm . . . I wonder if he’d do that.’

‘Then Topshop will buy them and the campaign will be huge.’

‘Why would Topshop buy them?’

‘I thought you said your mate does catwalk shows for Topshop?’

‘Yes, but—’

‘And they’re always championing new talent.’

‘Well, I could ask him.’

‘Beg him, Christie. Sleep with him.’

‘He’s gay.’

‘Get your flatmate to sleep with him.’

‘He’s not gay.’

‘Oh, I don’t know, just . . . think of something! It’s too good an idea to miss.’

‘All right.’ She takes a Hello Kitty notepad and matching pen from her handbag and begins to write. Hello Kitty’s head lights up every time she starts a new word. I sit in wonder.

‘Nice pen.’

‘Oh, I just love stationery and Hello Kitty is so cute!’ She frowns at the page. ‘Just “Where’s Max?” That’s all you want it to say?’

‘Maybe on the back it could have our company name, or just the initials DTPR?’

She wrinkles her nose. ‘Sounds a bit like herpes.’

‘Okay, not that, then.’

She closes the pad, lightly stroking the cover. We sip tea and Christie tackles a lemon bun.

‘Right, next we need to chase those Sunday papers and get them to write about this search when they cover nevergoogleheartbreak.com . . . I’ll do that.’ I take out my phone and tap in a note to myself. Then I look out of the window of Mad Hatters and focus on a guy outside. I feel a hit of excitement. He’s tall with dark curly hair and he’s looking in the shop window opposite. The faded jeans, the old boots . . . he’s just like Max. Actually, it
is
Max. Could it be? I stand up in the window. Yes . . . the broad shoulders, the way he’s standing with his feet squarely planted. God,
it’s him. I bang on the glass. ‘Max!’ I shout. ‘Max!’ I bang again one, two, three times and scramble towards the door, pulling chairs out of my way. Then the guy turns and smiles as he takes the hand of a small girl coming out of the shop. He glances towards me, a little confused, obviously wondering whether to wave. He decides against, since he doesn’t know me and they walk on, leaving me standing with both hands pressed against the window like a demented mime artist.

I turn slowly back to the café, finally able to speak. I nod over to the frilly-aproned woman at the counter. ‘Sorry, I . . . I thought I knew that guy.’ She smiles in mock sympathy. Two women at a window table stare. ‘All right, show’s over. Get back to your cupcakes,’ I snap as I step around them back to my seat. The chatter resumes as I sink down.

‘Okay,’ says Christie, ‘we really need to find your man.’

BLOG TO MAX #2 – I THOUGHT HE WAS YOU

Days since I saw you: 26

I thought I saw you yesterday. The guy had your kind of style. That implies you have style and we both know you don’t, but he had some of the essence of you, and I made a fool of myself in a café shouting your name. And when he turned round and it wasn’t you, I was so gutted.

I have to see you. Do you fancy the pub? We could get gin and tonics and crisps. Or stay in . . . Whatever. I want to do everything with you, but I’d settle for just hearing your voice. Do you think you could call? You won’t believe it but Nana is getting married to Reggie. You’re invited. It’s this Saturday.

You know how I’ll never take no for an answer, and how you love that about me? Well, I’m starting this campaign to find you. I know it sounds melodramatic and like something from a bad romance, but I have to do something. I have to make you see the truth. You said you would always love me and that I’d be the one to decide, but that’s not true. You will be the one. It will be you, Max. I love you.

V x

PS: You have 500 Facebook friends.

Lucy stands in front of an enormous gilded mirror in a strapless wedding dress. I’m on the chaise with our complimentary half-bottle of champagne – well, not exactly complimentary, since we paid twenty quid for the appointment. Shania Twain sings ‘You’re Still the One’ on a loop.

‘I thought you were going for a corset and white fishnets?’ I remark. Lucy turns and looks into the mirror over her shoulder. The dress is laced at the back with satin ribbons. She holds up her hair and pulls her wide-eyed mirror face. A round woman in a navy suit rushes forward and billows out the skirt.

‘This is a beautiful dress,’ says Lucy.

‘It is,’ I agree. ‘Do you want your champagne?’

She gazes at her reflection, clearly pleased, holding her arms slightly away from her body like a ballerina.

‘What’s it made of ? This fabric is gorgeous.’

‘It’ll be silk or satin, won’t it?’

‘It sort of glows, doesn’t it? What’s this colour, would you say? Shell?’ She strokes the skirt.

‘Shell? What’s that, then, a kind of off-white?’

‘What’s wrong with you?’ She frowns into the mirror.

‘Nothing. What happened to the corset idea?’

Round Woman is back with a pearl tiara and a veil, and Lucy bends a little for her to pin it on. Stiff lace now hangs from Lucy’s head like a half-opened umbrella. She brushes the edge of it with her fingertips. Round Woman climbs on a sort of carpeted pedestal and arranges the veil over Lucy’s face. Lucy steps towards the mirror and her skirts have to be arranged and billowed out all over again.

‘Excuse me,’ I say, ‘could we try a more sparkly tiara?’ Round Woman scuttles over the plush pink carpet to the accessories room.

‘Do you think it needs more sparkle?’ asks Lucy.

‘No, I just wanted to get rid of her for a minute. She must be knackered with all that billowing.’ Lucy peers at me through the veil. ‘Can you see out?’ I ask.

‘Look, the lace has tiny shell pearls sewn into it.’

‘Oh yeah. What is a shell pearl?’

‘Dunno. It’s beautiful, though, isn’t it? Do you love it?’

‘Do they sell bridal corsets here?’

‘Viv! Shut up about the bloody corset idea, will you?’

‘Just trying to keep you real.’

‘We were off our heads when we said that! Do you really think Reuben is going to wear hot pants?’

‘Dunno, I don’t really know him. I’ve bought mine, though – and the boots.’

She starts to laugh. ‘Christ, get this thing off my head!’

When Round Woman returns, I’m on the carpeted pedestal trying to untangle the tiara from Lucy’s hair. She takes over and Lucy eventually emerges a bit cross and red in the face, her hair looking backcombed and wanton.

‘Viv, please will you try and concentrate? I know it must be hard for you to be in here after you were jilted . . .’ I shoot a look at Round Woman. She looks quietly pleased. ‘But this is not about you and you’re supposed to be helping me.’ Lucy looks on the verge of tears and I suddenly feel bad.

‘I’m sorry. It’s probably because I’m a spinster. We don’t do well in wedding emporiums.’

‘I know you’re a spinster!’

‘All right. Keep your voice down.’

‘But couldn’t you just postpone feeling sorry for yourself for half an hour? I’d really like your opinion.’

I heave myself off the chaise and stand behind her at the mirror. ‘You want my opinion?’ Secretly I’m pleased she cares what I think; in darker moments I had thought she might have invited me along to rub my nose in it.

‘That’s why I asked you to come.’

‘Well, with your hair messed up like that, this dress looks amazing. It’s not too “done”. With the veil I think you need a raunchier dress – that way it’s edgy.’

She pushes her hair back. ‘You’re right.’ She half turns and studies herself. ‘When you’re right, you’re right.’

I look her up and down and nod. ‘You do look amazing and beautiful in a sexy way, but not trying at all.’

‘This is the dress, isn’t it?’

‘Looking at you now, I think it is.’

Her eyes fill with tears. ‘Oh my God,’ she cries. ‘This is the dress!’

Smelling a sale, Round Woman rushes forward. She reaches up and holds her hand over Lucy’s eyes.

‘I want you to imagine it’s your wedding day . . .’ she breathes in a sort of storytelling, half-American accent. ‘The most important day of your life. Your hair and make-up are perfect, you look beautiful, you smell your favourite perfume.’ She spritzes a bit of something into the air at this point. ‘You are holding a stunning bouquet and standing outside the door of the church.’ I see in the mirror that my mouth is hanging open, so I go back to the chaise and finish the last of the champagne. ‘Your husband-to-be is standing inside; he can’t wait to marry you and he’s nervously looking towards the door. That door now opens and
this
is what he sees.’ She removes her hand with a flourish and Lucy looks at herself, dumbfounded.

‘I’ll take it,’ she gasps.

And
voilà
! Two thousand pounds later she is the proud owner of a beautiful Vera Wang wedding dress.

‘Will you come for a cocktail to celebrate?’ she asks. ‘That place across the road with the really long bar does amazing watermelon margaritas!’ she adds, as if that’s all I’ve been longing for my whole life.

‘Well then, let’s go!’ I link her arm.

We seat ourselves at one end of the very long metal bar. The place is all blond wood and weathered leather chesterfields. Our drinks arrive looking like works of art, draped with berries and set on silver paper mats.

‘Can you imagine the job spec to work here?’ I ponder. ‘They’re all so good-looking. Ex-models required to tend very long bar. Must not be able to smile.’

‘Must be able to shake a cocktail,’ she adds.

‘That would be on their actual job description.’

‘I know.’

I look at her for a moment, then decide to change the subject. ‘So what will Reuben think of your dress?’

‘Oh, he’ll love it.’

‘Are you not going with the sex theme at all, then?’

‘Yeah, but in a more toned-down way from what we said the other night.’

‘What, a phallic wedding cake?’

‘Exactly!’ She laughs.

‘How about pants with saucy slogans on?’

‘I like it. Are they Barnes and Worth?’

‘No, but I could get some for you.’

‘What slogans?’

‘Whatever you like. You could have them as part of a sex-themed cracker. Like instead of a joke, it could have a position to try.’

‘Yeah, with the pants instead of a hat and maybe a little thing of lube.’

‘Or a novelty condom.’

‘Or a sex toy.’

We laugh and drink our margaritas. I’m starting to think about the viability of the sexy wedding cracker. It could be Dream Team’s first product launch. We could supply Lucy’s wedding as a starting point and then get into the whole wedding market from there.

‘We’d probably want something about love in there too . . . packets of Love Heart sweets or little heart-shaped fortune cookies or something,’ I suggest.

‘Oh yes, love, definitely . . . love-heart glitter.’

‘Okay.’ I’m already thinking of suppliers, working out costs and thinking of a realistic price for a wedding favour. I realise I’ve missed what Lucy’s been saying about her wedding.

‘. . . will you?’ she finishes.

‘Of course.’ I smile.

‘Well, let’s drink to that.’ We clink glasses. I drain my drink with an uneasy feeling and notice the oversized digital wall clock. It’s already eight and I was supposed to be at Michael’s engagement party at seven. Maybe I won’t go. Lucy is reading a text message on her BlackBerry.

‘Reuben’s on his way down here.’ She smiles and I think, as I often do, how pretty she is. ‘Don’t tell him about the dress.’

‘Of course not. Actually, I’ll stay to hand you over and then I have to go. An engagement party . . . someone from work.’

The Ga Ga bar is the last doorway down a tiny back street in Soho, the kind of place you need a special door-knock code to get in to. It’s half empty tonight and Michael’s sitting at a central bar, lit dramatically from below by purple spotlights. A banner sags over a small dance floor: ‘Congratulations M and M!’

Something is wrong with this picture. Why is there no music? Where’s Mole? A few little groups of well-wishers are gathered around the tables of nibbles, some clearly Michael’s acquaintances in their
Dawn of the Living Dead
garb. They turn to watch as I approach the bar. Michael doesn’t turn round. I take my engagement present and plonk it down in front of him.

‘Congrats on your engagement,’ I say. He spins round, hands at the ready, in some sort of jujitsu move.

‘Just fuck off, will you . . . Oh, it’s you.’ He slumps again. I wait, but he remains silent, so I pull up a stool.

‘How’s it going?’ He makes a triangle with his fingers and rests the bridge of his nose on top, slowly shaking his head. ‘That good? Can I buy you a drink?’

‘Ssa free bar.’ He checks his plastic digital watch. ‘Till nine.’ I get a white wine from a barmaid with a platinum-blonde asymmetric bob.

‘Nice place,’ I say. He glances sideways so I look around. People are leaving. Michael suddenly sits up, then sways backwards and to the side before grabbing on to the bar to steady himself. He slides my gift over and starts to unwrap it like an eager child. The paper’s off. It’s a cardboard box. He hesitates, sniggers and then opens it, pulling out a little metal donkey with side panniers. He stands it on the bar.

‘That’s a spice donkey. What you do is put salt in one of his baskets and pepper in the other.’