Never Google Heartbreak (12 page)

Suddenly it seems more important than anything else. I decide I’ll nip down and see Creepy Michael in IT about setting up websites. I know he still fancies me since the Hawaiian-themed Christmas party. We won the limbo competition together despite me being nearly a foot taller. I tell Christie I have a meeting and take the lift down to the IT department. The lift door opens and I read the printed sign.

IT Department.

Before you enter, try switching your machine off and on again.

I use my pass to open the door and a wall of air conditioning hits me. There are three rows of desks: first row, help desks, who log your complaint and tell you they’ll get back to you Tuesday; second row, maintenance, who’ll turn up and plug all your wires back into the sockets, or remove your machine without a word; and third row, hardcore techies, who have their own language and culture. I approach the third row, spotting Michael’s glasses glinting in the light of his screen. From the bottom of his chin he seems to have cultivated a rat-tail beard, twisted it and threaded it on a bead. It’s the only indicator that he’s from the dark side, otherwise he blends with the average, wearing a slightly shiny pale grey suit and sensible shoes.

‘Hi, Michael.’

He glances my way, then holds up a hand in a kind of stop sign. He continues his feverish tapping of the keyboard. I watch his small, thin fingers working at speed, a long yellow nail on each little finger, and think of rodents scrabbling in dust. I’m left standing awkwardly waiting.

A bony bloke at the next desk, all in purple with a sparse sandy ponytail, speaks to someone behind him. ‘If the veidtsjf system klkafjalkdf is nalkdjal, do we wothg or buyvts?’

It’s tomb cold in here and dark like some huge holding tank, smelling of patchouli, stale farts and dusty electricity. No one looks away from their screens for longer than a few seconds. Suddenly Michael pops up.

‘Sorry, Viv, can’t leave these things. What can I do you for?’

He’s one of those blokes who can’t stop moving. If he’s sitting down, he jiggles his legs or raps his fingers. Standing up, he rocks from side to side or bounces. I explain about my website and give him the notes. He reads through them, shaking and tapping a pen against his teeth.

‘Yeah, it could work.’

‘Well . . . I was wondering if you could create a site for me?’

‘Well, I could.’

‘Okay . . . would you?’

‘That would depend.’

‘On?’

‘What’s in it for me.’

‘Right! What would you want?’

His furtive little eyes dart to my face. ‘Well, I’d have to build quite a few layers in there. It’s not something I could do using a template.’

‘Oh, I see.’

He looks down at the notes and his juddering legs make the desk vibrate. ‘I mean, you’d need a lot of pages and links building in. All that takes time.’

He seesaws the pen on his fingers, making a tap-tappety-tap rhythm. I feel my energy draining, like water from a bag. I’m the fairground goldfish left gasping inside.

‘So, will you do it for me?’

‘Well, I’d want something in return.’ He leans back in his chair and smiles without showing any teeth.

‘Right . . . well, name it.’ I give a high little laugh.

‘Dinner. With you. You pay; I choose the venue.’

I’m not sure how much it costs to design and build a website, but I’m guessing it’s thousands, or at least a lot more than dinner with Michael will cost, financially or personally. I feel like I’m swallowing a toad, but I agree.

‘So when will I see something?’

‘Next week . . . and you pay on completion.’

I decide to worry about it then. ‘Great! Thanks so much.’

He looks pleased and licks his lips, his tongue darting out like an eel from a hole. I back away.

‘Bye bye, Vivienne.’ He waggles his fingers and I turn to leave.

Before I round the corner, I glance back and he waves again with a smile. I scarper to the lift, stabbing the ‘up’ button as if my life depended on it, a creeping horror rising up my back as if I’ve just lifted a rock and glimpsed the scurrying egg-white bodies of a million underworld creatures.

I shudder as I surface into my grey strip-lit department. Christie is giggling on the phone and she hands me a Post-it message. ‘Viv! Snotty is looking for you
.
’ She’s made the ‘o’s of ‘looking’ into eyes with lashes. Why was Snotty looking for me? She’d never normally come in person. I stand over Christie’s desk, miming hanging up the phone, and she starts to wind down the conversation.

‘Aw, listen I have to go – boss breathing down my neck and all that . . . No, not the one with the wonky mouth.’ Her eyes flick to my face. ‘Oh yeah, that one! All right then . . .
Ciao
for now . . . Yes, see you soon, lots of kisses . . . bye . . . bye. No, you go first!’ I press down the button, cutting her off.

‘Who was that?’

‘You know, that Stuart from Printech.’ As she gazes up at me I wonder how she keeps the porn star lip gloss in place. She taps a finger to the side of her nose. ‘It’s not what you know, it’s who you know in this business.’

‘Is it? Well, you seem to know “Stuart from Printech” very well indeed.’

She gazes into space, lost in memory. ‘Yeah . . .’

‘Christie! What did Snotty say?’

‘Oh. She said, “Where’s Viv?” and I said, “In a meeting,” and she goes, “Who with?” and I said, “I don’t know,” and she goes, “Check her calendar,” so I did and you weren’t down for a meeting, so she said to tell you she was looking for you.’

‘Oh fuck.’ I check my emails; there’s nothing from Snotty and, I note, nothing from Rob either. I’ll just tell her I was having technical problems and had to pop down to IT. That’s true, really . . . kind of. I feel jumpy as I call her direct line. I know she’s on my case at the moment; after Christie’s warning she seems to be watching my every move. I get her answerphone, so I leave a breezy message.

We spend the rest of the morning speaking to suppliers, ordering samples and putting together costs. We’re thinking of going with red leather compacts, leopard- and zebra-print scarves, and strings of ethnic beads. Then there are scented Christmas candles with Scandinavian folk patterns, clutch bags with tiger stripes, and mini chocolate fondue kits with marshmallows. I realise as Christie leaves for lunch that I haven’t thought about Rob for two whole hours.

It’s so hot that the lining of my dress sticks to my skin as I lean over a board, arranging photos. We’ll present ideas to the head buyers on Monday. It won’t be only Snotty this time but Mole as well, who’s as impenetrable as a tank. I must warn Christie not to speak – if they smell blood, we’ll be savaged.

I meet Lucy in Noodles Quick! near Bond Street. She looks office sexy in a simple white blouse and grey pencil skirt. We share a bench table with some braying tight-trousered young suits. Lucy orders a bowl of pale broth with sea creatures floating among the noodles like some macabre aquarium. I choose a dish called chick-a-doodle; fried noodles and chicken arrive in seconds. She eats with chopsticks, slurping loudly, her head low over the bowl. I pick at my chicken, wondering how to tell her about meeting Rob on Friday. Also, I want to show her the photo I’ve retrieved from the bin and have her analyse Sam.

I have to shout above the din. ‘So, who was under your covers the other day?’

She frowns, sucking up a couple of stray noodles. ‘What? Under my covers?’

‘Yeah, you couldn’t talk because of him.’

She’s momentarily confused and then it dawns on her. ‘Oh yes. Reuben,’ she says dreamily.

‘You never mentioned him before. What’s he like?’

‘Short. Columbian. Amazing in bed.’

I can’t help admiring Lucy – she insists that all men she takes home give her at least one orgasm, and if they don’t, she kicks them out. ‘So . . . will you see him again?’

‘Of course. We’re fuck buddies.’ She smiles goofily and stands up to get some napkins. Her perfect body doesn’t go unnoticed. The suits fall into awed silence as she skims past. She hands me a napkin and sits down again.

‘So the only reason you see Reuben is to—’

‘Fuck. Yes.’

‘So you don’t eat dinner, you just—’

‘We fuck.’

‘But do you, like, talk or anything?’

‘Not really. We just fuck.’

‘All right! Stop saying “fuck”. People are staring.’

‘So?’ She downs her glass of white wine. ‘Sorry, love, it’s a bit rushed. I have to go in a minute.’ I push my plate away and she asks for the bill. ‘How are things with you? Are you over the wedding?’

‘I’ll never get over it as long as I live, and I’m seeing Rob on Friday.’

‘Okay, so . . . let me try to work this out – are you one of those crazy women who actually get off on hurting themselves?’

‘God! Maybe,’ I say, making a shocked face.

She shakes her head. The bill arrives and she puts it on expenses. We step out into the quiet of the street and she hugs me; her hair smells like cocoa butter. She speaks close to my ear: ‘Listen, I love you and I don’t want you hurt, that’s all.’

‘I know.’ We stand holding each other’s hands like lovers at an airport. Then I take out the picture. ‘Want to see my competition?’ She frowns briefly at the paper and hands it back. ‘What do you think?’

‘Very nice. Why do you care? You’re walking around with a picture of your ex-boyfriend and his new fiancée.’ She looks into my face with such pity. ‘Let it go, Viv. This will make you ill.’ We hug again and she kisses my cheek. ‘Let’s go clubbing soon. We need a night out.’ With that she trots across the road, raising her hand to wave and disappears into her shimmering glass building like a princess into a castle.

1. Do use all available resources to make sure you look your absolute best.

2. Do not under any circumstances declare your feelings. Be friendly and kind when you meet your ex and make it look like you’ve moved on.

3. Do talk about your social life, a new hobby or a work project. You need to seem busy to be desirable again.

4. Do not call your ex repeatedly and do not beg.

5. Always be the one who cuts the conversation or meeting short so you leave them wanting more.

6. Do not try to French-kiss them or touch them at all, actually.

7. Do not bang on about a new boyfriend who is richer/better-looking/funnier/hairier/more well endowed, even if he does exist.

8. Don’t do anything crazy with your hair.

9. Do not cry, make threats or throw stuff.

10. When the meeting is over, do not cling to or otherwise try to detain your ex.

I’m waiting for Friday like it’ll save my life and it seems to be stretching further and further into the distance. Why did I suggest Friday? Why didn’t I make it Tuesday and spare myself this agony? The answer whispers in my ear. If we get back together and end up in bed on Friday, we’ll have all weekend to lie around making love, bringing each other breakfast in bed, reading the papers and taking long walks on the heath. That’s why I’ve stocked the fridge with salmon, cream cheese, strawberries and croissants. I’ve bought very expensive coffee. I’ve cleaned the flat and changed the bed sheets.

By the time it’s Friday morning, I’m fully prepared. I dress carefully in a sand-coloured shift dress and black pumps. It crosses my mind that I’m trying to copy Sam’s look from the wedding, but I delete that thought. No, if he wants classy, I can give it to him. I plait my hair and pin it up, spraying down all the sticking-up ends, and keep my make-up natural. I take a classic black shoulder bag and pack it with the essentials: spare stockings, make-up case, deodorant, perfume, hairspray, breath freshener, toothbrush and clean pants, in case I end up back at his place.

The air is still and warm, and a lacy trace of the moon fades in the pale morning sky. I am filled with calm and peace, sitting with perfect posture on the bus, smiling benignly at a cyclist waving his fist at the bus driver. I take the short sunlit walk to Barnes and Worth, watching myself stride by in the mirrored windows of an office block. I’m a girl who knows what she wants and is about to get it. I should probably have my own theme tune. As the lift toils its way up, dropping workers at every floor, I contemplate my day. Catch up on paperwork, answer emails and prepare for the buyers’ meeting. I stroll serenely towards my desk and I’m met by Christie flapping towards me like a twittering bird.

‘It’s today! It’s today! They brought it forward!’

I smile kindly. She will not burst my bubble. ‘Good morning, Christie. Come and sit down. What’s today?’ I move my head carefully, feeling one of the pins in my hair giving way. She follows and I see she’s wearing some sort of diaphanous multicoloured batwing toga dress, belted at the waist with what looks like a curtain tieback. ‘Wow. Amazing dress!’

‘The buyers’ meeting is today! They brought it forward!’

I gaze for a second at her stricken face, feeling my fragile veneer of calm shatter and drop like scales. ‘What?’

‘It’s this afternoon!’ she squeals.

I hear my own voice, thin and reedy: ‘Oh fuck! Oh no! We’re not ready!’

‘I knoooow!’ Christie starts to do a little half-jog on the spot.

We dance around as if the floor is on fire, screeching, ‘Oh nooo!’ like professional mourners, before scrabbling to the mood boards and ripping open the post looking for samples.

‘I’ve got scarves!’ Christie waves a handful of woollen zebra print. They look a bit granny-knitted; I’d pictured chiffon, but I suppose they could be nerdy cool.

‘Put them on my desk.’ I’m ripping at the brown tape of a package from China. It’s wrapped like pass the parcel in layers of odd-smelling paper. Finally at the centre I get a disappointingly small red compact mirror. I open it.

‘It’s a magnifying mirror! We didn’t ask for that, did we?’ I scramble to my computer, checking costs against proposed price points and printing out sample request forms.

‘Well, that’s it. That’s all.’ I swivel round. Christie sits among shredded packaging, looking like she might cry. ‘We’ve only got the scarves and the compact to show them!’ she wails.