Never Google Heartbreak (30 page)

‘Viv, you wanna caipirinha?’ he shouts, juggling two limes.

‘Okay.’ I smile.

‘Come here, come here.’ Lucy pulls me into the living room and down onto the sofa. ‘I’m so sorry about everything. I’ve hated not seeing you. Tell me about you.’ She squeezes my hand.

‘Oh, you know, a lot’s happened. My nana’s in hospital.’

‘Oh no! Is she okay?’

‘Pneumonia.’

‘Oh, Viv, I’m sorry.’

‘Yes, so that’s been . . . difficult, but I know she’ll be okay. She’ll get through.’ I stop myself from explaining more. I don’t want to rain on their festival. I take her hand. ‘Gorgeous ring.’

‘Isn’t it? It’s just mad, me getting married. But I’m so happy!’ she shouts at the ceiling, drumming her hands on the sofa. Reuben comes in, bringing drinks. He kisses Lucy as he hands her hers. I glimpse a tongue and look away.

‘Vivienne! I been hearing all about you! What’s going on with this Rob dick shit?’ he says as he kneels on the floor and hands me a glass.

‘Ah, nothing really . . .’

‘Good. Kick that asshole out of your life!’ He raises his glass to drink to that. I smile at Lucy; she shrugs.

‘Do you know what, Reuben? You’re absolutely right! I’ll drink to that.’ I down the cocktail.

‘You’re going to dump him?’ asks Lucy, all hopeful.

‘Just did. He’s gone. History.’ They stare and I give a little wave. ‘
Adios
,’ I add for Reuben’s benefit.

‘Oh thank God!’ Lucy roars. ‘I
hated
that guy!’

‘I know – you quite often said.’

‘All those years! You just waiting for him to make up his mind. It just wasn’t like you, Viv. He took your shine.’

‘Well, I’m getting my shine back,’ I say in a hero’s voice.

‘Hooray!’ she shouts. ‘I want to dance. Let’s sing something!’

‘Ding dong, the witch is dead . . .’ I begin, but she’s already at the iPod and dragging me up for a dance. It’s Goldfrapp, ‘Rocket’. We join in with the chorus and Reuben claps along.

‘She needs another drink,’ Lucy shouts.

‘
Amor
, don’t worry, I made two jugs.’

Salsa is an amazing kind of dance. Really, all you do is shuffle your feet and swing your hips and you’re doing it! Reuben’s a great teacher. Lucy did a sort of salsa pole dance without the pole and he filmed her. Then I had the idea of being the pole so he filmed us both. Now, I’m not into threesomes myself, but if I were, I think I could do a lot worse than those two. I think I’ll go and tell them that right now. I flush the toilet and knock over a dried-flower thing. It falls in the bowl. I try to flush, but it keeps reappearing like a withered hand.

Back in the living room they’ve turned the music down and I join them on the sofa. Reuben is a very, very nice man, stroking Lucy’s knee and – oh, hello! – mine as well.

‘So when are you going to do it?’ I ask.

‘We been doing it all day,’ Reuben quips.

I slap his leg. ‘The wedding!’ God, he’s so funny.

‘Next month,’ he says. ‘Before summer ends.’

‘We’re having a sex theme,’ Lucy tells me. ‘I’m thinking white tutu, corset, white fishnet stockings.’

‘Nice. Classy.’

‘And for me, nothing but a bow tie and a smile,’ says Reuben.

There’s a pause as we imagine it. I have to say it’s not that bad.

‘Maybe put a little sock on your knob?’ suggests Lucy.

‘Or wear trousers?’ I say.

‘Yeah, wear trousers, Reub,’ agrees Lucy.

‘Okay. Hot pants.’ He squeezes my knee. ‘An’ hot pants for you as well.’

‘Me? No. Not a good look.’

‘White hot pants and boots for Viv!’ Lucy laughs.

‘Not while there’s breath in my body. You can’t tell guests what to wear, anyway.’

‘But Viv, you’re not just a guest. I wanted to ask you this, but I . . . haven’t seen you recently.’ She suddenly sits up and squints at my face. ‘Viv, you’ve been such a great friend to me over the years . . .’

‘Bless you, and you’ve been a good friend to me.’ I take her hand.

‘Vivienne Summers, you’ve been with me through thick and thin,’ she says, all solemn.

‘We haven’t had that many thins,’ I reply.

‘Well, there was that time you went off with Julie . . .’

‘Oh yeah . . . and your deportation mix-up thingy in Spain.’

‘Look, shut up, I’m trying to make a speech! What I’m saying is, you’re a faithful friend . . .’

‘Like a dog,’ Reuben chips in.

‘Like a very, very, very faithful dog, yes.’ She smiles at Reuben. ‘So I’d like to ask you to be my best man . . . well, best woman.’

‘Or best dog!’ exclaims Reuben.

‘Yes, all right, Reub . . . Will you, Viv? Please?’ She sniffs and gets wet eyes.

‘Luce . . . I would consider it an honour to be your best woman.’ I feel a ball of emotion in my throat. I throw my arms around her.

‘Love you,’ she whispers into my hair.

‘So! Let’s make a toast,’ cries Reuben, getting to his feet. ‘To great friends!’

I think of Max. I see his smile when I close my eyes and finish my drink.

‘To great friends,’ I say.

And to finding him.

A Poem for the Day

Poetry Appreciation Society

Oh, Max, if only you knew

What is lies and what is true,

You’d come back and kiss me.

Tell me you miss me,

’Cos bloody hell, Max, I miss you.

Vivienne Summers

It’s past midnight and I know it looks a bit weird me snooping about outside Max’s building, but since he isn’t responding to emails or calls, I’m not sure where else to start. Could this be construed as stalking?

I look up at the window. No lights on. I look down at the pavement. No motorbike. I sway in the night breeze, staring up like a Romeo. I throw a pebble; it misses, but sets a dog off barking. ‘Where the fuck are you?’ I mutter, and listen as if he’ll reply. I recognise the thump of ‘Disco Inferno’ from the nightclub round the corner. There’s a clatter as a can falls near the bins, making me jump. I spin round and peer into the darkness with the eerie sense of another presence.

‘Hello?’ All the horror movies I’ve ever seen combine in my head until I’m sure a doll/scarecrow thing with knives for fingers is about to thunder out into the light. I’m listening intently and hear a high raspy squeak; something’s moving. Just as I’m about to run away, screaming, ‘There are evil clowns living in the drains!’ a small cat trots out, tail high. He approaches my legs and weaves himself through them like a ribbon. I clutch at my chest in relief, partly to calm myself and partly because they do that in horror films. ‘Dave!’ I bend to tickle his throat, feeling his speedboat purr. I scoop him up and he hangs on my arm, eyes half closed, legs dangling. ‘Poor little Dave. Poor pussycat. He left you behind!’ The front door opens and a rectangle of light frames a woman wearing a Minnie Mouse nightshirt. Dave scrabbles free and disappears through her ankles. The woman squints my way for a second and goes to close the door.

‘Er, hi, excuse me?’ I step forward; she holds the door slightly open. ‘Hi, I’m looking for Max Kelly. I wonder if you know where he is . . . That’s his cat . . .’

‘Huh! Aren’t we all looking for Max Kelly?’

‘Are we? Do you know him?’

‘He asked me to have the cat, gave me a hundred quid and said he’s going away for a while.’

‘And he didn’t say where?’

‘No. If I knew where, I’d send this bloody cat there. It’s a pain in the arse.’

‘When did he go?’

‘Look, does he owe you money?’

‘No. He’s a friend.’ I notice a cat scratch on my arm, a line of blood-red pinpricks.

‘He went on Wednesday. Here, if you’re his friend, can you take the cat?’

8 August, 01:07

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject:
[None]

So you’ve gone away. Very dramatic. When you coming back?

Love from Dave

9 August, 14:22

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

Max,

You’ve made your point now with this not-speaking thing. How can we resolve this? It’s completely and totally inconceivable to me for us to not be friends.

V x

P.S. Please find attached my photo album of us. I particularly like the graduation pictures. What had you done to your hair? And that jacket – you have always been a knob, see?

9 August, 14:37

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

Max,

If you ring me in the next five minutes, I’ll take you to the Chinese all-you-can-eat place for dinner. On me. I’ll pay. You can have one of those red cocktails with the umbrella too.

V x

9 August, 14:46

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

I can explain . . . everything. x

9 August, 15:07

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

Please, Max. Would you see me for just half an hour, even?

x

9 August, 15:28

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

Don’t be a knob. I miss you. x

9 August, 15:41

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

Shall I leave you alone? Okay, this is it, then, last message.

Goodbye.

*dramatic pause*

Goodbye, Max.

9 August, 16:09

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

You have a real stubborn streak. It’s not attractive in a person.

9 August, 16:17

From:
Vivienne Summers

To:
Max Kelly

Subject: Re:

And the beginnings of hairy ears.

The dialling tone in Ireland is weird. Is their phone permanently engaged? If not, it’s taking ages to answer. What kind of place must they live in to take this long to get to the phone? I’m here in London, listening to a dialling tone, while somewhere in Ireland there’s a castle and an old-style phone shrilling to an empty room . . .

‘Hello?’ says an impatient voice.

‘Hi there, is that Mrs Kelly?’

‘Is that Sun Life insurance again? I told you we’ve had no accidents!’

‘No. I’m a friend of Max’s. I’m Vivienne Summers . . . Is that you, Mrs Kelly?’

‘Might be.’

‘Well, I don’t know if you remember me . . .’ No answer. ‘We met when you visited Max at university?’ Silence. ‘I stayed with you on New Year’s Eve once?’ God, this is difficult.

‘What d’you say your name was?’

‘Vivienne.’

‘No, no, doesn’t ring a bell.’

‘Oh. Did he not mention me? We’ve been friends for years.’

‘No.’

‘Okay. Well, it’s just that I’m looking for Max. He’s left his flat and gone somewhere and I wondered if you might have heard from him.’ No response. God, it’s like pulling teeth. Maybe she’s hung up. ‘Hello?’

‘Yes.’

‘So if Max gets in touch, would you just say that Viv called?’

‘Ah, hold on, Viv. Yes, I know you.’

‘Yes. Hi.’

‘You’re the dark-haired one he holds a candle for, aren’t you?’

‘Yes! Does he?’

‘He does talk about you.’

‘So you’ve heard from him?’

‘Not this week. I’ll tell you it’s as if he hasn’t heard of a telephone. I told him to ring every week at least. And he never visits. Last July we saw him – he was back for Siobhan’s wedding. She married the cousin of our neighbour . . .’

And on and on for a full twenty minutes: the list of his auntie Hilda’s ailments; his eldest sister’s back hasn’t been the same since she had the caesarean. They love the bones of him. They miss him like mad. Just like me.

Facebook Group – Where’s Max?

Basic info:
Search for lost lover

Category:
Love, heartbreak

Description:
Is it better to have loved and lost? I don’t think so. My name is Vivienne Summers and I’ve lost my love because I didn’t realise what I had. There was a misunderstanding; he thinks I betrayed him and now he’s gone. I have to find him. If you know him, have seen him or meet him, would you let him know I’m sorry and I love him.

Subject Profile

Name:
Max Kelly

Sex:
Male

Nationality:
Irish

Birthday:
5 April 1980

Hometown:
London

Description:
Six foot two-ish, dark curly hair, scruffy-looking

Dresses:
From the floor – jeans, track pants, T-shirts; sartorially out of step

Interested in:
Poetry, art, motorbikes, guitar, telling long, often pointless stories

Favourite word:
Slot

Favourite colour:
Vermilion

In the airless box of the thirteenth-floor meeting room, Christie’s bubble gum pops. She winds a pink-grey string and stretches it in front of her face before nibbling it back.

‘I like your hair,’ she says. ‘Have you had it done?’

‘Ages ago.’

She walks round my chair. ‘Oh yeah.’ She pops her gum again.

‘Can you not do that?’ I smooth my hair at the back.

‘Is that a version of a mullet?’

‘I don’t know what it’s “a version” of.’

‘Hmm.’ She sighs and slumps into her chair, stretching her arms across the desk.

‘So, Christie, let’s have a little think. How are we going to sell ten thousand unethical candles?’

‘We can’t. We’re doomed.’

‘Shall I just put that in the report for Mole, then?’ I pretend to write down, ‘We’re doomed.’

‘Why does everything have to be ethical? Nothing is ethical any more. No one cares.’