Never Google Heartbreak (7 page)

‘You okay?’

‘No!’

I see close up one of his green-flecked eyes and big nose in profile before the bike leaps forward and accelerates, almost leaving me sitting on the road. I lean into Max to brace myself and stay down until finally we enter side roads and the bike slows. There’s the church! It’s huge, verging on a cathedral. A vintage Jaguar is pulling up outside.

We skid into the driveway and the bike hiccups as Max changes down a gear, drawing the attention of a couple of grey-suited ushers who hover anxiously at the doorway. I struggle down and prise off the helmet as Max kills the engine. I can hear organ music starting up and the door of the Jag is opening. Jane’s dad gets out of the car. He looks so like Hugo it’s almost wrong. Max is quietly getting changed beside the bike. I slide out of the heavy jacket, all damp and dishevelled. I try to smooth out the dress and spot a brown singe in the hem feathers where it’s rested against the hot exhaust pipe.

‘Oh shit. Max, look at my bloody dress!’

‘What?’

‘It’s all burnt on your bloody bike.’

At that moment the bride steps from the Jag. She looks like a beautiful little doll, in a straight-cut sparkly dress that pools behind her as she moves. The wind catches her veil and her three bridesmaids in tastefully mismatched black and white dresses step forward to fuss over it. She holds a bouquet of tightly packed roses, bound with silver ribbon. I feel Max’s hand at the small of my back as he gently pushes me towards the church.

‘Close your mouth – you look like you’re catching flies.’

‘No, the flies are all in my eyes because of your bloody bike!’

We smile at the ushers. I take an order of service and head into the church, feeling bedraggled. The whole congregation turns in anticipation when we step into the aisle. Max gives a little wave and mouths, ‘Hi,’ before we slide into the nearest pew.

‘We got here, didn’t we?’ he whispers through gritted teeth.

I punch him in the leg. I try to arrange my dress a bit and wipe a finger under my eye; it comes away black with eyeliner. I’m wondering if I can get to a toilet and fix myself up before I have to mingle when the organist launches into the ‘Wedding March’ and we rise as the bride enters and steps carefully down the aisle.

She smiles and turns her head from side to side, acknowledging her friends. The sparkles on her dress wink and flash in the sunlight as she walks. I take a moment to inspect Max, all six foot two of him in a midnight-blue suit with a hint of pinstripe, white shirt and thin pink tie. His usually unruly hair is combed back and the curls rest on his collar. He’s shaved too, and he looks . . . really nice. I smile to myself and feel a rush of affection, then the familiar stomach lurch as I begin searching the congregation for Rob. I can’t spot him. I bet he got here in plenty of time and is sitting up at the front.

I fan myself with the order of service, and we stand to sing ‘To Be a Pilgrim’. I glance to my left and in the row next to me is the most exquisite-looking girl I’ve ever seen. She’s like a stick of caramel. Her shiny hair, only a shade deeper golden brown than her skin, is pulled into a casual ponytail. Her simple but expensive shift dress is toffee-coloured, and perfectly tailored to skim over her petite willowy body. Her classy black slingback heels give just the right edge of sexiness. I suddenly feel like a man in drag. She obviously feels me giving her the once-over and turns to me with a breathtaking white smile. Her feline eyes are the clearest, prettiest blue, and she’s hardly wearing make-up. She moves slightly and I catch a glimpse of her partner, and I feel my heart stop in horror. There, standing proudly next to her, singing his little heart out, is my Rob.

I try to breathe through the shock of it and carry on singing, but now I know he’s there, I can only hear his voice.

‘No foes shall stay his might, though he with giants fight . . .’

I feel faint, a mixture of panic and loss making a wave that breaks over me with a cold sweat. I look down at my scorched hem swinging next to her glossy leg. In a few minutes Rob will see me and introduce me to this beauty and I’ll have to smile with my smudged make-up and helmet hair. I can’t do it. I have to get out of here. I turn to Max, interrupting his bellowing baritone, and whisper, ‘I’ve got to go.’

‘What?’

‘Move . . . that way . . . We’re leaving.’

He looks wildly around as if something’s got him by the leg; then he spots the girl and gawps until I dig him in the ribs and hiss, ‘Rob’s right there. That’s his girlfriend!’

I’m leaning on Max with my back to Rob, but it’s like trying to push a bear. A woman in front of us with a feathery hair decoration turns round; the hymn is coming to an end, the organist in the last throes. I’m thumping Max with all my strength.

‘Go! Go!’

I feel a hand on my shoulder. I know it’s Rob. There’s no escape. Oh God, oh God, oh God . . . I suddenly start to laugh as if Max and I are sharing a hilarious joke and turn round, wiping my eyes and saying, ‘Oh!’ like I’m at the end of a belly laugh. Rob stands in a shaft of sunlight; his golden curls shining, his perfect mouth smiling calmly, his blue eyes full of affection.

‘Hello, Vivienne.’

‘Rob, hi!’ I answer a little too hysterically, making the feathered headdress woman’s husband turn round and glare.

‘How are you?’ he whispers.

‘I’m well!’

The girl switches her perfect gaze from him to me. He catches hold of her hand, and sees me notice.

‘This is Sam.’ He’s like a cat presenting me with a dead bird. Look what I’ve got!

‘Hi, Sam.’ I smile and she smiles, then frowns as Rob introduces me.

Thankfully the organist starts up with the intro to ‘Lord of All Hopefulness’ and I’m spared the excruciating explanations. I feel her eyes looking me over and every inch of me cringes. She moves much closer to Rob. They’re practically having sex, sharing the one hymn-book. I’m glued to the spot, unable to sing, thoughts madly circling. I’m totally winded and for the rest of the service I can’t bear to look to my left. I’m desperate for this to be over.

The bride and groom seem to be in slow motion as they walk down the aisle as a married couple. Jane smiles as she passes and I get the feeling I’m on a shipwreck and she’s rowing away in the last of the lifeboats. I’m leaning heavily on Max and he suddenly gives way; we stumble into the aisle and scramble out into the friendly light of the July afternoon, as if tumbling from the mouth of a whale.

I’m breathing in sobs and pushing Max forward; we scarper round the corner until I find a cool wall to lean on, out of sight. I put a hand over my eyes.

‘Oh Jesus! Oh my God!’

‘I think you’re supposed to say that kind of thing inside the church.’

‘I can’t do this. I really thought I could . . . but I can’t.’

I try to breathe, listening to the sparrows fussing in the trees behind us and the chatter of wedding guests. Random exclamations like ‘Lovely!’ and ‘Oh, I know!’ flute into the air. My eyes fill up. A tear drops and soaks into the dusty pavement, sending a line of ants into panic. I see Max moving little piles of gravel with the toe of his shoe. I look up, shielding my eyes.

‘What am I going to do?’

He smiles and reaches out his hand. ‘Come on, my soggy friend. There’s a pub. Let’s go.’

The Laughing Monk is a refuge for lone men in bad jumpers. A couple of them look up in mild surprise as we enter arm in arm and take up stools at the bar. A television screen shows horseracing with the volume down. The gaunt, unhappy barman looks expectantly at us rather than bothering to speak. I order.

‘Two large tequila and Cokes, please.’

‘And two whisky chasers,’ adds Max.

The barman sets down the drinks in grubby glasses without ice and takes the twenty pounds I offer. He brings a couple of coins for change, all without breathing a word.

I down the whisky; its warmth explodes in my stomach.

Max sips his with narrowed eyes.

‘Was it that bad, seeing him again?’

I think about this question. ‘Bad’ doesn’t begin to cover it. This Sam girl is a disaster. I look down at myself; the magical dress now seems more fancy dress than cutting edge.

‘Max, what do I look like?’

He finishes his whisky, looks me over and considers. ‘You look like . . . a lovely bit of coconut ice.’

‘You see, that’s not the look I was going for.’

‘Okay . . . a beautiful marshmallow.’

‘Forget it.’

‘No, really, Viv, you look gorgeous.’

‘Did you get a look at Rob’s girlfriend?’

‘Yeah, she was all right.’

‘She’s stunning. He’s obviously in love.’ My eyes fill up with the shock of saying it. I take a long swig of tequila.

‘He didn’t hang about, then.’

‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you, with a girl like her?’

‘She’s not all
that
, Viv.’

I let out a sob and both nostrils fill up. I sniff and down the drink, slamming the glass on the bar. ‘God, I feel so
stupid
! I mean, there was I, thinking all it would take was a nice dress and a bit of slap and I’d get him back. It isn’t even a nice dress! I look like a fat fairy next to her.’

A man in a knitted tank top looks up from his paper. I know I’m wailing and this is nearly all the excitement they can bear in the Laughing Monk, but I don’t care. Max orders two more large tequila and Cokes. Through the window I can see the church, and a photographer striding about arranging the congregation for photos. A few women in hats are already wandering across the green towards the hotel and the champagne reception.

‘Viv, what are you on about – “fat fairy”? You make me laugh sometimes.’

‘I don’t know . . . I just want him back.’ I slump miserably on the bar. Max puts his arm around my shoulders, speaking into my ear like he’s pep-talking a boxer.

‘Well, if you do – though God only knows why – he’s right over there. That girl’s no match for you. You’re cool and sexy; she’s . . . well, she’s plastic and corporate. She might be pretty, but you . . . you’re the real thing.’

I remain slumped. He nudges my elbow. ‘C’mon, Viv, she can’t hold a candle to you.’

‘Really?’

‘Really. Now, let’s get one more round in and then we’ll go and show them!’

By the time we leave the pub we’ve introduced ourselves to all the punters and made them aware of our cause. They’ve agreed that I’m very, very attractive and one man – Norman, I think his name was – said he couldn’t imagine anyone nicer than me. So, buoyed by those honeyed words, we hit the reception.

1. No fighting.

2. No stealing cutlery.

3. No giving impromptu speeches.

4. No sex in the toilets.

5. No heckling.

6. No histrionics.

7. No pole-, line- or break-dancing.

8. No getting dangerously smashed.

9. No unauthorised singing.

10. No talking, texting or Tweeting during the speeches.

11. No posting ugly pictures of the bride on Facebook.

12. No pets.

13. No children (unless a bouncy castle is provided).

14. No adults on the bouncy castle.

‘Ready?’ asks Max, holding the doorknobs to the reception venue in both hands.

‘Never been readier!’ I shriek, and he goes to throw them open. Unfortunately we’re at the wrong entrance and are directed round the corner by a helpful waitress. We slip into the throng unnoticed.

Max grabs two half-glasses of champagne from a passing tray, necks one and replaces the empty flute with a full one. I do the same. I’m feeling so much better! I look around at the chattering guests but can’t see Rob. The hotel is old-fashioned grand, all panelled walls and brocade curtains. The champagne reception is in the grand entrance hall, where the walls are hung with portraits; eighteenth-century VIPs with no eyebrows and staring eyes. From the centre of the room a
Gone with the Wind
-style staircase rises.

Suddenly a kilted man appears at the top of them, holding bagpipes, and begins to play ‘Wild Mountain Thyme’ as he steps slowly down. Behind him come Jane and Hugo and, oh my God, Hugo is wearing a kilt! The bottle-green tartan rests above his fat knees, below which are thick white socks, tied round the tops with string and feathers. His calves bulge like piano legs. Jane has removed her veil and wears a twinkling tiara. They smile and make their way down to enthusiastic whistling and applause.

Max is shouting, ‘Is he Scottish? I didn’t know he was a Scot!’

They cut through the cheering guests like celebrities, complete with snapping photographer, and disappear through the huge double doors to the side of the hall. I step back and lean on a decorative radiator cover, feeling a little dizzy; these heels are too high. They are what Lucy would call ‘sit-down shoes’. The lone piper appears again at the doorway, finishes the tune with a discordant squeal and lowers his bagpipes to make an announcement.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, will you please make your way to the dining room for the wedding breakfast?’

Max links my arm with his and strides forward. ‘Jesus, yes! I’m starving.’ He pulls me across the rose-patterned carpet and the room seems to tilt. One of Hugo’s jovial brothers has been squeezed into a suit and stands by the table plan; we give him our names and he guides us to our table. Max shakes his hand vigorously, saying, ‘You must be very proud.’

The round guests’ tables are arranged in a semicircle to get the best view of the top table. Ours is out on the edge and I feel momentarily hurt by this – I thought Jane and I had become close, but I suppose we met through Hugo and Rob playing rugby together, so I guess Rob’s the ‘one’. The entire room sparkles in silver and white, with two swan ice sculptures glistening at either end of it. The ceiling is strung with pearly balloons dangling silver ribbons. The white linen tablecloths are scattered with tiny silver sequins, miniature bottles of bubbles and party poppers. On every table stands a crystal vase of blousy white roses. The place settings are amazing, with elaborately folded napkins and gifts for the guests wrapped in glittery paper. On the back of the chairs, rosebud name cards are daintily attached with tinsel. As I walk to my seat I notice the table across from me, which bears the names Rob and Sam. They’ll be sitting directly in my eye-line, then. I feel the euphoric booze bubble evaporate, leaving something sour in its place. I sink into my seat as my stomach tightens and twists. Max is introducing himself to everyone. A goat-eyed woman named Dawn is delighted with him, tinkling with laughter at his every word while her pinched-faced husband fiddles with his napkin. I pull Max’s trouser leg and he sits down, finishing his amusing anecdote: ‘So I said, it’s Tipperary or bust!’ The whole table, except pinched-faced husband, laughs hysterically.