Never Google Heartbreak (5 page)

‘You’re welcome,’ he says, smiling goofily. I pick up my glass and finish the wine, and when I put it down, he’s still smiling and staring.

‘What?’

‘Nothing.’ He looks away, and we sit in silence for a moment.

‘So . . . I’d better get back.’ I stand up and kiss his stubbly cheek. ‘Thanks for coming out.’

‘I’m looking forward to Saturday,’ he calls as I step out into the sunlight.

By the time I get back to the office I feel fractionally better. It could be the wine or it could be that I have Max to go to the wedding with, and that is definitely something. Not going to the wedding alone. A step forward. Good. Things seem a tiny bit less disastrous.

As I get out of the lift I spot Christie in our little work station, and behind her, hanging up on the roller shelves, is a dress. It’s a white and pink dress, and the skirt is made entirely of feathers. She looks up from her non-work-related website.

‘You just missed Nigel,’ she says, but I don’t look at her. I can’t take my eyes off the dress.

‘Did he make this?’ I’m close enough now to touch the frothy white feathers of the skirt. The bodice is the palest pink silk.

‘Yeah. Clever, isn’t he? He said it’s fine if you want to borrow it, but if it gets stained or anything, then you have to buy it.’

I take down the hanger and hold it against me. I’ve never seen anything like it. Just holding it makes me feel emotional. Everything about it is so well made. The spaghetti straps are satin, and it has tiny buttons all down the back. I feel a little surge of excitement.

‘How much would it cost?’

‘A thousand.’

‘A thousand . . . pounds?’ She nods. ‘Right. Wow.’ I suppose I could just be really, really careful. I mean, it’s a wedding, not a rave.

‘But it’s such an amazing dress,’ says Christie. ‘Look at this.’ She brings up Nigel’s website and plays a film of one of his fashion shows. A model bounces down the catwalk wearing the dress with chunky tan heels. The feathers sway beautifully. She looks cool, edgy and not-trying-too-hard sexy. I’m sold. ‘It’s such a beautiful dress. No one else will have ever seen it.’ Christie swivels her chair round to look at me as I hold the dress up to myself.

‘Do you think it’ll look all right on me?’

‘Take it home and try it on,’ she says. I hang up the dress, imagining walking into Jane’s wedding in it. Could I pull it off ?

‘It’s definitely a wow dress, isn’t it?’

‘Vivienne, you couldn’t get much more wow,’ Christie says solemnly. She looks into my eyes and we nod in unison.

At home, three glasses of Pinot down, I’m in the beautiful dress, talking to myself in the mirror.

‘Hi. Oh, hi there. I love your dress. This? Thanks, a designer friend made it for me.’

I do a little dance and join in with Paloma Faith on the iPod. The feathers swish and sway and it feels great. The bodice is . . . shall we say, figure-hugging, but in a good way, I think. The only chunky heels I have are black suede, but they kind of work; they contrast. ‘Hi, Rob.’ I get close to the mirror. My flicky black eyeliner looks wicked. ‘How are you? . . . Me? I’m fine . . . Call me.’ I walk past the mirror and back again, tossing my hair.

Yes, this is the dress. It definitely is the dress. It’s a bloody legend of a dress. I’ll tell our children about it one day.

The room grows gloomy as the day fades, but the pale feathers glow magically in the darkness of the glass. The iPod moves on to Ronan Keating now, one of Rob’s favourites, a song we once made love to. I say the words.

‘When you say nothing at all.’ I look at my own shiny eyes. A single tear glistens on my cheek. ‘I can’t believe I lost him,’ I whisper.

I take a sip of wine and a thought glances into my mind like an arrow.

Lost things can be found.
A spark of hope begins to smoulder. The fact is, I’ll be seeing him on Saturday. We’ll actually be face to face. Even if he is bringing someone, we’ll still be able to talk. It can’t be too late. A little flame burns quietly now. I look at the gorgeous dress and imagine Rob. His jaw drops when he glimpses me; he strains to get a better view and, ignoring her protests, breaks away and rushes over. I cling to the idea like wreckage.

It’ll be as easy as falling off a log. I’m suddenly actually looking forward to it.

In a couple of days I’m taking back my man.

‘Wear shedloads of make-up and fake tan and have your hair massive.’

Marnie, 28, Cheadle

‘Drink a lot of water and get enough sleep.’

Freya, 42, Brighton

‘Buy clothes that fit. You aren’t an adolescent boy, so why are you wearing their jeans?’

Sue, 33, Lyme Regis

‘If I don’t eat much for a few days, I look better . . . but then I feel really awful, so don’t do that . . . Actually, eat more, and eat things you love, then you’ll be happy and therefore you’ll look great.’

Ruby, 30, Denham

‘If I want to look good, I wear heels. The sound of them is like “Click click, I don’t care, click click, sooo over it.”’

Rebecca, 25, Teddington

‘Just be yourself.’

Your mother

I’ve been reading a lot of magazines about this and as far as I can make out,
what you do to improve your appearance without having surgery is this: lose weight, get your teeth whitened, get a suntan, be well groomed, wear the most expensive designer outfit imaginable and get your hair done. Losing weight and teeth whitening are out – no time. Spray tan would be good, but that’s out because it might come off on the dress. Everything else, though, I’m doing. So help me God.

It’s Thursday afternoon, four thirty. I’m leaving work early to get to my appointment at David Hedley. I’ve never been before, but apparently it’s the best hairdresser’s in London. It says in one of Christie’s magazines that all the models go there and also that David Hedley makes his own hairbrushes, so I’m lucky to get an appointment, really. I had to explain about the wedding and Rob and his new girlfriend, and they agreed to squeeze me in. I’ve also booked a leg and bikini wax at Selfridges’ spa for tomorrow lunchtime. They said they’d do my eyebrows for free.

So far, so good. I’ll just walk out without anyone noticing. Why does the lift take an age when I’m sneaking out of work? Answer: because the lift also contains Snotty, my boss, and Mole,
her
boss.

‘Afternoon, Viv,’ says Mole.

‘I’m just off to the print room for something,’ I blurt.

‘Good for you,’ she says, and I catch Snotty rolling her eyes.

The lift doors close on my manic grin and then I’m out of there and off to hair heaven.

The salon is all industrial steel and poured concrete with ornate antique mirrors and plush chairs. A stick-thin receptionist in lime-green leggings gives me a drinks menu and asks me to wait on a velvet sofa for my stylist, Mandy. I’m fizzing with nervous energy as I flick through an expensive portfolio of hairstyles. I wish I had the courage for an elfin crop in peroxide blonde, or the face. Fringe or no fringe? Layers?

‘Hi. Is it Viv?’ A plump woman with her roots showing is holding out a gown for me. I hope she’s not Mandy because by the look of her she could do with a good bath.

‘Yes.’ I smile.

‘Hi, I’m Mandy. I’ll be styling you today.’

‘Great.’ I slip into the gown and follow her to a mirror, where she plays with my hair, pushing it forward, lifting it up and letting it drop.

‘So, what are we doing with you?’ she asks. The thing is, I hate it when hairdressers ask that. I want them to know what I should have. They should look at me, point and go, ‘Soft layers and keep the length through the ends,’ or something. Probably not that, actually, because that’s what
I
always say. I try to say it this time, but she’s pushed all my hair into my face and my chin’s on my chest. I remind myself this is the best salon in London. ‘You’ve so much hair!’ I try to lift my head. ‘Such a lot of hair.’ She tilts my head to one side and then the other. ‘Very thick hair.’ I’m starting to feel like I shouldn’t have so much, like there’s a limit or something.

‘What do you think I should do with it?’ I finally manage to ask.

‘Do you want to keep this length?’ she says, and I nod. She sucks her teeth. ‘See, it’s very heavy through here . . .’ She presses the sides of my head. ‘It’s very heavy so it’s hanging wrong. There’s no movement whatsoever. It’s very flat.’

‘Right.’ I didn’t know I was supposed to have moving hair.

‘We could thin it out on the top, keep the length and pop in a few lowlights for texture,’ she says, and by now I’m so relieved to hear that something can actually be done with me that I agree immediately. She nips off to mix up my colour and I suddenly start to feel a bit gloomy. I bet Rob’s girlfriend doesn’t have such unmanageable hair. I bet hers is all silky and baby soft and smells of fruits of the forest. Oh, why have I got thick hair? I’ve never met my dad, but he must be responsible. I’m just cursing my mother for getting laid by some wire-bonced hair bear when Lucy texts.

‘
Fancy a swifty?
’

‘
Yes but in hairdresser’s.
’

‘
Okay. Call me when you done
.’

That’s good. That means I’ll be able to show off my new hairstyle. Mandy returns and offers me a drink. I get a white wine and watch her speedily cover my head with pieces of foil. She’s not that bad, Mandy, really. I mean, she must be good to work here. I look around. There are a lot of rich-looking blonde clients being fussed with. I start to relax a bit.

‘Do people always ask you if you’re going on holiday, Mandy?’ I say.

‘No,’ she says.

‘Oh. It’s just, I wondered if that cliché thing was true – you know, of people talking about their holidays to hairdressers.’

‘No.’ She frowns as if I’m insane.

She’s probably concentrating too much to be chatty; obviously she’s a total professional. She wheels a circular heater over and switches it on. It rotates round my silver head like the rings of a planet. ‘We’ll just let your colour get to work and I’ll be back in a few minutes. Would you like anything?’

I get more wine. I examine my face and wonder if it looks thinner. I haven’t eaten much since Monday. I think I can see cheekbones when I turn my head to the side. I pick up a magazine and read about a woman whose breast implants exploded, until someone with a badge that says ‘Daniel’ takes me to the sink to get a lovely head massage.

Later Mandy returns and starts snipping. Wet strands fall. I hear the shear of the thinning scissors as they pass my ear. I wonder if she might be taking too much off the top, but I trust her. They do models here.

‘What do you think of the colour, then?’ she asks. I can’t actually see any difference, but that’s probably because it’s wet.

‘It’s lovely. Very subtle.’

She smiles and whips out a hairdryer and a huge roll of a brush. I see steam rising from my head as she blasts away. She sprays and teases the sections around my face, shows me the back. I nod even though I suspect my hair might look a bit like a helmet. I don’t want to hurt her feelings. She brushes me down and leads me back to the skinny receptionist, who cheerfully takes payment. ‘That’s two hundred pounds, please.’

I swallow and pass over my credit card. I glance at the bill; fifteen pounds of it was wine. It’s worth it, though. It’s the best hairdresser’s in London. My hair will look great when I get home and mess with it a bit.

‘Your hair looks lovely. Are you pleased?’ asks the receptionist as I key in my PIN.

‘Oh yes! It’s great. It’s really great. I think it’s great,’ I say, and for some reason I start to laugh. I give a little wave, stumble out of the door and scuttle away to meet Lucy.

It feels scarily windy around my ears. Are people looking at me funny? Are they looking at my hair? I think a girl back there by the tube might have been. Luckily the place where I’m meeting Lucy is only round the corner; I can get her verdict and fiddle with my hair in the loos. The bar is an underground tavern where the wine is great and they do nice tapas, our usual swifty venue. I clunk down the spiral staircase and spot Lucy at one of the corner tables with a bottle and two glasses.

‘What do you think?’ I ask her, fluffing up the sides of my head.

‘Have you had it done?’ She squints as I sit opposite her.

‘Er, yeah. It took three hours to look like this.’

‘Actually, it is a bit shorter at the top.’ She lifts her bottom out of the seat to peer at my crown. ‘Oh! Quite a lot shorter.’

‘What? Is it?’ I feel about and touch some frighteningly tufty layers. ‘Does it look all right?’

‘It looks nice.’

‘Nice? I don’t want nice! I just spent two hundred quid.’

‘You spent two hundred pounds on your hair?’ she asks, incredulous.

‘I had a full head of lowlights.’

‘You spent two hundred pounds having your hair made slightly more brown?’

‘Yes, Lucy, I did.’ I pour a glass of wine and glance at Lucy’s silky hair, so silky that her ears poke through. How could she understand, bless her?

‘Well . . . no, good luck to you. Is that eighties cut back in, then?’

I pick up the tapas menu. ‘Poor Lucy. Don’t be jealous of my loveliness.’

‘But you are so beauootiful,’ she says in a Disney way.

‘I know, it’s a burden,’ I say. She raises her glass and we chink. ‘Let me tell you about the dress . . .’

We finish the bottle and order another and talk through every aspect of Saturday. How I should be when I meet him. What I’ll do if he wants to talk. How I should be gracious about his new girlfriend. And then I take a taxi home and text Lucy to say what a great mate she is. She texts back,
‘So are you, babe.
’ And I realise I didn’t ask her a single thing about her man under the covers.

It’s Friday, I drank a lot of wine, I feel rough and I’m late for work – extremely bad since I need a long lunch today for the waxing bonanza.

My hair this morning looks a bit like Tina Turner’s wig. The top layers are so short I can’t even get them into a ponytail. The woman must have gone wild with the thinning scissors at the back where I couldn’t see. And lowlights? Talk about emperor’s new clothes. I try not to cry as I flatten some of it with hairspray, but the back sticks stubbornly up. I look like an ill cockatoo and I have to go.