Never Google Heartbreak (9 page)

‘I got it! I got it!’ I run a mini lap of honour in front of Rob and I feel a little flutter in my tummy as he grins. I hold the bouquet as if I’m a bride and swagger over to him.

‘That was for you, you know.’ I smile my sexiest smile.

‘Wow, Viv! Very athletic.’ He laughs and hands me a handkerchief. ‘Here – you’re dripping on your prize.’

I look down. Huge red spots fall onto the delicate white roses. I touch my face; my nose is streaming with blood. I hold my head back, pinching it at the bridge. ‘Oh God, my nose is bleeding!’ I turn round. The baying women are silent, staring at me aghast. ‘Er, hello! My nose is bleeding. Can somebody get me some ice?’ I turn back to Rob, but he’s cuddling Sam, laughing and stroking her hair. ‘Hey, you! You bust my nose!’ She glances over her shoulder before Rob leads her away, shielding her with his arm. Max steps into the circle of space that has opened around me and hands me a napkin.

‘Well, that went as well as can be expected,’ he says quietly, and guides me to the door.

1. Sorrow

Goodbye, My Lover – James Blunt*

Nothing Compares 2 U – Sinead O’Connor

I Can’t Make You Love Me – Bonnie Raitt

Ex-Factor – Lauryn Hill

All Out of Love – Air Supply

* Caution: Contents extremely sad

2. Wrath

See Ya – Atomic Kitten

I Never Loved You Anyway – The Corrs

Survivor – Destiny’s Child

I Will Survive – Gloria Gaynor*

Go Your Own Way – Fleetwood Mac

* Enhanced by
mucho vino tinto
and a bit of a dance routine

3. Healing

Sail On – The Commodores

I Can See Clearly Now – Johnny Nash

1,000 Times Goodbye – MegaDeth*

Believe – Cher

Goody Goody – Benny Goodman

* Avoid if at all vengeful

First there’s light poking me in the eyes, then a drilling sound. My tongue’s huge. It’s hotter than hell. I try to shift my body, but there’s piercing pain. My desiccated brain gropes for explanations. I’ve been dragged from a train wreck. I’ve been beaten up and left for dead in a desert. I’m aware of a weight next to me and feel the warmth of a living thing. As I turn my head towards it, a heavy weight slides inside my skull. I squint into the light and I can distinguish the outline of Dave, Max’s cat, in bed with me. Recollections begin to slot into place like cards being dealt – excruciating, full-colour flashbacks.

I slide my hand under the covers. I’m still wearing knickers, also an Arsenal T-shirt. I struggle onto one elbow and my head throbs like a heartbeat. I peer at Dave. He’s sphinx-like. Front paws tucked under. He blinks and turns up the drilling purr. Pea-green curtains send a sickly light over Max’s bedroom. I’ve never been so thirsty in my life. Next to the bed are a bucket, tissues, a pint of orange squash and a packet of paracetamol. I seize the pint glass and drain half the squash. My hands are shaking as I press out two tablets and swallow them down with the rest of it; then I lie down again and close my eyes. Dave is kneading the covers with his claws; I push him and he takes this as an invitation and tries to curl up on my chest, sweeping his feather-duster tail over my nose.

‘Fuck off, Dave!’ I shove him off the bed. He clings on, scrabbling desperately before landing on the grey carpet. Cat hairs set off a sneezing fit and blood clots appear in my hand. The bones of my skull ache, even my teeth. Jesus, I’m seriously ill. I lie back again, trying to dodge pain and not think, but I’ve seen it and there’s no escape. The £1,000 dress lies crumpled across an old armchair, the bodice splattered with blood, the skirt smeared black, the hem singed. On the floor is Jane’s trampled, blood-spotted wedding bouquet. It’s a
Brides of Dracula
costume. Reality hits me like body blows. Wham, I remember Rob’s stunning new girlfriend. Wham, I stood up and made a speech. Wham, wham, the bouquet! Then a knockout blow to the head sends my brain clanging like a pinball . . . HE’S GETTING MARRIED! I feel my heart retreat.

I’m tiny, hopeless, beaten. I stare at an ancient cobweb hanging from the paper shade. I’m searching for a scrap of decorum, perhaps one moment when I wasn’t totally embarrassing, but . . . nothing. I hear the flushing of a toilet. Max taps on the door, then appears, in jeans and a faded T-shirt. I turn my head like a dying person to look at him. He smiles and sits on the bed.

‘Morning.’

‘Help me,’ I whisper.

‘Is it bad?’

‘You wouldn’t let an animal suffer like this.’

He brushes my hair from my forehead. His hand feels cool. ‘Can I get you something to eat?’

‘Urgh. No.’ My eyes are filling up. I look down at my hands.

‘Dry toast or anything?’

I shake my head slowly. ‘The dress is ruined.’ We look over at it.

‘Well, it’ll come in handy for Halloween parties.’

‘And he’s getting married.’ A tear spills.

‘Yeah.’ He lies next to me, lifts my head onto his shoulder, and we stay like that for a few long minutes. I smell pine washing powder. The curtains shift with the breeze from the ill-fitting window. A dog yaps on the street.

‘Did you undress me?’ I ask suddenly.

‘Yeah . . . You passed out.’

‘You took my bra off.’

‘Yes, Viv, I took it off.’

‘But you left my pants on.’

‘Well, I put them back on after I buggered you.’

‘Oh. Nice.’

‘What do you think I did? I put you to bed,’ he laughs.

‘Thanks.’

‘Don’t mention it.’

‘I mean, thanks for everything . . . For looking after me yesterday.’

‘It was nothing.’

‘I made a total arse of myself,’ I groan.

‘No . . .’ He thinks for a minute. ‘Okay, yeah, but in a good way.’

I listen to Max’s strong heart beating like a fist on a door. The paper shade turns clockwise and back again. I’m paralysed and terrified of my own helplessness. I always know what to do – that’s my thing. I just get on with it. Now I’m empty. I’m depending on another person, on Max.

I glance at his face – eyes closed, mouth slightly open, gently snoring. ‘Max!’

He jolts awake. ‘What?’

‘Don’t leave me.’

‘Ah . . . I never will.’ He pats me a little too hard on the head.

‘I mean right now. I’m completely gutted . . . and really, really ill.’ He props himself up on one elbow, looking down at me and frowning.

‘Know this. Laughing boy is not worthy.’ I start to interrupt, but he holds up a finger and presses it over my mouth. ‘Whatever heinously embarrassing things you did – and, let’s face it, there were a few – you still have more grace in one arse cheek than any other girl there. Now say it.’

‘Say what?’

‘Laughing boy is not worthy and I have more grace in one arse cheek than any other girl there.’

‘I’m not saying that.’ But I do.

‘You’re only ill because we drank like whales. What we’ll do is have a huge Sunday dinner at the Eagle and some hair of the dog.’ My stomach lurches; the orange squash rises. Max lies back, lifting my head to rest on his chest.

‘I’m still gutted. You can’t just say, “He’s not worthy.” I can think it with my head, but my heart . . . it’s
bleeding
for him. What’s your answer for that?’

‘Suicide.’ I turn my back to him and curl myself up like a child. He puts his arms around me, speaking close to my ear. ‘In my experience of heartbreak, which is great—’

‘Who broke your heart?’

‘There’ve been many. Most recently, the girl in the café near Ladbroke Grove tube.’

‘What happened?’

‘Saw her with a boyfriend.’

‘You don’t even know her,’ I snort.

‘I still feel pain. You must
feed
the heart with music and poetry and art.’

‘Oh, here we go.’

‘Especially country music. The suffering makes your own situation seem much better. Like, “When you leave me, walk out backwards and I’ll think you’re walking in.”’

‘I don’t believe that’s even a song.’

‘Well, it is. “Loving you makes leaving you easy.” That’s a great one. “Lu-u-ving yooo, why d’you make it so hard to do?”’ he croons.

‘Did you say suicide is the only alternative?’

‘Well, it helps to know that other people have suffered too. You’re not alone.’

‘Have you considered a career in greetings cards?’

‘Sarcastic witch. Are you looking for a Chinese burn?’

I’m smiling. Then I remember about Rob. Each time it comes into my head I start to sift through the evidence, trying to convince myself it’s not real. I just can’t accept it. The man is mine. He doesn’t own any underpants not bought by me, or any pillowcases. I realise it must be a mistake and my heart stops clamouring. Then I picture the ring on Sam’s elegant finger. He
is
getting married – it is true and it won’t go away. I feel my guts squeeze. Max is twirling a strand of my hair round his finger. I shift my position, using his stomach as a pillow and look up at him.

‘He’s getting married in Bali, you know.’

‘Wanker.’

‘He doesn’t even cope well in the heat. When we went to Sicily, he wouldn’t come on any boat trips with me because he needed to lie down between twelve and three.’

‘Weedy wanker.’

‘It’s because he’s worried about skin cancer – even with sunblock, he’s got very soft skin . . .’

Max is looking at me intently.

‘Let me paint your portrait.’

In all the years I’ve known Max he’s wanted to paint me, but I’ve always refused. I felt it would somehow ruin things, be embarrassing. Now, lying here, empty as a drum, on the rise and fall of his breath, I feel like abandoning myself and being completely in his world – and also I’ve nothing to lose.

‘Go on, then.’

He sits up quickly. ‘Really?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Great! That’s great . . . Now?’

‘Okay.’

He’s up and out of the room as if there’s a fire. Then he returns.

‘You all right? D’you want anything?’

‘Tea. A bucket of sweet tea.’

* * *

After a while I follow him out, deliberately avoiding looking at the wreckage of my dress, or in a mirror, and cross the little hallway into his studio. There’s a grey velvet armchair in front of the window. I hear the ting of a spoon in a mug. A virgin canvas waits on an easel. Tubes of acrylic paint are lined up next to a jar of brushes, and some torn cloths give off the sanitary smell of turpentine. The room feels comfortably warm as the morning sun catches swirling dust specks. There’s a pile of artefacts and assorted junk in one corner, and a bicycle leans against the wall, some of his recent work propped up near it. I step over to take a look at a striking dark-haired nude. She’s lying on a sage-green couch, one of her ivory legs bent at the knee and the other stretched out languidly. Her slender arms make a diamond behind her head. Her tiny breasts are rose-tipped, the colour matching her heart-shaped mouth. Dark green eyes gaze lazily ahead. She’s insolent, erotic and breathtaking. I stare at her eyes; there’s such power in them. She makes me ashamed to look. Max enters and stands behind me for a moment. I feel his breath on the back of my neck and step aside. He hands me the tea and I take a sip as we both look at the painting.

‘Who is she?’

‘That’s Lula.’

‘You never mentioned a Lula. There was a Mary-Jane and a Stephanie . . . There was that awful Patti.’

‘Smelly Pat?’

‘Yeah, Smelly Pat but not Lula.’

He smiles and shrugs. ‘She’s just a model who sat for me.’

‘She’s very beautiful. Are you sure you want to paint me, hung-over and wearing your Arsenal T-shirt?’

‘You’re very beautiful. And you can take it off.’

‘No, thanks.’

‘Well, sit down, then.’ He gestures to the grey armchair.

The velvet is warm on the bare skin of my legs. He studies my face for a few moments.

‘Are you comfortable?’ he asks. I nod.

His expression is serious as he sketches; his eyes seem darker. He looks at me as an object, scrutinising the shape of the chair and my body as if he is looking for the first time. As his eyes flit from me to the canvas, the sunlight catches the tips of his dark eyelashes, and his sideburns.

‘Did you know you have a tinge of the ginge in you?’ He doesn’t reply. ‘It’s because you’re a Celtic immigrant, isn’t it?’

‘Hmm. Yeah.’

I can’t get a rise out of him. The warm sun, the smell of paint and the gentle scratching of the pencil are hypnotic. I hold the mug of tea between my palms and watch him working. I feel like I’ve known him for ever. He was evicted from our halls of residence for brewing beer in the wardrobe, and we met when he set up the Poetry Appreciation Society and I was the only other member for six weeks. We held meetings, drinking cheap cider and reciting poems. I once knew Keats’s ‘Ode to Autumn’ by heart, but now I can only remember one of Max’s stupid limericks. I reel it off to him: ‘There was a young lass from Herne Hill, who used dynamite sticks for a thrill. They found her vagina in North Carolina, and bits of her tits in Brazil.’

‘Ah, the Poetry Society. We were so learned.’ He smiles.

An earnest fresher joined the following term: pretty, bespectacled and blighted with pimples that nestled at the sides of her nostrils. This didn’t stop Max seducing her and telling me how she howled like a she-wolf in bed.

‘Remember that girl who joined? What was her name?’

‘Dunno.’

‘You shagged her! The one who did the wolf thing?’

‘Oh yeah. Jane.’ He narrows his eyes, remembering.

‘Janet.’

He’s squirting paint onto the canvas, frowning, and he doesn’t respond. It’s amazing, I suppose, that he and I have always remained just friends. I mean, I love him. He’s my best friend in many ways and I can definitely see his appeal – he’s tall and not bad to look at, but it’s just that I know him too well. And he is filthy. He doesn’t believe in sell-by dates, and he once had cat fleas and
didn’t know
. His idea of gourmet is posh mustard on a ready meal. He thinks fashion is an infringement of human rights. Also, he’s told me too much about all the girls he’s been with and what he’s done with/to them. I know one of his ex-girlfriends still sends him naked pictures of herself and I know he keeps them. On top of that he’s an Artist and permanently skint. I watch him spreading paint onto the canvas. He puts down the knife, lights a cigarette and looks at me.