Never Google Heartbreak (36 page)

‘Dunno. Hope so.’

‘You know I could start a big media campaign to get you back,’ he says.

‘You won’t, though.’

‘No,’ he admits. I smile and so does he and it feels really grown-up to be able to sit together like this after everything that’s happened. I suddenly come over all magnanimous, taking his hand and giving it a little squeeze.

‘You’ll be all right, Rob.’

‘Oh yeah,
I
will. But
you’re
probably going to end up alone. Want to know why?’

‘Tell me.’

‘You don’t know what you want.’ I finish my coffee so he can’t see me smiling. ‘But what I’m willing to do is offer an opportunity to you now,’ he says. ‘I’m willing to wait for you for a month or so while you mess about with this Max thing, but after that, Viv, I’m going to have to move on.’

‘Okay, Rob.’ I stand and put my bag on my shoulder. ‘Well, I have to go now. Please don’t wait a month for me. I’m not wasting another minute on you.’

‘I’m not taking that as your final answer,’ he says as I pass the back of his chair. ‘You’re probably pre-menstrual or something, low on oestrogen!’ I walk towards the door. ‘Think about what I said!’ he calls.

‘Bye, Rob.’

As I pass the window I glance in at him: an inordinately good-looking man with a bunch of roses already scrolling through his phone numbers for his next victim. I can’t help feeling a little pang of affection. To think he was the reason for so much heartache. To think he could be the reason I’ve lost my best friend and the love of my life. But I won’t let that happen. I head underground and board the tube to Farringdon.

I arranged to meet Christie in a bar near Smithfield meat market and here I am outside the huge decorative half pipe entrance. This is one of London’s real old trading places. It actually is a market where they sell meat every day. It’s closed now but the evidence is around – pigeons picking at a flabby scrap, a rosy puddle by the drain, a stray eyeball coming to rest by my shoe. Okay I imagined the eyeball. The street ahead is windy and deserted like an after hours film set. There’s a feeling of having missed the party. I search for a bar along the low line of buildings opposite and spot Christie sitting in a square of window under a corrugated-iron sheet on which the word ‘zoo’ has been daubed in pink. I cross the road and push at the studded door. Inside everything is painted black even the concrete floor. There are huge tables and benches with black plastic upholstery, some of it ripped. One wall appears to be covered in graffiti, but actually I see it’s a menu with things like egg and chips and bacon butties. Fluorescent lights along the skirting boards cast fingers of shadow, and clubby chill out music washes in a calm, after party feeling. An enthusiastic waitress in dungarees with one of the legs rolled up greets me.

‘I’m meeting friends,’ I enjoy saying as Christie waves.

At the table Christie stands to air kiss, and I see she’s wearing some sort of romper suit of snow-washed denim and shiny pink high-top trainers. Her head is bandaged in black and her white-blonde hair pokes from the top like a yucca.

‘Viv. What ever you do don’t mention the dress he lent you,’ she gasps in my ear. I look over her shoulder at Nigel. He smiles and raises his hand in a kind of wave. Christie makes the introductions: ‘This is Nige; Nige, Viv.’

‘Pleased to meet you.’ I say keenly. I must say he’s not what I expected at all. He’s scruffy in an Iron Maiden T-shirt and pinstripe trousers that look like they came from an old Oxfam suit. His sandy hair is close-cropped, I guess in an effort to disguise the receding hairline, and he’s wearing wire-rimmed circular glasses. I realise I have no idea. I am in no way cool. I don’t get it and suddenly feel naked because I’ve tried to look nice. I’ve tried to match stuff and no, it’s all wrong. I mustn’t let Nigel know what a mainstream geek I am.

‘Drink?’ He asks. I glance at their glasses filled with something red. What could that be? A red drink on a Sunday morning?

‘Bloody Mary, please.’ I smile, sitting between them.

‘Retro,’ he says rolling the r. I look to Christie for guidance, noticing her white mascara and glitter lipstick. She’s smiling encouragingly.

‘I hope I’m not late,’ I say. Nigel shakes his head. I look from one to the other: it’s as if he’s watching a very compelling soap opera and she’s his adoring girlfriend. I order my own drink when the waitress comes.

‘More watermelon juice?’ she asks Nigel, but he declines with a shake of his hand. We sit in silence. Christie smiles and shrugs my way. Should I take charge? Are they sitting here wondering why I asked to meet?

‘So . . .’ I begin. They both turn to me mildly surprised. ‘Nigel. I’m so thrilled that you agreed to design something for us. I’ve seen the papers this morning and I love what you’ve done. It’s really, well, it’s genius.’ Nigel has turned his ear to me and is slowly nodding. There’s another pause. ‘Can I see a T-shirt?’

‘For sure,’ he reaches into a rucksack and lays a white shirt over the table. The big capitals cover the front. I touch Max’s name.

‘I love it,’ I say sincerely.

‘Yeah, as a brand I think it’s got legs,’ Nigel replies. He takes other stuff out of the bag, laying a sweatband and a cap with the same logo out on the table too.

‘A brand?’

‘I’m thinking a lot of different merchandise. The logo’s really visual, it’s strong.’

‘Imagine that, Viv – “
Où est Max?
” everywhere!’ Christie sounds excited.

‘I’m seeing it . . . but what about when he comes back? The search would be off and how would that work then? I mean, if you’re thinking of building a whole brand?’

‘This is rooted in reality, but not linked to a specific person,’ says Nigel.

‘Except it is, because it has his name on,’ I point out.

‘The name is universal.’

‘Oh.’

‘It can be multidirectional. It can mean the ultimate, as in “where is the max?”’

‘But it says “Where is Max?”, though – the person, Max.’

‘In capitals. People can bring their own meaning to it. It’s not necessarily about your friend, except that it is for you. It’s actually in and of itself.’ To be honest, I don’t know what the hell he’s on about and I’m feeling a little out of control. I have a gulp of Bloody Mary. Why did I order this? I hate tomato juice.

‘Hmmm, right. What do you think, Christie?’ I ask.

‘I hear what you’re saying, Viv. I do. But I love the existentialist nature,’ she replies dreamily.

‘Oh, you do? Could you explain that to me?’

‘Not right now, Viv.’ She shoots me a look.

‘I mean, I love the design. Thank you for designing it.’ Nigel nods. ‘Can I take one?’ I pick up the T-shirt.

‘Sure,’ he says.

‘I think it’s great. Amazing that Betty George wore one!’ Don’t gush. Don’t gush.

‘Cool.’ Nigel nods.

‘It is about finding Max, though,’ I persist.

‘Sure thing.’ He smiles. What does this mean, then? Another silence falls over us all.

‘Hmmm,’ says Christie, grinning away. I look at Nigel, waiting for him to explain.

‘Did you design Christie’s outfit today?’ I ask, just to say something.

‘No. What are you channelling today, Christie? Eighties fitness?’

‘Eighties fitness meets space,’ she explains.

‘Cool,’ he says.

‘So is Betty George your friend, then?’ I feel compelled to ask.

‘‘She’s such a stupid cow.’ He says and turns to me and laughs. Christie laughs too and so do I and we are all laughing at nothing.

‘Any how . . .’ I say, ‘Yesss,’ I’m making a total arse of myself and I don’t even know how I’m doing it. Is he über-cool and therefore I’m not worthy? Or is he just up himself and a bit rude?

‘So, Top Shop placed an initial order of one thousand shirts,’ fires Nigel. ‘But they want exclusivity. You okay with that?’

‘Okay? Of course!’

‘I won’t charge you for my design, so I take all the risk, and profits.’

‘That seems . . . okay I think. Is that okay?’ I frown over at Christie.

‘See if the whole thing bombs Viv, then Nige’s reputation could be damaged,’ she explains. ‘So I said, didn’t I Nige? I said, Viv won’t be interested in money. She’s all about love.’

And so speaks my business partner. Oh this is tricky territory. I’ve heard about legal wrangles over this sort of stuff.

‘Well I am looking for my love yes. But I do need money!’ I laugh. They don’t. ‘I mean, don’t we all?’

‘Hmm’ says Christie, looking at Nige who’s bumping a clenched hand against his chin.

‘I know it’s your design Nige, but it was my idea. So . . .’ I begin. He turns to scrutinise me, his little eyes bright and clever.

‘I can pay you a fee for the idea if you like, a one off. We’ll work something out,’ he says casually.

‘You do owe Nige money,’ interrupts Christie, pointedly widening her eyes, ‘for the feather dress you wrecked I mean.’

‘The one we weren’t going to mention?’ God who’s side is she on?

‘How about this, I’ll take all the profits for the “
Ou est Max?
” brand, and you keep the dress,’ offers Nigel.

‘I don’t have the dress, it’s ruined.’

‘How about you make her another dress?’ says Christie.

Nigel sighs and throws himself back in the chair.

‘I don’t need another dress Christie . . . I mean how big will the Max brand become? I’m sure you’re not ripping me off but . . .’

‘Okay,’ says Nigel, ‘final offer. I will make you one couture dress of your choice and get you both front row tickets to my show in London Fashion week.’

Christie looks at me longingly, probably already imagining us at the show. She nods slowly, looking into my eyes with a ‘watch this’ glint in her eye.

‘And we would want all-we-can-drink champagne at the show,’ she says triumphantly.

Nigel agrees, and the deal is done. I leave, confident I’ve just been fleeced. But I can only worry about so much.

Later when I’m settled on the train I peek into the bag at the T-shirt. I look at Max’s name and although I’m excited about the whole Top Shop deal, I feel a tiny point of doubt. I wonder have I overexposed myself? What will Max think? Have I sold us down the river? Turned our love into some sort of circus to add insult to injury? I shake that thought away and concentrate fully on the original goal. The main thing is that I find Max. And I have to find him, don’t I? I have to do whatever it takes.

BLOG TO MAX #5 – WE’RE FAMOUS

Days since I last saw you: 29

I guess everyone loves a romance. Things have gone crazy. There will soon be T-shirts for sale with your name on. You’re fast becoming a brand that will take over the world! Nha nha ha!

It might be a bit out of hand, actually – everyone’s after you. It’s in the paper. I’m going on Romance Radio tomorrow. Me! On Romance Radio – the Stuart Hill show.

What would be really great is if you could ring up while I’m on and ask me to marry you. I’d say yes. We’d probably have to get married on TV or something, though, that could be naff.

What would be really awful is if you never came back. I’d be the sad girl who publicly didn’t find her man. Also, I’d be alone for ever because you are the only one for me. I didn’t betray you, Max, and this would all be worth it if I just knew that you knew that.

I won’t tell you about the Facebook page any more. I don’t want to freak you out.

V x

‘You’re listening to Stuart Hill on Romance Radio 101 FM. I’m here with Vivienne Summers, who’ll shortly be telling us about her search for a lost love. That’s right after Michael Bublé and “Haven’t Met You Yet” . . .’

Stuart Hill takes off his headphones and rests an elbow on the bank of switches between us. He sounds all right on the radio, but in real life I think he might be a bit insane, like a weird Willy Wonka of the airwaves. I’m sitting here in my ‘
Où est Max?
’ T-shirt, wondering at the place. The studio is a bit run-down, with fading posters of eighties pop acts like Belinda Carlisle and Debbie Gibson. It smells of old food and farts, and it’s a million miles away from the sleek media pod I’d imagined, but still I feel really overexcited. I hope I’m going to come across okay; usually I hate my voice on videos – I always sound a bit slow.

‘Are you ready, you lovestruck young fool?’ asks Stuart, his eyes a-pop. I wonder if he’s on something. ‘After this track, my darling, you put the headphones on and I’ll fire the questions!’ He flashes a Cat in the Hat-style grin. ‘Okay?’

‘Okay!’ I say, matching his enthusiasm.

He looks at me intently for a moment. ‘Have you set your pretty little heart on this Max fella-me-lad, then?’

‘Yes, I—’

‘You think he’ll just come running, then, do you? Well, good on ya!’ I start to say something, but he holds up a hand and slides on the headphones.

‘I’m Stuart Hill and I’m here with a charming young lady, Vivienne Summers. Hello, Vivienne.’

‘Hi, Stuart!’

‘Now, Viv, you’re looking for a lost love, are you not?’

‘Yes I am, Stuart. I’m looking for my friend, and the love of my life. His name’s . . . Shall I say his name?’

‘I should say so.’

‘It’s Max. Max Kelly.’

‘Oh, I know him – I saw him in the pub just now.’

‘What?’

‘Only joking, my darling. Go on, go on.’

‘Well, I’m trying to find him and I started this Facebook group called “Where’s Max?”’

‘And it’s gone bonkers, hasn’t it?’

‘Yes.’ I laugh.

‘Right, and what makes you think this Max Kelly wants to be found?’

‘Well, we were just getting together and he said he loved me, so I’m hoping when he finds out how much I love him, he’ll realise we—’

‘You love him?’

‘Absolutely. Completely. So much.’

‘What does it feel like?’

‘It feels great. It would feel even better if he was actually here.’

‘Is it like flying without wings?’

‘Flying without wings?’

‘Does he complete you?’

‘Yes, I guess he does – well, if we were together he would!’

‘I see your quest has been in a couple of newspapers and you’re wearing one of the campaign T-shirts today. What have you got there emblazoned across your chest?’