Never Google Heartbreak (35 page)

‘I’ll just go and check how everything’s going, then,’ I say, and scuttle out.

Back in the bedroom I down more champagne and read the newspaper story again. Am I being dramatic? Could the whole campaign to find Max actually be making things worse? I look at his picture, at his smiling eyes. I don’t know what else to do but try to find him. What if I did nothing and regretted it for the rest of my life?

‘Viv?’ Nana calls through the bathroom door. ‘Would you check if the tables have arrived?’

‘Okay.’ I go back to my room, taking the wheelchair with me. I’ll cover it with roses and ribbons now while she’s safely stuck in the tub.

BLOG TO MAX #4 – NANA’S WEDDING

Days since I saw you: 28

Do you remember when we got pretend married? Admittedly it was after you rolled your first spliff, put the entire packet of grass in and thought the stapler was evil, but I think it could still count. The ring-pull ring? The fish and chip wedding breakfast? The honeymoon day-trip to Stockport? I wish I’d let you kiss me on the ferry now.

So what to tell you? Today I gave Nana away to ‘Reggie from next door’. I’m okay with it – she’s happy. I cried, though, when she made her vows. I think it was when she said, ‘Live all of your days with the certainty of my love.’ That set me off. Don’t you think that’s a beautiful thing to say? Then after the buffet she made a speech about love and made a toast to Granddad and then everyone was crying. There was a little jazz band and coconut cake and all the champagne you could drink. You’d have enjoyed that part. It was a perfect day except for you not being there.

They’re off to Spain in the morning for a few weeks and I asked her to look out for you in case you were there. You’re probably sitting in a café in one of those Spanish squares right now, thinking you look interesting ordering
café solo
in a tiny cup. I bet you’re pretending to read Jean-Paul Sartre. More likely you’ve been forced to sell caricatures of tourists for money.

Anyway, it’s not cool to disappear.

Can you come back? I miss you, Max.

V x

PS: A thousand friends now.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello, Miss Summers?’

‘Yes?’ Christ, what time is it?

‘Hi there, my name’s Ruby North. I’m a researcher for Romance Radio.’

I sit up in bed; it’s light outside. ‘Hi.’

‘We’re interested in your search for Max Kelly.’

‘Oh.’

‘I’ve just read your article in the
Sunday Read
and I think your story would interest our listeners.’ The
Sunday Read
? I scrabble on the bedside table for my phone. It’s eight o’clock in the morning and it’s Sunday. What kind of hot property have I become? ‘Sorry for ringing so early, but I’m sure you’ll get lots of press calls today and I wanted to get in quick and book an interview with you for our station.’

‘An interview?’

‘Yeah, just a few questions about Max – it’s part of a “Lost Love” feature. Have you found Max yet?’

‘No.’

‘Aw, bless you. Would you like to come and tell our listeners about him?’

I feel my heart speeding with adrenaline. I suppose any publicity is good. Radio is good. You can hear radio anywhere. Max might be listening and I could speak directly to him.

‘Okay, yes, please.’

‘Great!’

I take down the details – Romance Radio, Love Lane, Battersea, tomorrow at one, Ruby North – and hang up. Bloody hell! What have I started? I get up and pull on clothes from the floor – jeans and a shirt that Dave has been sleeping on, judging by the cat hairs. I put on my sunglasses and trot out to get the papers.

Ten minutes later I’m back with coffee and a copy of the
Sunday Read
. I take out the magazine supplement and turn to Donna Hayes’s page. The headline reads, ‘What Becomes of the Broken-hearted?’ There’s a little photo of Donna looking windswept and much better-looking than she does in real life. The article runs over two pages and I scan down:

I
t’s a lonely place to be when you find yourself freshly dumped and heartbroken. Friends and family start to glaze over, colleagues avoid you, and invitations dry up. It turns out no one likes misery. So where can you go for solace when it’s been weeks, months or even years and you still can’t think of your ex without sobbing? You can read about it, attend self-esteem courses, even hypnotise that man right out of your hair (see details below). From now on, though, I’ll be directing broken-hearted friends to www.nevergoogleheartbreak.com, a spiritual home for the lost and lonely. You can wallow in the company of fellow dumpees, join thread discussions, read real-life experiences to make your toes curl and tap into ‘top tips’ such as ‘How to tend your lady garden for love’. Guaranteed to make you feel better, the site is less a web address and more a club – and if you did the dumping, ease your guilt by bigging up your ex on the ‘Date my ex’ page. This site is funny, easy to navigate and, most importantly, hopeful.

Pssst! If fairytale romance is your thing, check out site founder Vivienne Summers’s blog to her own lost love, or ‘like’ the ‘Where’s Max?’ group on Facebook – thousands already have . . .

Good for Donna Hayes! She only went and did it, like she said she would. What a total legend. I can’t believe it – my site and my blog in the Sunday papers! I check Facebook. ‘Where’s Max?’ suddenly has 2,000 friends. This is getting huge.

My mobile phone buzzes across the table. Christie.

‘Have you seen the paper?’ I ask.

‘What paper?’

‘The
Sunday Read
. I’m in it! Well, not me, but my site and it mentions “Where’s Max?”’

‘No, haven’t seen it.’

‘Sorry, I thought that’s why you were ringing.’

‘No.’ There’s a long silence; I think she’s been cut off, but then I hear her breathing.

‘So, what can I do for you this fine morning, Christie?’

‘Well, I just wanted to tell you, Nigel’s come up with two designs and printed a few T-shirts.’

‘Great! So he didn’t mind?’

‘No.’ Her voice seems distant.

‘Right, so do we need to choose one?’

‘No.’

I wait for her to explain, and wait. ‘Christie? Are you all right?’

‘Yeah, I’m here . . . Sorry, just painting my toenails.’

‘So about the designs . . . ?’

‘Yeah, Nige did two and I liked one of them, but all his fashion mates have started wearing the other one.’

‘What’s it like?’

‘Oh well, Nige can be such a prat sometimes. He’s only gone and done it in French!’

‘French.’

‘I know! And it’s just words, just “
Où est Max?
” in sort of boxy black capitals on a white T-shirt. I don’t think you’ll like it, Viv . . . The other one had much more to it – it was more fancy and in a language we actually speak in this country! Anyway, Nige is mates with that model – you know, Betty George?’

‘Yeah?’ The crop-haired, impossibly tall, incredibly pouty
model du jour
Betty George?

‘Well, the silly sod gave one to her and she’s been papped wearing it, so we’ll have to go with that design now.’

‘Betty George was photographed wearing an “
Où est Max?
” T-shirt?’

‘Yeah . . . I was just thinking, you didn’t get to okay the design.’

‘It’s genius! Where’s the picture?’

‘In the
Post
.’

‘I’ll call you back.’

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I’m running up the road to get the
Post
. Betty bloody George!

This is crazy! There she is, arm in arm with some other gorgeous human, wearing nothing but a belted T-shirt – and emblazoned across that T-shirt is the name of my love. I have a fleeting uneasy feeling to do with Max’s name being near the breasts of Betty George, but I’m quickly over it. This is so cool it’s unbelievable. I check the Facebook site; it’s up to eleven hundred friends. The blog has a thousand subscribers all of a sudden. I call Christie.

‘I love it, Christie. It couldn’t be better.’

‘French is foreign, you know, Viv.’

‘It adds mystery; it’s amazing. Nigel’s amazing.’

‘Oh, well, if you think it’s okay . . . That’s a relief.’

‘I want one. I want to wear it tomorrow. I’m going on the radio, Christie!’

‘People can’t see you on the radio.’

‘I just want to wear one!’ I want to squeeze her and kiss Nigel.

We arrange to meet at a bar in Smithfield and she says she’ll try to get Nigel to come. I’m excited by this. I’m going to a cool bar in Smithfield to meet an up-and-coming designer. A designer who knows Betty George. God, I wish Max was here! He might be soon with all this publicity . . .

I’m in the grip of a massive clothes crisis. I was thinking black skinny jeans, forgetting my legs look like two parsnips in skinny jeans. Now I can’t find a single thing that is cool enough to meet a fashion designer in. The door buzzes. It can’t be Max. It won’t be Max. Could it be? My heart races. I press the intercom.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi,’ says a male voice.

‘Hello?’ I repeat.

‘Viv, it’s me . . . Rob.’

I release the button. What’s he doing back here? Didn’t I tell him not to darken my door again? The door buzzes. Oh shit! I don’t know what to do. What shall I do? I press the intercom connecting us.

‘Rob, can you bugger off, please? This is not a good time.’

‘Have you got someone up there?’

‘What? No.’

‘Because if you have, I swear I’ll—’

‘What do you want?’

‘I want to see you.’

‘Well, you can’t at the moment.’

‘I have to see you, Viv.’

‘I’m letting go of the button now, Rob. Will you go away?’

‘Don’t—’ he begins, but I lift my finger and he’s gone. Seconds later he begins the buzzing again. I run to the bedroom and try to drown it out by drying my hair. When I think he’s gone, I switch off the dryer and listen. Silence. Thank God. The last thing I need is a scene with Rob.

I decide on a black dress. I step into it and zip up the side, but it looks too boring so I add some leggings. I hold back my hair thinking it might be better tied up today; then the buzzing starts again, this time in a rhythm, like Beethoven. Argh! It’s unbearable. I rush to the intercom.

‘What?’

‘Well, I can’t go without seeing you. I’ve brought you some flowers.’

‘I’m going out.’

‘Just let me give you the flowers.’

‘Did you get them from a petrol station?’

‘No, they’re expensive roses. A dozen. Pink.’

‘And you actually bought those with me in mind, did you?’

‘Oh, come on, Viv!’

‘Well, I’m busy getting ready to go out.’

‘I’ll wait.’

Oh hell. I can’t stop him waiting on the street, can I? ‘It’s up to you. I won’t be ready for ages, though.’

Now I’m hassled. I try to pin my hair up artfully, but it’s too tricky: the top is so short. In the end I leave it messily down. Now shoes . . . Would heels be trying too hard? I go for flat pumps. Flicky liner, lip gloss and I’m ready. I put my phone and purse into a huge green tote that I hope is cool in a Hoxton-type way and try to get a glimpse of Rob from the kitchen window. I can’t see him. Dave jumps onto the kitchen worktop and rubs his tail against my arm.

‘Look, I’ve told you – don’t go on here, okay?’ He head-butts my arm, rubbing his face against my skin and purring. I drag him down and scrape disgusting fish mush from a can into his saucer. He crouches next to it. ‘Right, be good and I’ll see you later.’ I grab my keys and slam the door.

Outside the day is hotter than I’d imagined. I wish I hadn’t bothered with the leggings. I let the building door click shut and Rob immediately steps up with a stunning bouquet.

‘Hello, Viv,’ he says very seriously. As usual he’s devastatingly good-looking, smirking in a ‘forgive me’ way like something from a perfume advert. I should probably throw my arms around him and he’d let the flowers fall to the ground; then there’d be a close-up of the perfume bottle and a flashback to us kissing. The voiceover would say, ‘Forgive: the new fragrance from . . .’

Anyway, none of that happens. What actually happens is we stand there looking at each other and I wonder how I’ll get rid of him.

‘How are you?’ he asks.

‘I’m okay.’

‘Good. That’s good.’

‘Yes.’ I gaze off down the street.

‘These are for you.’

‘I can’t accept them.’

He looks shocked then genuinely sad. ‘Okay. No, that’s . . . I understand.’

I nod and look at my shoes.

‘What have you done to your hair?’

‘I have to go,’ I say, but he holds my arm.

‘No, Viv, don’t.’ I pull away. ‘Can’t you just give me ten minutes? Can’t we go for a coffee or something?’

I have all kinds of righteous thoughts about the times I begged him to see me, and how cold he was. ‘Rob, can you just let go of me?’

He drops my arm. ‘Sorry,’ he says, patting me now. ‘Sorry, sorry.’

‘Okay.’ I make to leave and he tags along.

‘Vivienne, please! We were spending the rest of our lives together; what do ten more minutes matter?’

‘I can’t. I’m busy.’

‘But, Viv,’ he wails. Tears spring to his eyes, stopping me in my tracks. I can’t stand a crying man.

‘Jesus, do not cry!’ I shout at him.

‘I will cry, Viv. I’ll follow you crying if you don’t have a coffee with me!’

We end up in the coffee shop by the tube, him with a skinny latte and me with a cappuccino. He watches me empty two sachets of sugar into mine.

‘So you think you’re in love with Max,’ he says eventually.

‘I am.’

‘What makes him Mr Perfect, then?’

‘Lots of things.’ I consider telling him some of them but think better of it. ‘You don’t want to know.’

‘No,’ he concedes, looking around. ‘You’re in the paper, I see.’

‘Yeah.’ I feel a pop of excitement.

‘I suppose you must really love the bloke to do all that blogging and everything.’

‘I guess so. What’re you doing reading my blog?’

‘I’m not going to sabotage you or anything – I mean, I just wanted to tell you that.’

‘That’s big of you.’

‘Hmm.’ He takes a few good gulps of his drink and wipes off a milk moustache. ‘Do you think he’ll come back?’