Never Google Heartbreak (23 page)

‘I told him he can stay while she moves out.’

‘Ugh. Grim.’

‘That’s what I love about you – you’re so girly, so understanding.’

‘Sorry. Can’t stand the guy. He’s not good for you, babe.’

‘Also I’ve slept with Max.’

‘Fuck!’

‘A couple of times. Three, actually.’

‘Really? You and Max?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, spill – what was he like?’

‘Very good, as it happens.’

‘I knew it! I knew you had it in you.’

‘But now Rob’s back.’

‘Oh please, don’t tell me you’re even thinking about it with Rob.’

‘I don’t know what to do.’

‘Come on, girl, it’s obvious – get rid of Rob. He’s a loser and you’ve always loved Max. Since uni.’

I chew the side of my thumb, thinking how simple she makes it sound. I play with my new diamond. Lucy was always going on about how much Rob earned, saying he was too thick to deserve it. I feel foolish for discussing it with her suddenly.

‘You don’t really know Rob.’

‘I do. He’s a total knob.’

‘Any-wayy . . .’ I change the subject. ‘What about you?’

‘My God! Reuben! He’s blowing my mind.’

‘Really?’

Rob knocks on the door. ‘What’re you doing, babe?’ he shouts.

‘Listen, Luce, can you do lunch tomorrow?’ I whisper.

‘Tell him you’re on the phone!’

‘I’ll call you tomorrow. We’ll do lunch, okay?’

‘Not okay.’ I hear Rob’s footsteps moving away from the door.

‘It’s okay, he’s gone,’ I tell her. ‘Go on, yeah? Reuben . . .’

‘Viv, he’s just the best lover . . .’

‘I’m glad you’re happy. I have to go. Meet me tomorrow?’

In the living room Rob is at the computer, typing. Sensing me there, he quickly shuts down, gets up and puts his arms around me.

‘Who was that?’ he asks, dropping kisses on my neck.

‘Lucy.’

‘You still friends with
her
?’

‘Yes.’

‘She’s a bit of a slag, isn’t she? She came on to me once.’

‘Well, she’s only human. Did you see my website?’ I nod to the computer. He releases me and flops onto the sofa.

‘No. Your website? I was just checking a legal thing.’ He rubs his nose and sighs.

‘Work?’

‘No, Sam thinking she can get her hands on my money,’ he says to the table. ‘If you and I get married, there’d have to be a pre-nup for sure.’ He gazes into space. I lean against the wall, watching him. What does he mean, ‘if’? A minute ago he couldn’t live without me.

‘Aren’t they for celebrities?’

‘They’re for anyone who doesn’t fancy being taken to the fucking cleaners.’

‘Oh.’

He studies me for a second. ‘Come here, you.’ He smiles. I sit beside him and he takes my hands in his palms, cool and smooth. I look at our feet. His cashmere socks with my bargain-basement nail polish. Our roles are so familiar. He’s to be adored, since he has the power, the money and the looks, and I’m supposed to be happy and grateful. I guess this is who I was for five years, and now I’m . . . well, I’m surprised to find I’m not like that. After a while he lifts a strand of hair away from my face. ‘Viv?’

‘Hmm?’

‘Have you . . . been with anyone else?’

‘What, since we split up and you moved in with Sam and were about to marry her?’

He laughs a little but keeps watching me, puppy-eyed, waiting for an answer.

‘What?’ I say.

‘I need to know.’

‘Why?’

‘Just . . . have you?’

‘No, I sat here every night embroidering your name on my underwear.’

He squeezes my fingers. ‘What about Max?’

‘What about him?’ I feel a blush spreading down from my scalp, like I’ve been caught shoplifting.

‘Have you . . . you know, with him?’

I stand up and walk across the room, putting the coffee table between us. ‘I don’t want to talk about this, Rob. I mean, it’s really none of your business.’

‘Well, technically it
is
my business. We’re getting back together, so . . .’

‘We had five years together, you asked me to marry you, then said you weren’t ready for marriage and then got engaged to someone else. Now you say you want to marry me again.’ I stare at him. ‘You’ve bounced my heart around like a balloon. I’m just about coping with you being here. I am not going to discuss who I may or may not have fucked while you were away, all right?’

‘Fair enough.’ He laughs. ‘You must have, though, with an outburst like that!’ I look at his white-toothed smile. He’s reclining, relaxed, legs apart, enjoying himself. He looks me up and down. ‘We are getting back together, though, Viv. You know it and I know it. You never could resist me.’

‘You’re very sure of yourself.’ I pick up a cushion and throw it at him. ‘And I’m glad to see you’re getting comfortable on that sofa, because tonight you’re sleeping there, sunshine.’

1. Thou shalt face up to thy ex and be firm and fair.

2. Thou shalt not use any cheesy one-liners.

3. Thou shalt do it quickly.

4. Thou shalt not let them catch you with someone else.

5. Thou shalt not call. (Thou can’t make it better.)

6. Thou shalt explain thy reasons honestly but shalt not get dragged into discussing the ins and outs . . . again.

7. Thou shalt not have sex for old times’ sake and then break up again.

8. Thou shalt not accept gifts/dinner invitations from someone thou is dumping.

9. Thou shalt not resort to name-calling or shouting, no matter what is said; rather, thou shalt remain calm.

10. Thou shalt not hit anyone with a stiletto.

Wow. Two men want me. I’ve always dreamt of being in exactly this situation. Well, not exactly this situation – my dream involved knights and jousting, or something like that.

It doesn’t feel as good as you might think. I can’t deny there’s a certain thrill about the idea of it, but actually, really? It just feels a bit shit and dishonest and I feel crap and cowardly.

Max sent a text at midnight: ‘
Keep tomorrow night free for me, beautiful. I have a surprise for you. M x
’

God, I must go and see Max. I’ll have to sit him down and explain to him, tell him I just need time to sort myself out. He’ll understand, surely. He’ll be patient.

Rob left a note by the front door this morning: ‘
I’m taking you out tonight. Wear something special.
’

He was long gone this morning before I really woke up. I found his washbag squatting by the sink and a pair of his shoes left like a brand by the door. I thought if he came back, it would be the same as before – better, even – but now I’m questioning whether it can work. It’s not the same and definitely not better; it’s weird.

It’ll just take time to find a new way to be together, I guess. If in fact we’re supposed to be together . . . I think of Max.

I get on the bus to work. London streets whizz by in bursts between stops. The sky is yellow-grey, the air warm and fuggy, like my head. Is there some way I could see both of them this evening? Like meet Rob first, then go and see Max? I call Max, letting it ring, but there’s no answer. The bus trundles on past the green apron of Regent’s Park, the joggers following the yellow pathways, the tourists queuing for the sightseeing bus. We pass the top of Marylebone High Street; I count the Ferraris and think of Rob. We hiss into Baker Street and I get off at the next stop, trotting past Angelo’s, not stopping for coffee – we have a buyers’ meeting first thing – and cross two lanes of traffic to my building. I check my reflection in the dark glass doors – I was going for Audrey Hepburn classic chic, but now I wonder if the neck scarf might be a bit much.

I catch the lift doors as they close, making people inside sigh. A wiry-haired man jabs the ‘close doors’ button as if it discharges banknotes. I glance apologetically around the cramped space and spot Michael. He’s grinning, nodding and chewing gum all at the same time and he’s pressed up to the soft ham-shank arm of Mole. As the lift pings at his floor I notice him squeeze her thigh. He nods at my wondering face as he slides past in a cloud of patchouli and I watch him swagger across the landing before the doors close. I turn to Mole. She smiles; there’s lipstick the colour of congealed blood on her teeth.

‘Hi, Viv. Twelfth floor, isn’t it?’

All eyes turn to me.

‘The meeting? Yes.’

They turn to her.

‘Let’s hope there’s breakfast!’ she booms. I smile and study the lift controls. The light passes slowly through two to ten and the lift empties. It hits twelve and we walk to the meeting together. She’s quick on her surprisingly small feet, stepping daintily in red velvet pumps.

‘So do you know Michael, then?’ I can’t resist.

‘Do you mean in the biblical sense of the word?’ She laughs her tinkling laugh. ‘Yes, as it happens, I do know Michael. Very well, actually. Do you?’

‘A bit.’ I want to gag.

‘Well, he’s certainly worth knowing!’ She laughs again. I get a disturbing mental picture of them locked together, rolling like puppies across a satin bed while something by Barry White plays in the background.

Despite the air conditioning, the meeting room smells of stale bodies. There’s a forlorn trolley with flasks of instant coffee, hot water for tea and a plate of sweaty pastries. Mole makes black coffee with an apricot Danish in her mouth and sits overflowing from a chair at the top of the oval table. She opens a card folder and throws down a pile of printed agendas.

‘Be a love and put these out, would you?’ I put one next to each chair, glancing at the items as I go. First up for discussion is ‘Redundancy’. Better be on the ball today. Christie and Snotty arrive within a minute of each other. Snotty, in a shocking wrap dress covered in tiny yellow stirrups, popsocks with a love-heart pattern and green suede sandals, nods to me. Christie looks cool in a black vest and satin harem pants. She settles next to me, wafting summer flowers.

‘All right?’ she whispers.

I point to the agenda. She pulls a face.

Mole begins. ‘We’ve been asked to draw up a schedule for redundancy. While we are undergoing the ‘reshuffle’, we need to cut costs. This means no more market research or taxis on account or lunches for suppliers. We will cut the range by a third and concentrate on public relations.’

‘Viv, I want you to handle the press. I want something from the range to be featured in all the Sunday supplements and at least three of the glossies.’

‘How are we fixed for freebies?’ I ask. Snotty makes a note, which makes me nervous. ‘I mean, they kind of expect it.’

Mole nods. ‘Do what you have to do to get coverage.’

Snotty underlines something. She places her pen down purposefully and begins to talk through the range item by item, explaining which lines will go. ‘The edible underwear . . . we will go ahead, but not with the ideas already put forward. Viv, we think even though this is Christie’s project, you should oversee it.’

I nod, feeling humiliated for Christie. I glance left but she seems unscathed, writing, ‘Fake tan,’ and, ‘Nail varnish remover,’ on a shopping list.

‘The Scandinavian-print candles are a no,’ Snotty continues, and Christie sits up suddenly and writes on my pad.

‘I ordered ten thousand!’ She draws a worried face next to it.

I feel my chest tighten as I write back,
‘
Did you check the “made by prisoners” issue?’

‘Forgot,’ she replies and draws a sad face.

Oh fuck. I feel the skin on my neck prickle. ‘Cancel it!’ I scribble.

‘I signed it off already!’

I take a deep breath, looking around the meeting room. I look at Snotty and think about the verbal warning. I suddenly feel like laughing. Shall I interrupt her and calmly explain we have fucked up again and now ten thousand unethical candles are on their way to the central warehouse? Speak. Say something.

‘Uh, about the candles . . .’ Snotty looks up over her glasses. ‘I was under the impression that we were going ahead with them, so I think they’re already on order.’ I smile.

‘Then cancel them,’ she snaps.

‘Well, of course we could, it’s just that House of Fraser are doing a great candle offer, so I think we should match them with a candle in our gift range. These are better – and cheaper.’

‘House of Fraser are?’

‘Oh yes,’ Christie pipes up. ‘With glitter and Christmas spices in, and when you burn them, your whole room goes all Christmassy.’

‘Our candles, on the other hand, are chic. They’re minimalist – fitting in with current trends in interior design. I think they’re featuring in
Living Today
’s next issue,’ I lie, but I do know a subeditor at
Living Today
. Snotty looks at her spreadsheet and scribbles something.

‘Okay, we’ll do two thousand and see how they sell through.’

Oh shit – we’re toast.

I look at Mole picking her way through a third pastry. I watch Christie doodling spirals over her notepad. I look out of the window at a square of blue sky. I feel a rush of excitement thinking of Max and remind myself about Rob. Rob, the love of my life, the person I’ve thought about non-stop for months wants to take me out tonight. I will go, of course, but . . . I really would love to see Max. I wonder what his surprise was going to be . . . Snotty drones on, and I try to feel enthusiasm for how we’ll package the leather compacts and which gifts to do in the three-for-two range, but I find myself far away. Choosing what to wear on my date tonight and agonising over who to go with.

Public relations call. I hate them. I have to try and sell a story about our meagre Christmas range. The sauciness of the edible knickers! The fashion-forward accessories! I must not make it seem desperate, even if we are about to go belly up like a stranded whale on High Street beach. I have a list of magazines and contact names and I scan it for people I recognise. I think I know a girl called Donna from the
Sunday Read
. Wasn’t she the one talking weddings with the gorgeous boyfriend at the Valentine’s press party? I’ll call her first.

‘Donna Hayes?’ She takes me by surprise. I expected a machine.