Never Google Heartbreak (27 page)

‘Nana.’ I kiss her forehead, brushing aside her hair, and sit, pressing her hand to my face. I gaze at the slow rise and fall of her chest. Liquid drips silently from a bag into a tube taped into the crêpey skin of her arm where a bruise is blossoming. I look at her wristband.
Eve Summers. DOB
07
.
05
.
42
. This person, so precious to me, this Eve Summers, she’s the anchor in my world. ‘Why didn’t you let the doctor come?’ I wipe my eyes again. ‘Reg said you wouldn’t let him get the doctor.’ I kiss the knuckles of her hand. ‘Now look at you – you’ve ended up in here.’

The nurse brings a paper cup of tea. ‘Okay?’ she asks.

‘When will she be awake?’

She looks at Nana thoughtfully. ‘It’s hard to say. I’ll get the doctor to speak to you as soon as he’s on the ward.’

She smiles and the curtains swing behind her. The respirator hisses and sighs as it fills Nana’s lungs with breath, but there’s no sign of her spirit. I lay my head next to the blanketed legs and close my eyes.

‘Get better. Get better, okay?’ I tell her. ‘Don’t leave me.’ The heart monitor beeps softly. ‘Don’t leave me.’

It’s dark when I step outside the hospital. The last of the visitors spread out across the car park, engines starting up and headlights sweeping across the pavement as I make my way back to the station. I hate to leave her here, but they wouldn’t let me stay. Outside the world seems hostile and cold.

I start thinking about Max, wishing he was here, wishing he’d brought me on the bike and was waiting for me now with his big smile. I root in my pocket and turn on my phone. There’s a message from Rob: ‘
Working late, angel. Don’t make supper.
’
I delete it and call Max.

‘It’s Max. Leave a message.’

‘Max, it’s me. I . . . just called to, you know, say hello and see if you’re okay . . . so call me.’ What am I going to say? My nana is in hospital. Please feel sorry for me? I hang up and walk slowly down the station steps to wait on the deserted platform, where a lonely wind rocks the squeaking ‘London bound’ sign.

The flat is in darkness as I turn the key. It’s after ten. I find a packet of mushroom soup and boil the kettle. I turn on the laptop and type ‘pneumonia’ into the search engine, then make a list of questions from my research. It seems septicaemia is the biggest risk – twice as likely in those over sixty. The doctor didn’t mention it. Is that a good sign? I pour hot water onto the granules and stir. Mushrooms like flakes of leather swirl to the surface. Back at the laptop I type in ‘nevergoogleheartbreak.com’, wondering if Max has been in touch. I go to ‘What’s on your mind?’, and
there’s been some activity. The last comment was posted yesterday: ‘
I agree it is harsh, but then no one wants a sap!
’ I scroll up, looking for Max’s name, but I have to go all the way back to his poem. Underneath someone called ‘smileycat’ commented, ‘
Beautiful! My favourite poem
.’
Then someone replied, ‘
This guy is a joke! He’s shit poor and has only his dreams? Keep ’em, babe, they won’t pay the rent! How embarrassing and overdramatic, quoting poetry! M – stay away from me, I’ve made a mistake. I don’t want you or your dreams! Vivienne
.’

I read it again. My name. I’m shaking, staring at the words, trying to figure it out. Only someone logged on as me could use my name. I try to remember the last time I was on the site . . . I read Max’s poem at work. Did I leave the site open? Could it be Michael? He could have overridden the password and logged on as me, but why would he? I imagine Max reading it, then find the text he sent.
‘
Hi, Viv. Forget about tonight, then, I guess. M
’

I type, hammering at the keys. ‘
Max, I didn’t write this! I don’t know how or who but someone must have logged on as me
.’ The cursor blinks. Whatever I write is pathetic. I get my jacket and run out of the door.

I call Max, redialling when his answer message kicks in. I take a cab to his place. What must he be thinking? First I tell him not to come to my flat, then he reads that message, and then I turn up at the gallery with Rob. My lovely Max. How hurt he looked. I replay the gallery scene over and over, feeling the pain of it sharply each time until the taxi pulls up.

I jump out, leaving the door open and the fare unpaid. The engine idles as I press the buzzer of Max’s building. I hold it down. I press it in a rhythm. Press and wait. Nothing. I run to the back of the building and look up at the kitchen window. No light. His motorbike’s missing. I try the front door again, holding the buzzer then jabbing it. The taxi driver leans across the passenger seat.

‘Hey, love. The meter’s ticking here! Want me to wait?’

I stare up at the dark, empty windows of Max’s building.

‘I’m coming,’ I say.

As the cab turns in the road I look up again at the blank window, feeling desolate. It’s dawning on me that Max could actually have left. I mean, he could be gone. I imagine my life with him not in it, and it’s rubbish.

Roadkill:
I’m thinking of getting back with my ex-boyfriend. He keeps asking if we can meet. I’ve been really lonely without him, but I’m worried it might not work out. How do I stop us splitting up again?

Looneytunes:
Morph yourself into a different person?

Spidercat:
You don’t say how long you’ve been apart, Roadkill. If you’ve had enough non-contact time, it might be possible to start afresh; if not, though, you’ll just end up going over old ground.

Debbo:
I’d say be careful what you wish for. My ex moved back in after six months apart. After about twenty minutes I realised I couldn’t stand her.

Gringo:
I thought if I split with my gf, I’d get lots of sex with other women. When that didn’t happen, I got back with my ex. It’s not long term, though.

Spidercat:
It’s not long term? Really? You are an irresponsible twat, Gringo.

Gringo:
Whatevs.

What the hell is that godawful caterwauling? I sit up in bed – what time is it? Six a.m. on the clock. Rob is singing in the shower. I get up and call the hospital. No change, they say – she’s still unconscious. I sit on the bed and stare into space.

He appears like a shaving-cream advert, wrapped at the waist in a towel, trailing wafts of steam and shower gel.

‘Hey, Bun,’ he booms. ‘Did I wake you?’

I rub my forehead. ‘Rob, how long are you staying?’

He stops drying himself and studies me with a sympathetic little frown, as if I must be insane to ask. He sits beside me on the bed. ‘What’s the matter, Bunny? Are you cross because I worked late?’

‘No.’ He tries to kiss me. I stand up. ‘I just think there’s lots unresolved between us. I don’t think we can sort this out with you living here. Do you?’ He drops his head. ‘I mean, when is she moving out of your place?’

‘I wanted to talk to you about that,’ he says, making puppy eyes.

‘Did you write something on my website?’

‘What?’

‘My website. Someone has written something pretending to be me. I left it open here the night you came back. You said you never looked at it, but I can’t think who else it could have been.’

He cocks his head. Water sticks to his eyelashes. It drips from his hair onto his bare tanned chest. His eyes shine incredibly blue in the filtered sunlight.

‘Okay. You got me.’ He raises his hands.

‘What?’

‘I did it.’

‘You did it?’ I suddenly don’t know what to say. I have a strong desire to shove him in the face. ‘Why? Why would you do that?’

‘Well, I don’t want that Max making a play for you, do I? Writing poems to another man’s chick like that – it’s not right. Who does he think he is with all those flowery words? I want you all to myself. No loved-up poet is getting the better of me.’ He flashes his dazzling white smile.

I stare at him. ‘He didn’t write the poem; he was quoting Yeats.’

‘Yes, thank you, I knew that.’

‘I can’t believe you!’ I spit. ‘I can’t believe you would mess with my life like this.’

‘Listen, Bun, I love you. It’s that simple, and I’ll beat off any rival. It’s like bears—’

‘No, it’s not like bears! How dare you?’ He comes across the room and puts his arms around me. I push his chest. His perfect biceps tense as he holds me tighter. ‘Get off !’ I punch him on the shoulder.

‘Bunny, come on . . . I’m sorry! I’m sorry, okay? I love you. I shouldn’t have done it.’ I struggle and his towel falls off. I glance at his body, distracted for a millisecond. He is definitely drop-dead gorgeous and he knows it – even now, posing. ‘It was very wrong of me. I see that now.’

‘It was evil! How did you get like this? How could you be so controlling and mean?’

‘I don’t want to be mean.’ He manages to look shamefaced.

A terrible thought drops into place, like a coin in a slot. ‘Did you know he’d be at the Royal Academy? Is that why we went there?’ He purses his lips and smiles. ‘Jesus, Rob!’

‘I’ll admit it was a bad thing to do, okay? I Googled the guy and saw he’d be at the gallery and I just couldn’t resist. I did it for us. You need saving from yourself sometimes!’ he shouts at my back.

I storm to the kitchen and slam the coffee pot on the heat, so furious I can hardly breathe. How could he do that and think I’d be okay about it? I go to the laptop and jiggle the mouse. Nothing. No word from Max.

The coffee gurgles; I stomp back to the kitchen and pour a cup. Rob appears fully dressed in a lilac checked shirt and well-cut dark grey trousers. He stands close to me, watching, saying nothing. I’m burning with rage and can’t look at him. Then I burst into tears.

‘Oh, baby bunny, don’t cry!’

‘This is not okay, Rob.’ He eases the coffee from my hands and pulls me in. I find myself blubbing onto his checked shoulder.

‘I’m sorry,’ he says. ‘I’m sorry.’ He squeezes me. ‘I’m such a twat. Listen, I’ll ring the guy. I’ll tell him it was me.’ I push him away. ‘Hell, I’ll even buy one of his scribbles if you’ll forgive me.’

‘You have no idea what you’ve done, have you?’

He looks at his watch. ‘Come on, Viv.’

‘You have no clue about friendship or trust or love or . . . or anything good, have you?’

‘Well, that’s a little unfair, don’t you think? I love you.’

‘No you don’t, not really.’

‘Viv, look, everything’s okay. It’s not cancer, is it? I know you’re pissed off, but everything’s okay. I’m here now . . .’

‘It’s not okay. Nana’s in hospital, I think I’m about to lose my job, and now, because of you, I’ve lost my best friend. Everything is definitely
not
okay.’

‘What do you mean, you’re losing your job?’

‘Oh, trust you to pick up on that first.’ I scuttle away to get dressed, quickly throwing on a dress and boots. I clip back my hair and splash water on my swollen eyes. The last thing I need is a stupid fight. I need to get to the hospital. Rob knocks softly on the bathroom door.

‘Viv?’

‘What?’

‘Can you come out, please?’ I open the door abruptly, making him jump. ‘Listen, I want to talk to you. I’ve phoned work and I’ve got half an hour.’ I snort at the generosity but follow him to the sofa anyway. ‘Now, I know I’ve put you through a lot, and I’m sorry. I’m truly sorry, Viv. But I want to be with you. I know I’m going about it the wrong way, but we can make this work.’ He takes a stray piece of my hair and tucks it back into the clip. ‘We can.’ I look at my clasped fingers. ‘Hnnn?’ He’s holding the diamond necklace in an open hand. ‘Here, put this on.’ He clasps it at my throat like a flea collar. ‘Property prices are plummeting, so I’m going to sell my place.’ I look into the hypnotising blue of his eyes. ‘Now, what I’d like to do is to move in here with you and we’ll get married as soon as possible.’ I feel a scream of ‘No!’ building inside, but what he’s selling here is something I’ve longed for. His voice is soothing. He pats my tummy. ‘Then we can get a baby in there, all right? And don’t you worry about your job – I mean, it was hardly a
career
and you won’t need to work . . . unless you want to. I can support you, Viv. I can give us a good life; you’ll never want for anything. We’ll have plenty of money and you’ll be pregnant very, very quickly.’ God, how easy he makes it seem. I could just surrender, roll over and have everything I used to dream of. He squeezes my thigh.

‘I . . . I can’t talk about this now. I have to get to the hospital,’ I reply.

He drops his head. ‘Yeah. I have to get to work.’ He grabs his jacket and opens the door. ‘Think about what I said, though.’ He steps out, then bobs back in again. ‘And chin up. I’m here for you. Give my best to your granny.’ The door slams and I listen to his footsteps do a rhythmic jog down the stairs.

I pick up his half-finished coffee and hurl it at the door; it slams against the painted wood. Two china halves bounce, leaving a dripping stain.

‘I would, but she’s unconscious,’ I say quietly.

I sit for a moment, staring into the street. The sunlight glances off buildings like some sort of code. How will I ever make Max see I had nothing to do with this?

But . . . I did have something to do with this. I am responsible, aren’t I? I let Rob in. I could have turned him away that night, but I didn’t and he’s still here. So of course it’s my fault Max got hurt. He won’t understand. I hardly get it myself. I walk around the room, trying to think of ways to make it better. I’ll make him talk to me. I’ll email him. I’ll camp at his place. Then I notice the flashing answer machine. I stand over it, hoping for Max’s voice, take a breath and press ‘play’.

‘Hello, Viv darling, it’s only Nana. Listen, I’m not feeling too well. I’ve got these dreadful chest pains and have been a bit dizzy. Anyway, Reg thinks I should go down to the hospital . . . Viv? Are you there? She’s not answering . . . Bye bye, my darling . . . Lots of love.’

I listen to it again with tears in my eyes. Of course. Nana’s message! There she was trying to speak to me, sounding so scared and brave, trying to ask for help, and what was I doing? I shudder at the memory and leave for the hospital.