Never Google Heartbreak (26 page)

Edmund Vance Cooke

‘And don’t spend your time lookin’ around for something you want that can’t be found when you find out you can live without it and go along not thinkin’ about it.’

Baloo the bear,
The Jungle Book

There’s no getting away from it: vomiting at work is a bad way to begin a day. Afterwards I sit up in the toilet cubicle to check how I feel . . . head pulsing, poisonous stomach ache, eyeballs burning and . . . why does it have to be so hot?

One thing I do well with Rob is drinking myself into oblivion. He eggs me on, though. Urggh . . . I can’t think about it without retching. I should be ashamed of myself, and I am. Utterly ashamed. I mean, what’s wrong with me? Is this what they call ‘off the rails’? I flush the toilet, roll back and lean on the door. Oh God, there’s no toilet paper. Maybe I have tissues in my bag. I feel the shape of my phone in the inside pocket and check for messages. You never know, maybe Max has called. But no – nothing. I call his house phone.

‘It’s Max. Leave a message.’

‘Please, Max, talk to me. I feel terrible . . .’ I wait in case he picks up, but there’s only the hiss of the open line. ‘I’m so, so sorry. I want to explain everything. I need to see you. Max . . . I . . . I miss you.’ I hang up and blow my nose on an old receipt.

Rob was in my bed this morning. I can’t remember how that happened. I wonder – did we? I stare at the toilet panelling until the geometric pattern swims, and try to blink it still until I hear someone come in, the click of heels and humming. The cubicle shakes as she slams the door. There’s an ankle, ginger with fake tan, and a plaited rope sandal with wooden sole showing under the partition.

‘Christie?’

‘Hello, who’s there?’ she sings.

‘Help me.’

Aspirin in lemonade is Christie’s remedy. I sit at my desk, miserably sipping, while she flirts with Paul.

‘No, I’ve never had a pearl necklace,’ she says.

‘Go on, you must have done.’

‘No. I find pearls a bit old-fashioned for me, really. I don’t think you should wear them in your twenties.’

Paul is turning red trying not to laugh.

‘Christie. Ignore him. He’s being filthy,’ I interrupt.

‘Oh. I don’t understand.’ She gazes at him with heavy mascara eyes.

‘Of course you don’t. I’ll explain later.’ I lay my head on the cool tabletop.

‘Vivienne! I don’t know what you are on about. We’re talking jewellery here.’

‘Yeah, and I’m Angelina’s body double.’ I wonder – if I close my eyes, would that be better? Ugh – no, no. I concentrate on a fixed point.

‘Looking a bit peaky there, Viv. Rough night, was it?’ I turn my eyeballs to look at him. He grins, stoat-like with his small head, long neck and sloping shoulders.

‘Mind your own.’ I smile nastily.

‘Observe, Christie. Alcohol abuse – not clever, definitely not pretty.’

‘How are you still here? Go and
technologise
something
.
Isn’t that what you claim to do?’ I rasp. He laughs, blows a kiss to Christie and slopes back to his desk. The lemonade and aspirin curdles dangerously in my stomach. I find a packet of crackers in my drawer and nibble one, wondering at Christie’s nautical outfit as she checks her email.

‘Oh no. Mole wants to see us as soon as we get in.’ She spins round. ‘Do you think it could be about those candles? They get delivered soon.’

I look at her, then out of the window, wondering if I should throw up before I go.

‘Don’t worry, Christie. What’s the worst that can happen?’ I slide from my chair and start walking before I fall down. ‘Let’s go and see what she wants.’

Mole is a triangle in moss-green linen. She looks relaxed, chin in hand, squinting at her screen. We linger like fools at her open door before I knock.

‘Come!’ she calls, and gestures with a fat hand for us to sit. I will not look for the neck mole, I will not. She studies her steepled fingers as we settle into chairs, then looks at us with measured sympathy and – there! – it bobs into view like a poo in the sea. I’m drawn to it, fascinated by the hairs, until I think I might be sick on the table. I shift in the chair, swallowing hard.

‘Now, you two, I wanted to speak to you together because you are a team, are you not?’ Christie is nodding and smiling as if she’s about to receive an award. ‘It’s about the planned redundancies.’ My heart thumps painfully. Mole’s pale eyes flit from me to Christie, looking for a reaction. The cherry-red lips look too small for her face and plastic, like she won them in a cracker.

‘I don’t think I’d like to. I won’t be taking voluntary redundancy,’ Christie blurts, glancing sideways at me. I feel a film of moisture prickle my skin and try to concentrate on the edge of Mole’s desk. If I keep my head still, I might not need to hurl.

Mole takes a sip of water, swallows slowly and presses her chest as she suppresses a couple of burps. ‘No, love, you won’t be.’ She grimaces, looks at some papers on her desk, then back at us. ‘There are no
voluntary
redundancies as such . . .’

‘Oh, that’s a relief ! I’ve already booked Thailand,’ squeals Christie.

‘Look . . . I’ll come out with it straight. Can you girls give me one good reason not to sack you?’

Wow. Now that I wasn’t expecting. Christie looks at me, then back at Mole. I keep my head still, staring straight ahead.

‘What did you say?’ Christie clutches the sailor collar of her blouse.

‘You know the company is trimming the fat.’ Mole looks searchingly at my face and I move my eyes to meet hers as my stomach churns. Try not to think of fat. Don’t think of fat. I swallow hard, tasting the lemonade-aspirin concoction. ‘Well, you two might be the fat, so to speak.’

‘We’re the fat?’ asks Christie.

‘Yes.’

‘We’re the fat,’ she repeats, mulling it over. ‘Oh.’

‘I’m sorry,’ says Mole. ‘We’ve been reviewing your performance. The over-ordering of the candles’ – I feel Christie shooting me a look – ‘the stupid underwear slogans, the absenteeism . . . I could go on, but I won’t. I’m now giving you both a final warning. Any more fuck-ups and you’re out.’

‘I don’t think they can do that, Viv. You can’t do that!’

‘You’re free to meet with human resources to discuss any concerns, of course.’ A shadow passes over her brow as she slides two envelopes across the table to us. I know I’m in trouble if I don’t remain absolutely still. ‘In the meantime we’ve laid out our terms here.’ She studies me. ‘Have you anything to say, Vivienne?’

‘I think I’m going to be sick.’ I stand up clutching my mouth and run.

The written warning letters lie unopened on our desks. I upturn the wastepaper basket and put my feet on it. Sometimes if you’re actually sick, you feel better. I can now face a cup of tea.

‘I can’t believe she had the cheek to call us fat. I mean, have you seen the size of her? Big fat cow, she is . . .’

‘Shhh!’

‘Well! And the whole candle thing was my fault. Why d’you get a warning?’

‘Because I’m supposed to be managing you.’ I sigh as I open the letter. Why have I been so crap? I read we are to have no more absences without valid sick notes. We have to find creative ways to sell through the candles over the year. We are to prepare detailed files on each of our products for their perusal. It’s not looking good. ‘It’s not that bad – at least we still have jobs.’

‘I have to pay for Thailand.’

‘And I have to pay the rent.’

‘You’re all right; you’ve got a rich fiancé.’ For a minute I can’t think what she’s talking about. Then I realise she means Rob.

‘You can’t rely on a man,’ I mutter.

‘Yeah, but I bet you’re glad he’s back, though, aren’t you?’ I think of the shock of waking up with him naked in my bed. How I sneaked to the bathroom and put on pyjamas. I remember his cereal bowl left in the sink and how he’d soaked the bathmat. How have things come to this? I close my eyes, feeling incredibly tired.

‘Viv?’

‘What?’

‘I bet you’re thanking your lucky stars, aren’t you?’

‘Something like that.’ I look across the office at the bowed heads behind grey partitions. I should thank my lucky stars. Start thanking them right now. Thank them that this is not my future because I have achieved every girl’s dream: just like Cinderella, I’ve bagged a rich, good-looking man to take me away from all this. ‘You don’t love him!’ something inside me shrieks, before being overpowered like a kidnapped hostage. No. I love him. I do, and the huge advantage of loving him is not having to worry right now. Wasn’t I feeling despondent about this job anyway? Wasn’t I embarrassed, even, by what I do and wishing for something else? Well, here it is – a rich fiancé . . . jackpot.

But . . . There is no but.

I’m just staring out of the window thinking about this when my phone vibrates across the desk. It’s a number I don’t recognise. Max! Well, he could be using a payphone.

‘Hi!’ I answer.

‘Vivienne, it’s Reggie from next door.’ He doesn’t live next door to me. What a way to introduce himself.

‘Hello.’

‘It’s about your nana, love.’ I hear the shake of age in his voice, silly old bugger. ‘Listen, I’m calling from the hospital. I think you’d better come down.’

‘What’s happened?’

‘Well, she’s . . . she’s in a bad way.’

‘A bad way?’

‘Yes, they’re keeping her in. Pneumonia, they say. She wouldn’t let me get a doctor . . .’

The train to Kent shudders, stopping at every windblown station on the way. Scrubby back gardens and lopsided swings, extensions with patio doors slide by.

Nana will be all right. She’s tough. I can’t remember her ever being ill. She had a fall and they discovered the arthritis, but never anything like this.

People die from pneumonia. Old people die from it. They go into hospital and never come out.

But Nana isn’t old. She just turned seventy. They say sixty is the new forty, so . . . And she’d never smoked a cigarette until the other day. Her lungs are strong.

But she is too thin. She’s actually underweight. I’ve been thinking a lot how frail she is recently. The thought of my life without her slides over me like a terrible shadow. She’s always been there. My mother left me on her doorstep when I was seven and she took my hand and never let go, reassuring me through everything. I think of how calm and loving she was when I was sixteen and thought I was pregnant. Even when Granddad died, it was her consoling me. My eyes fill; she’s been the only constant in my whole life. I’ve always relied on her love, and her kindness. She’s the kindest person anyone knows. Everyone says how kind she is. I start to recall a million examples of her kindness, going back in time and gathering them up like magic powers, making her brighter and stronger in my mind and pushing away that shadow until the train reaches the end of the line.

At the hospital, Reggie bear-hugs me. I feel a bone in my spine crack as my eyes draw level with his hairy ear. He’s been crying.

‘Where is she?’

‘Ward twelve.’ I search the information board. ‘She’s unconscious.’ His wet eyes blink from pits of wrinkles.

‘How long has she been in?’

‘Since the middle of last night.’

‘Why didn’t you call me sooner?’

‘She said she’d left a message. She told me not to bother you, especially at work.’ I set off jogging along the pastel corridor, following the signs to ward twelve. I turn left, bashing into a huge man and crushing his bunch of sad chrysanthemums. The ward is locked. I try the door twice, rattling it before spotting the intercom system. I press the buzzer and a woman answers.

‘I’m here to see my nana . . . Eve Summers – is she in there?’ The voice tells me to wait. Moments later the ward door opens and a dark-haired nurse in blue uniform steps out. I go to hold the door open as she calmly presses it closed.

‘Hello. Is it Vivienne?’ she asks softly.

‘Yes. My nana has pneumonia. I was told she’s in ward twelve. Is this twelve? Is she in there?’ The nurse guides me lightly by the elbow towards a small table and chairs near the door. I sit clutching the flesh-coloured upholstery.

‘I’m Claire, one of the nurses on duty today. I just need to talk to you for a second, Vivienne, and then you can go and see your nana.’ I try to smile, feeling very small and out of control. The institutional smell of boiled cabbage wafts along the corridor. ‘Are you all right?’ she asks.

‘I just want to see her,’ I say, feeling my lip wobbling.

‘I know. I have to tell you that she is quite poorly. We’re treating her with antibiotics, so she has a drip in. She also has a drip for fluids.’ She looks carefully at my face. I nod, but I can’t look at the sympathy in her eyes. ‘And we’re giving her oxygen to help her breathe, so she has a mask on.’

‘Will she be okay?’

‘She’s stable at the moment. I’ll get the doctor to speak with you as soon as he comes in.’ She squeezes my hand and her forearm seems strong and capable next to mine. She is heroic and useful to society and sensible. I feel a hot stab of shame thinking about the last twenty-four hours of my life.

‘Is she awake?’

‘She’s not conscious.’ I look at the shiny pink floor. ‘All right, now I just need you to sterilise your hands and we’ll go through.’ She presses a code into the keypad on the door and it clicks open.

The ward is pale green and hung with blue curtains the colour of overalls. It smells of shit and antiseptic. Beds line each side and in every one of them the husk of a person lies, like something left behind in a web. I glance left and right as I follow. These people have nothing to do with my nana – why have they brought her here?

We stop beside a skeletal man, his skin nut brown like he’s been unearthed from a sarcophagus. He peers balefully over his oxygen mask. I stare into his yellowed eyes and try to hide my horror with a polite smile. He nods. The nurse pulls back curtains from around a bed and there she is. My nana. My vibrant, dotty, busy nana on her back, hands palm down at her side, the stillest I’ve ever seen her. My breath catches in my throat.

‘Would you like a cup of tea?’ The nurse presses my shoulder.

‘Uh, yes, please.’ I feel a tear slide down my face. I slip into the visitor’s chair and take her hand, crying softly as I rub a thumb over the mottled skin. Her poor arthritic joints. Her almond-shaped fingernails look strangely bare without the crazy nail polish she loves. It’s the first time I’ve squeezed this hand and it hasn’t responded. I kiss the skin, cool and smooth as marble. Tears drip and I wipe them away. The white oxygen mask covers her nose and mouth; her eyes are peacefully closed. I touch the side of her face where her skin folds.