Never Google Heartbreak (10 page)

‘Mind if I smoke?’

‘I suppose not, as long as you know you’re increasing your chances of getting cancer by fifty per cent with every drag and killing me as well.’

‘That’s the way I like it, baby. I don’t want to live for ever.’ He winks and stands there smiling. I watch the smoke drift into a question mark, curling from his mouth. I look at the red of his bottom lip and suddenly imagine kissing it. I shift myself in the chair.

‘Are we nearly done? My neck’s aching.’

He throws the brushes into a jar and puts the cigarette down in a lid.

‘Yep, done. I think I’ve got the essence of you.’ He stretches both arms above his head, arching his back. His T-shirt rises up and I notice a line of dark hair disappearing beneath his jeans.

‘Can I see it?’

‘No. It’s not finished.’ He takes the canvas off the easel and walks out with it, leaving me sitting there. ‘C’mon. I’ll lend you some clothes. Let’s go to the pub.’

7 July, 06:11

From:
Lucy Bond

To:
Vivienne Summers

Subject: Re:
Ask Lucy

Hey V,

You know we discussed me being the agony aunt on the website? Well, here’s a little sample of my skills!

Dear Lucy,

I recently discovered my boyfriend had been sending texts of a sexual nature to his colleague. When challenged, he said it was ‘just a bit of fun’. I then found out the recipient is a forty-year-old man named Nigel, who I rang, and he seemed really funny and nice.

I’m due to marry my boyfriend next year but now I feel confused. What should I do?

M x

Dear M,

Threesome?

Lucy

It’s Monday morning, muggy and grey with a light drizzle. I’m coming down with something nasty. My throat feels prickly; my eyeballs ache; there’s pressure in my sinuses. I’m wrapped in my blue velour dressing gown, skipping through emails, none of them from Rob. I send a quick message to Lucy: ‘
Lucy, nice advice to “confused about boyfriend” woman. A threesome. The answer to all our ills. Viv.
’

I need to get ready for work so I slope off to the bathroom and run the shower. I pull down my lower eyelids in front of the mirror – I’m definitely anaemic: there’s no colour there at all. Actually, that’s very worrying – how am I not dead? I step into the shower, stand under the drilling needles of water and squirt some fruity shampoo onto my head. It’s supposed to make you orgasmic. I feel sick. I get out, wrap myself in a huge pink bath sheet and crumple onto the toilet, resting my forehead on my palms. Why do I feel so shit? Max and I drank half a bottle of red each in the pub yesterday, but I was sober when I came home around ten and I went straight to bed. I wrap a towel round my hair and go to put the kettle on the gas to boil. As I’m considering what to wear, an email pings:
‘
I know . . . am agony aunt queen x
’

I make tea and try to get dressed, but the effort of putting pants on leaves me exhausted, and now it’s eight fifteen and I’m going to be late. I lie down with my mobile phone and, with a huge wave of relief, decide I can’t go in.

I find a text from Max, sent at midnight. ‘
You’re lovely, you are.’
See, that’s why Max is one of my best friends: he just knows exactly what you need to hear and when. I feel my smile fade, though, as I ring work. I’m amazed when Christie answers.

‘Barnes and Worth gifting, buyers’ department, Christie speaking. How can I help?’

‘Hi, Christie, it’s Viv. You’re in early.’

‘Aw, thanks for noticing, Viv. I’m turning over a new leaf !’ So she won’t be schlepping in at ten and eating breakfast at her desk any more, then. ‘Yeah, I just thought it’s time to concentrate on my career!’ She gives a high little laugh, because this is clearly a joke.

‘Great. Good for you. Listen, I—’

‘Yeah, I mean, after the verbal warning and that, I’ll be honest with you, I thought, Well, fuck it – I’ll just leave! But then, you know, I thought about it over the weekend and I just decided, Christie, what you gotta do is pick yourself up and just keep on trying.’

‘Oh, right. Well, that’s great, Christie. Listen, can you let everyone know I won’t be in today? I have a horrible cold and I’ve got work I can be getting on with here. If anyone needs me, I’ll have my mobile on.’

‘Oh, that’s good.’

‘What is?’

‘That croaky voice you put on then! It’s only me, Viv – you don’t have to pretend you’re ill.’

‘I am ill!’

‘’Course you are.’

‘Actually, I’m anaemic with the beginnings of tonsillitis.’

She does that tinkling giggle again. ‘Aw, okay, Viv. I’ll tell them you’re not coming in.’

‘Good. And there’s that pile of filing next to my desk. Can you make sure that gets done today?’

‘Oh . . . yes.’

‘And can you make sure you get the safety reports on the umbrellas, the African-range beads and the nailcare set written up?’

‘All of them?’

‘Well, you’re in early.’

‘Okay.’

‘That’s all for now. I’ll ring you later with anything else.’

‘Okay. I hope you feel better soon, Viv.’

‘Bye, Christie.’ I hang up on the cheeky minx.

I lie back on the pillows and put on my blackout eye mask. If I could just sleep for a few hours, everything would be better. But even now as I’m concentrating on slowing my breathing, my mind starts the torment. The light is too bright and the head traffic too loud. I get up, dress and hurry to catch the next train to Kent.

Stepping along the wide pavements of this leafy suburb is like stepping back in time. Turning the corner towards Nana’s, I feel like a child. The house stands at the end of a cul-de-sac, spread across the plot like a fat man at the head of a table – pale, shabby and welcoming. I pass a guy pushing a small girl on a new two-wheeler. They glance at me. I remember Granddad holding the saddle of my wobbly bike in exactly that spot, over twenty-five years ago. I crunch onto the gravel driveway of the house, press the bell, peer through the frosted glass of the door and then ring again. I think it’d be more than I could bear if she wasn’t in, but I never thought to ring first. I wait in the cloying heat, feeling my cotton dress begin to stick to my skin. She might be in the garden. I step across windfall apples to peer over the side gate, but I can’t see her. I ring the bell again, this time half convinced she isn’t there; I hold it down for a few seconds. There’s a movement; then the shape of her appears, coming to the door.

As she fiddles with the lock I hear her shout, ‘Hold on a moment, hold on . . .’ Finally she pulls open the door. ‘Oh, Viv! Hello.’ She pulls me towards her. I feel the jutting bones of her shoulders as we embrace. She takes my face in her hands and there’s a light floral scent of hand-cream. ‘What a surprise! We were expecting you yesterday.’ Funny how she still says ‘we’. Granddad passed away two years ago. The morning he died, she took him a cup of tea and chatted to him for half an hour before realising he’d gone.

‘I know. Sorry.’ She smiles, waiting for an explanation, but there isn’t one except me being crap. I wipe my hands over my dress. A beat passes as we stand in the carpeted hallway with the photos, paintings, memories and ghosts.

‘Well, you’re here now. What a treat.’ She searches my face, then puts her hands on my shoulders and pulls me into another hug, releasing me with, ‘Come in. Come in! I love to have you home.’

I follow her downstairs to the kitchen, noticing how she grabs the banister tightly with each step, the tendons of her hands standing out like broken umbrella spokes.

‘I bet you’d love a coffee!’ This way she has of exclaiming a thought like a madwoman used to embarrass me. She’d suddenly stop when we were rushing somewhere and gasp, ‘Oh! So beautiful!’ because she’d seen a spider’s web, or, ‘Let’s have cake!’ when I was concentrating hard on my revision. I think of how ashamed I was to have an old lady collect me from school. I wanted a mum like my friends had, one who wore make-up and high-heeled boots. Every day she’d be there in her kaftan, standing resolutely in the playground even though I’d asked her to wait in the car, and every day I tried to deny her.

The kitchen has a permanent Christmassy, yeasty smell. Dried plants hang from the ceiling above a tiled border of red apples. I slide onto the bench by the huge oak table and gaze out to the garden. The sun is breaking through in patches, highlighting the geranium pots on the patio. Nana whistles softly as she spoons coffee into the machine, an ancient tangle of pipes. It starts up, banging and hissing, eventually yielding perfect cappuccinos. She folds up her blue linen dress around her legs like the edges of an envelope and sits across from me, happily sipping her coffee, leaving the white foam clinging to her upper lip.

‘Oh, Viv, the garden’s been beautiful. Really, those roses have just gone on and on!’

I put down my cup. ‘They’re always gorgeous.’

‘But this year they’ve been . . . exceptional.’ Her face shines. ‘And the fragrance!’ I look to the edge of the garden. The lawn has become straggly, the leaves unraked.

‘Don’t you get lonely here?’

‘Oh dear, is this one of those “it’s time you went into a home” conversations?’

‘’Course not! I was just thinking . . . is this how you imagined things turning out?’

She smiles, tilting her head to one side. ‘I try not to think of how things might turn out.’

‘Don’t you regret anything?’

‘Not really. I think I’ve made peace with myself. I’ve been happy, done my best.’ She scratches at a mark on the table. ‘Why do you ask that?’ She looks into my eyes. ‘Do you have regrets?’

‘Yeah,’ I sigh.

‘Oh! I have ginger biscuits.’ As she rises to get them, I notice stiffness in her movements and feel a flash of irritation. She calls from behind the pantry door, ‘You said on the phone about Rob finding someone else?’

‘Yeah, he has. He’s getting married.’ I rest my chin on my hand to stop it wobbling.

She sits down with a plate of biscuits and looks at me for a while, then speaks carefully: ‘And? How do you feel?’

‘Terrible. Desolate.’

‘Because you want to marry him?’

‘I
was
marrying him . . . nearly three months ago.’

She sighs and looks out to the garden. ‘Oh, there! Did you see that little wren?’ I look up sharply and she puts down her cup and takes my hand. ‘Oh, darling, I know this seems like the end of the world. But it will pass, you’ll see.’ We look into each other’s eyes, mine filling with tears, hers extraordinarily blue and bright. She squeezes my hand tightly and pats it. ‘In time you’ll come to realise just what a cunt he is.’

My breath catches in my throat. ‘Nana!’

‘What? There are a lot of them about.’

‘You can’t say that!’ She looks pleased to get such a reaction. I shake my head at her. ‘I loved him . . . I mean, love him.’

‘Don’t you realise what a beautiful girl you are? How funny and clever and warm? You could have another man in a minute.’

‘But I want him.’

‘I know.’ She wipes foam from the inside of her cup with a finger and licks it. ‘And knowing you, you’ll get him. The question is, then what?’

‘I’ll marry him and have his babies,’ I say quickly.

‘Will you?’ She looks into the distance sadly.

‘Nana, it’s different from when you were young. I’m thirty-two, he’s the only man who’s ever proposed to me, and it’s not like there’s a queue outside my door!’

‘When I was young, you went from being a daughter to a wife to a mother.’ She looks over to a framed photo on the windowsill of her and Granddad as a young couple, sitting on a seaside wall. She’s holding her hair back to stop it blowing over her face. He looks like he’s won first prize. ‘Women have much more choice now.’

‘Choice . . . yeah. It’s not all it’s cracked up to be.’

‘Well, follow your heart, I’d say . . . even into disaster.’ She smiles and stands to clear the cups. ‘And there is a queue, Vivienne; you just can’t see it.’

I wander despondently into the small sitting room off the kitchen. Granddad’s armchair faces the window. A layer of dust dulls the sideboard with the family photos. I pick up one of Granddad and wipe it with my dress. He’s smiling in a panama hat. Below it Nana’s written, ‘Lawrence, 2009’ – the year before he died. There are a few of me aged seven after I was dropped off in my pyjamas, never to be collected. One photo is achingly familiar: my mother as a child. I used to keep it by my bed. I smile at that idea now; I thought loving her more would bring her back. I put the picture down. There are a couple of Mum and me together, a rare one where she’s smiling.

I hear the doorbell and Nana calls, ‘That’ll be Reg! I’ve invited him for lunch.’

Why does this annoy me? I replace the pictures on their dust-free silhouettes and wander back to the kitchen. Reggie appears, clutching a bunch of sweet peas. His solid body seems to clog up the room like over-large furniture. He speaks in a comedy cockney accent. His arrival changes the energy; Nana is chatting and chirruping like a budgie. Suddenly she’s preparing lunch.

‘I’ve a nice bit of ham, Reg.’

‘Lovely! Hello, Viv. All right, love?’ He has the lined face of a lifelong smoker; it crumples as he greets me.

‘Fine, thank you.’ Nana shoots me a look. I sink down at the table.

Reg looks out to the garden. ‘Well, it’s a lovely day for it!’

‘Hmm.’

‘What you doing with yourself today?’

‘Nothing much.’

Nana brings plates to the table. ‘She’s making a surprise visit to her nana, aren’t you, love?’

They exchange a look and then turn to me, smiling, and I realise I’m the gooseberry.

‘Look, Nana, actually it was just a quick hello. I should go.’

‘What? All the way from London!’ Reg laughs.

Nana presses my shoulder as if pushing me down. ‘No! Don’t go, Viv, you’ve only just got here.’

‘I know, but I have things to do, really – and I’ll see you on Sunday.’ I hug her, closing my eyes to avoid looking at Reg. ‘I might even bring Max with me.’

She follows me to the door, looking worried. ‘Oh, but I don’t want you to go!’ She snuggles into me like a little bird; suddenly she’s the child needing nurturing.