Never Google Heartbreak (29 page)

Now I’m facing losing Nana. Now I know how it really feels and the cold of it enters into my heart and settles like fog. Everything seems messed up and I have the creeping feeling that it’s all my fault. I’m not sure how I’ve managed it, but it seems I’ve turned everything that was good into shit. I wish I could see Max. I wish I had a friend or a career or something meaningful. I search for something and the only real thing I have is ‘getting married’.

But I am getting married. I shouldn’t be feeling sorry for myself. I’m getting married! That’s what I wanted. I didn’t think it would feel like this, though. I feel as if I’ve sacrificed my whole life to make that one wish come true and now I’m left with that empty feeling you get when you realise something expensive you saved for is now in the sale for next to nothing. I plod on, feeling worse and worse, as I mull this over.

But really, I can’t let myself feel low – I should have more faith. I’m getting married. I do love Rob. Nana will get better, she will. Max will forgive me and so will Lucy. I’ll try harder at work, even get a promotion or something, and everything will be fine. It will. It
will
.

A waft of cooking floats over from the houses near the station. I glance into a garden where two children abandon their paddling pool, running across a thirsty lawn with grass cuttings stuck to their legs. I pause to watch. Their mother meets my eye and smiles and shakes her head as she bends to gather toys. Maybe she presumes I’m a mother too, thinking I know how it is to pick up after kids. I look like I should know, but I suddenly get a glimpse of a terrifying truth: I’m miles away from having children, and marrying Rob would take me away even further . . . I’d be spending all my time patching up the relationship and looking after him. God! What if being a mum is all I’ve ever wanted?

Back in London my mood sinks and the rain finally falls. Big wet drops splatter the pavement and it’s slick within seconds. I board a bus at Victoria station, just to ride and think. Okay, time to face the fear. What if she dies? My lovely, kind, funny nana. She’d leave me to cope with the million times I’ve taken her for granted, the times I’ve snapped at her or been ashamed of her. I’ll never be able to tell her I love her or see her smile again. She can’t die, can she? Not my nana! I feel a sob welling up and turn to the window to avoid people staring. I rub a little space in the condensation so I can see out, and wipe my eyes. The bus shudders through Victoria’s wedding-cake squares, and on to Hyde Park. If she’d just wake up, I could be a better granddaughter. I’d visit more. Be kinder.

We leave behind Green Park station where a tramp sits in a wet sack. Commuters dodge his begging hat. God, London is so unforgiving. It’s hopeless if you’re not strong. I take a big, shuddering breath and blow my nose. I have to control myself and stop crying. We’re moving slowly down Piccadilly now, stuck in traffic. Shop fronts slide by. We pass the Royal Academy, and we lurch on again towards Piccadilly Circus.

The Royal Academy! I’m up, frantically pressing the bell, but the bus sails on to the next stop. I jump off into the rain and my hair sticks to my face almost instantly. My dress clings; my boots turn dark. I run back to the gallery, pushing through the pavement crowds; water from a passing umbrella showers cold onto my neck. If I can see his paintings, I’ll feel near to him – and what if he’s there? He might even be there! He might have popped in to see if they’ve sold or something and then we’ll bump into each other and . . . he’ll see that I need him. I get to the entrance and squeeze water from my hair and try to imagine Max inside. Tourists stroll and gather. If I go to the place where I last saw him, I’m suddenly convinced he’ll be there waiting, like in a film or something.

My feet slip and squeak in wet leather. I think I’m in the right place; this was the very room. I look around and my eyes fall on something familiar. I look again. Lula. My heart aches remembering the time I saw her in Max’s studio. I stand close to the picture, studying the brushstrokes, imagining his hands. A card displayed next to the canvas reads, ‘Envy,
oil and acrylic. Max Kelly
.’ She’s still breathtaking, even in a room full of beautiful art. A sticker shows the painting’s been sold. I feel thrilled for him. I run my finger over his printed name: Max Kelly. Clever, talented, sexy Max Kelly. Then I see another painting and I’m suddenly looking into my own face. Me, the day after Jane’s wedding, wearing the Arsenal T-shirt.

I’m curled awkwardly in the chair, looking sulkily beautiful and cool with messed-up hair and smudged eyes. He’s painted light in my eyes, so I look on the brink of laughter. I’m thrilled. I wish I looked like this. Imagine if I really looked like this. This is how I wish I looked all the time. I stand, looking into my face and scrutinising my eyes, and I feel flooded with hope. He’s painted me how he sees me. This is how I feel when I’m with him. He’s called it
Love.
I drip onto the floor in the hush of the gallery, gazing at this painting of myself. I can hardly breathe. I look again and again at the feet, at the hair, at the folds of red cloth. It’s like Max has reached into my heart and lit the pilot light. I stare at the painting. People pass by. The rain stops. Everything falls into place.

1. Be sorry. Never apologise when you don’t mean it.

2. Make the apology in person.

3. Take full responsibility for your actions. Do not blame the other person or make excuses for yourself.

4. Don’t expect an apology or forgiveness in return.

5. If you’re saying, ‘I’m sorry, but . . .’ or, ‘I’m sorry you feel that way . . .’ then you’re not really sorry.

6. A true apology will make you and the other person feel better.

I’m home. I let the door close behind me. ‘Hello?’ I call, just in case. There’s no answer. I peel off my wet clothes and get in the shower, letting the hot water drum my shoulders. I tip back my head and lather and rinse the shampoo. Steam rises and fills the room. I stretch my neck, lift my arms and turn round under the flow, thinking about the painting. If that’s how I can be, like that amused, sexy girl in the painting, then there’s hope. I like that girl. That’s how I want to be for the rest of my life, and the artist is the one who makes me feel it. No man could paint that girl and then leave her, so I will find him.

But first I have to get rid of Rob, that’s what. I feel a faint pang of pity for him so I replay a few old disappointments – how he’s never once bought me a bunch of flowers, never cooked me dinner, never given me a massage . . . or a proper orgasm, when I come to think of it. He acts like I’m lucky to know him and I believed I was. The showerhead dribbles as I shut off the tap. I step out of the shower, wrap myself in towels and rub steam from the mirror. I look myself right in the eye. I am completely calm. I dress in jeans and a black tunic dress and comb out my hair. I get my make-up bag and find black eyeliner. It makes you powerful – I read that. I’m just putting on a second coat of mascara when I hear his key in the lock. I realise I’ve been holding my breath.

‘Bunny! Are you in?’

‘In here.’

He leans on the doorframe, head on one side, watching me with those eyes full of his version of empathy.

‘How was your day?’ he asks.

‘I spent it at the hospital, so how do you think it was?’

‘O-kay.’ He takes off his jacket and turns towards the kitchen.

‘I met a friend of yours there.’ This brings him back to the doorway.

‘Oh yeah?’

‘Yeah. Sam.’ He looks blank. ‘You know, Sam. The woman you were going to marry?’

‘Oh.’ He looks wary. ‘You talk to her?’

‘We had a little chat.’

‘Uh-huh. What did she say?’

‘Oh, she spoke very highly of you.’ He looks relieved and confused at the same time and starts fiddling with his hair. ‘She dumped you, didn’t she?’ I look at him in the mirror. ‘She met someone else.’ He studies his feet, taps one of his Church brogues against the other. I turn back to my reflection and slide on some lippy.

‘Is that what she told you?’

‘Is that what happened?’ I look at him and it’s as if his forehead is transparent, the clockwork mechanism of his lies visible in the making. Lucy’s right: he’s thick.

He rubs the end of his nose. ‘Well, not exactly. I—’

‘Actually, don’t explain. I don’t want to know.’

‘I think she met him just before we started having problems, but I wasn’t aware she left me for him.’

‘Oh, who cares, Rob?’ I stand and go to the wardrobe, looking for my highest heels. ‘I can’t believe anything you say. For a minute there you really had me. I was ready to believe you wanted me back, that you left her for me.’

‘I—’

‘To think I actually thought you loved me and wanted to marry me and have
children
!’ I hear the trace of a wobble in my voice. Breathe. Control yourself. If you cry, he’ll wheedle his way back in. He narrows his eyes and stares out of the window. I throw the diamond necklace on the bed. ‘You bought that for her, didn’t you?’

He looks from it to me, right into my eyes, and nods. He doesn’t even bother to deny it. I swallow the shock, slipping on my shoes. I lean against the window, watching him. He stares back. It’s very, very quiet.

‘You going out, then?’ He looks at my feet.

‘Yes.’ Our eyes meet and all the unspoken feelings and unfinished arguments buzz between us. I look away. I can’t even be bothered to row.

‘So what do you want to do?’ he asks quietly.

‘What about?’

‘Us.’

‘Us? There is no us.’ I pick up my handbag. ‘I think I just want you to go.’ He looks down. This isn’t working out the way I planned at all. I thought I’d be like Scarlett in
Gone with the Wind
, all righteous and powerful, but I just feel sad and a bit sorry for him.

‘I know this looks bad, but I do love you.’ He gathers up the necklace. His eyes glisten.

‘And I used to believe that. I’ve only just realised you don’t love anyone but yourself.’

‘Bunny, don’t say that!’ My God, he’s actually crying. He sobs and gulps. I think there was a time when this would have worked. I couldn’t have stood seeing it. Now I know I’m just watching another great performance. He moves towards me with his arms held out like a toddler. ‘I’m sorry!’ he sniffs. ‘I’m sorry, Bunny! Maybe I haven’t been truthful enough. Let’s talk about it. I love you. You love me. We’re good together.’

‘No, see, we’re not.’

‘I can change . . . I can.’

‘Rob, I don’t want you to change. There’s nothing you can do. It’s too late. I just don’t love you any more.’

He cries loudly like a child, shaking his head and letting his nose run, showing me the effect I’m having. ‘Don’t do this.’

‘I’m going now,’ I say quietly, ‘and when I get back, I want you to be gone. Leave your keys, okay?’ Tears are streaming down his face. I feel a bit sick.

‘B-bunny!’ He reaches out, but I dodge him and grab my jacket.

‘Okay?’ I repeat. He nods slowly through the sobs. ‘I’m sorry,’ I add, feeling a bit guilty. ‘Bye, Rob.’ I turn and walk out, letting the door slam behind me.

I run to the end of the street before I look back. He hasn’t followed and I suddenly realise he never follows. He has never, ever followed me after a row. I can’t believe it. Five years and he has never followed. And I won’t feel bad about him. He’s the one who did this. He pulled out of our wedding. He lied to me all along. I feel a rush of energy; I’m finally free of him, over him, out from whatever spell it was he had cast over me.

I take a deep breath. I feel powerful; I feel like shouting something. I walk past a West Indian lady and smile. She smiles back. I’m shaking with relief. A taxi rounds the corner and I suddenly decide to wave it down. I jump in and the driver makes a U-turn towards Lucy’s.

* * *

She opens the door a crack, sees it’s me and sets her face accordingly, but she steps out.

‘Well, look what the cat—’

‘I’m sorry,’ I blurt. She folds her arms and tilts her head, listening. ‘You’re right, I’m boring. I’m always in a crisis and I might have been wallowing in it a bit.’

‘Might have been?’ she prods.

‘Definitely have been. Wallowing . . . and going on about it.’ I look at her, but there’s nothing to read in her face and for a second I get the horrible feeling that she isn’t going to forgive me. ‘I’ve been a really shit friend,’ I say softly. ‘I miss you.’

A moment passes. We stand on her front step, looking at each other; then she smiles.

‘No, I’m sorry. I’m the shit friend.’

‘No, I am. I’m always banging on about Rob and boring you.’

‘No, I’m always talking about sex.’

‘You’re not! Well, not all the time.’

‘Oh, come here.’ She opens her arms and I step into a perfumed hug. ‘Want to hear my news?’ she squeaks in my ear.

‘Yeah.’ She releases me.

‘You won’t believe it!’ she squeals.

‘Okay, only dogs can hear you now.’

‘It’s too exciting!’

‘What?’

She holds up her left hand and there sparkles a diamond. Her face freezes in a silent scream, waiting for my reaction. I half laugh, she looks so silly.

‘Lucy! Congratulations.’

‘Reuben the fuck buddy is going to be Reuben the fuck husband!’

‘Congratulations!’ I hug her. ‘I never thought I’d see the day!’

‘I know!’

‘This is unbelievable news . . .’

‘He’s here! Come on.’ She dances down the hall. I follow into the white kitchen. This is weird – she’s marrying someone I’ve never even met. Latin music plays and Reuben is making cocktails at the counter. He’s small and slim-hipped like a boy, black hair closely cropped and brushed forward, beautiful nut-coloured skin and flashy teeth. She sidles up to him and they salsa a few steps, his hands on her waist. I begin to feel like I should leave. He dances over and they make a salsa sandwich with me as the filling. I stand awkward and ridiculous; I’m not really sure what’s going on. I wriggle out and they dance away.

‘Hey, how long have you guys been celebrating?’

‘All fucking day!’ screams Lucy.