Never Google Heartbreak (31 page)

‘Except the slave labour children hand-stitching buttons twenty hours a day.’

‘Yeah, but we’re talking about prisoners making candles. It’s not like they have lives.’

‘Shall I put that down as well?’

Christie rolls her eyes.

‘It’s Barnes and Worth; they do everything properly, remember? Anyway, Snotty and Mole don’t know about the unethical part yet.’ I glance at my notes. ‘Or the ten thousand part, actually.’

‘Oh.’ Christie starts picking off nail polish.

‘Christie! Come on, they’ll be here in half an hour. This is our last chance to show them that we’re not crap.’

‘Oh God . . . I don’t know. I don’t know. Maybe we just are crap,’ she says, rubbing her face.

‘We could divert the stock to the online warehouse; then they could be sold online for ever. Then we just have to tell them where they’re made.’

‘Let’s do that!’ she shrieks, slamming the desk. ‘It’s genius!’

‘Okay, I’ll call IT and see what we have to do.’

Ten minutes later Michael arrives, wearing a purple silk shirt and crushed-velvet drainpipes. I introduce Christie; he casts an expert eye over her rump like a gypsy at a horse fair. He sits beside me, ankles crossed, feet jiggling. The room fills with his musky scent. He takes my laptop and brings up the online store.

‘Where d’you want them placed?’

‘I don’t know, Christmas?’

‘Unless you want them to sell through all year . . .’ He leans back, cradling the back of his head in his hands. His knees begin to jump like drummers’ elbows. ‘In which case they should be in homewares.’

‘Oh well, yes, homewares, then.’

His fingers scamper across the keyboard. ‘I need a photograph,’ he says.

‘I’ll email one.’

‘Well then,
c’est possible
. It’ll be tricky, though, to just put them in – I’ll have to imply it was an IT error and we don’t make ’em. I’m only doing it because it’s you.’

‘Thanks, Michael. I owe you.’ I smile. ‘A drink, I mean,’ I add, noticing his tongue cover his lips.

He moves towards the door. ‘No can do, Vivienne. This is one opportunity that has well and truly passed you by.’ He strokes down his body with the back of his hands.

‘Really?’

‘Yup. This guy’s wanderlust seed-sowing days are at an end.’

‘That’s a real shame.’

‘Correct, Viv. For all the girls I’ve not got around to.’ He looks pointedly at me.

‘Are you taken, then?’ asks Christie.

‘I am indeed, young Christie, and I think you well know the queen of my heart and loins.’

‘What?’

‘I’m engaged to Marion Harrison.’

The announcement hangs in the air, with Christie looking vacant for ages before the penny drops. ‘Oh my God! You mean Mole!’ she squeals. He stops jiggling as he considers the nickname.

‘Congratulations, Michael! I had no idea you two were . . . uh . . .’ I say.

‘Doing the wild thing? Yeah, for a few years now, off and on.’ His eyes get a faraway look. ‘It’s funny how it catches up with you. No matter where I go, I just keep coming back to that sweet—’

‘Good, good! Congratulations . . . again.’ I stand up and usher him to the door.

‘Laters.’ He points a finger-gun at me, before aiming at Christie and firing.

As I try to close the door after him, he takes my hand. ‘You’re invited to the engagement party, doll,’ he says, and winks.

‘Thanks so much, Michael.’ I smile at the door until he steps into the lift. Then we try to freshen up the room by turning up the air conditioning. The windows don’t open on the thirteenth floor, in case of suicide attempts.

‘I can’t believe it. Mole is getting married!’ says Christie.

‘I know.’

‘She must be ten years older than him.’

‘I suppose it takes all sorts.’

‘Viv, if she can get married, there’s hope for you.’

‘Thanks, Christie.’ I smile, sinking back into my seat. ‘Look, in ten minutes they’ll be here. So we’ll update them on all the ranges and slip the candle thing in at the end.’

‘Right.’

‘Let’s have a look at the folders, then.’

We’re halfway through when Snotty and Mole sweep into the room. Mole smiles and they sit down at the top of the table in silence. Snotty is wearing some passable purple seventies wedge boots. She eyes me coldly.

‘Vivienne.’ She nods. ‘Christine.’ I notice there’s no engagement ring on Mole’s chubby finger, so I decide against congratulating her. ‘We’d like you to begin by updating us on these Scandinavian candles, please,’ Snotty continues. I feel my heart jolt. I’m well used to this panicky feeling. I take a deep breath.

‘Scandinavian candles?’ I murmur.

‘Yes.’ She looks up. The light glints off her little glasses and into my eyes like some sort of torture.

Confess, I think. Spill. Sing like a canary. ‘We have ten thousand in the warehouse.’

Mole looks up sharply. ‘
Ten
thousand?’ she asks.

‘Yes. That’s correct.’ I pretend to check my notes, shuffling a few papers. ‘Also, they’re made by Norwegian prisoners.’

‘Prisoners?’ asks Mole.

‘Yes.’

‘Prisoners?’ echoes Snotty. What are they? Hard of hearing?

‘Petty-criminal prisoners, not murderers or rapists or anything,’ I say. They stare at me carefully. ‘I think just shoplifters and maybe a few tax dodgers . . . So yeah, that sort of thing.’ I suddenly feel liberated. I meet their eyes and smile.

‘You knew this.’

‘Yes I did.’ God, this is so cathartic! The truth – what a novelty.

‘But you ordered ten thousand?’

‘Actually, it was me,’ Christie confesses. ‘I was supposed to check the prisoner thingy. I ordered the ten thousand.’ She looks like she might cry.

‘And I was supposed to supervise her, so it was me as well.’ I smile, beginning to see why Catholics go to confession. A silence follows, during which Snotty’s ears go bright red.

‘Well. I really don’t know what to say. You are aware of your position? Having had all the warnings we can give?’ she asks.

‘Yes, we are aware, I think. Are you aware, Christie?’

Christie nods; then Snotty points at her dramatically. ‘Christie, you’re fired,’ she announces. Christie gasps as if she’s been struck.

‘Oh, very good. Very good.’ I clap. ‘I bet you’ve been dying to say that.’ I stand up as inside my head a little warning bell rings. ‘Well, you won’t get to say it to me, because I resign.’ They gape like frogs. ‘Yes, I quit!’ I throw my bag over my shoulder. ‘I’ll have you know, Christie and I have been headhunted several times by competitors. We are known in this industry as ‘the dream team’. So we don’t need to sit here and be bullied by the likes of you. Come on, Christie.’ She hesitates before scrabbling up her things and taking ages to put them in her bag, leaving me standing glaring at the expectant faces of Snotty and Mole. ‘Come on, Christie. Let us go and seek out friendlier skies.’ I’m not sure where that came from –
Les Mis
, I think – but it has just the level of dignity I’m looking for. Finally she scuttles round the table and stands beside me and we stalk out together.

Later we sit despondently in the Crown with our celebratory bottle of Chardonnay. The wine is warm and yellow as wee.

‘Still, if we’re being headhunted . . .’ begins Christie. She looks like a lost fawn.

‘We’re not. I just said that.’

‘Oh. So . . . we’re not the dream team, then?’

‘Not as such.’ I take a huge gulp of wine. It’s like liquid headache.

She clasps and unclasps her hands in her lap. ‘You didn’t need to do that,’ she says. I wait for her to thank me for my act of altruism. ‘I mean, we’ll get shit references now, won’t we?’ I hadn’t thought about references. We sit side by side, staring into the cavernous pub. An old man sitting at the bar keeps shouting, ‘We won the Gold Cup!’ and lifting his pint of stout in a toast. I watch until I can’t stand it any more.

‘Look, Christie, we don’t need references.’ I turn to her. ‘We’ll set up on our own. Dream Team PR!’

She looks a bit doubtful. ‘What, just me and you?’

‘Why not? We have the knowledge and the contacts. We can promote anything. We can sell edible knickers.’

‘I suppose we could approach Ann Summers,’ she says.

‘Good one! We can do a whole range of saucy accessories.’

‘Yeah.’

‘And we’ll be better than we’ve ever been before because it will be just us.’ I lift my glass. ‘So, to Dream Team PR.’

‘To us!’ She chinks with me; then we sit mulling it over. It’s terrifying.

‘I have an idea for our first project. It’s a PR campaign.’ I turn to face her. ‘I need to find someone.’

It’s late when we leave the pub. I call the hospital and speak to a nurse who doesn’t think Nana is on her ward. I ask to speak to Reg, but she says she hasn’t seen him. It’s weird. I decide to call back later and hopefully speak to someone who knows what they’re doing. I just want to go home. Last night when I returned, struggling with Dave, five tins of Whiskas and a litter tray, I was so tired I went straight to bed. I’m looking forward to spending time alone in my own space again.

I turn the key with a huge sense of relief. The flat is silent. I peer into the living room.

‘Dave! Where are you, kitty?’ There’s a folded note on the coffee table. I throw my bag on the sofa and scoop it up, recognising Rob’s anal handwriting.

Viv,

I want you to know you’ve made a big mistake. You’re a very silly girl. I’m the best thing that has ever or will ever happen to you. I want you to know two things:

1. You’ll never find another man like me – one who was prepared to give you everything.

2. This is definitely goodbye. Don’t think I’ll be back – you’ve blown it. It’s over.

Don’t try to come crawling back. Good luck with your life. When you think of me, remember that I was the one who loved you, and you were the one who threw it all away!

Rob

I let my head fall back against the sofa, looking up at strips of street light filtering through the blind. Dave pads in and sits by my feet, curls his tail neatly around his paws, blinks and begins to purr.

‘You’re pleased with yourself. What’ve you been doing all day?’ I crumple up the note and chuck it across the room. Dave suddenly pounces after it, skidding onto his side and tapping it under the coffee table with a front paw. The phone rings and the answer machine kicks in.

‘Viv? It’s Rob. Listen, Bunny, we need to talk. Call me.’ Dave blinks.

‘I know . . . tragic,’ I say.

He springs up, kneading the sofa with white hook claws. I push him to the floor, but he jumps straight back, rhythmically scratching at the leather.

‘Don’t do that.’ He stops, seeming to reflect before starting again. ‘Can’t you go and lick your bum or something?’ I flick him off and go to get changed.

The bedroom is carnage; a feather pillow has been ripped like the savaged belly of a bird and my silk kimono dressing gown is shredded to ribbons. Dave follows quietly behind. He sits by my feet looking surprised. I pick up the kimono.

‘Bloody hell, Dave! This cost nearly a hundred pounds!’ Lemon eyes follow the swaying strands of silk. ‘How’re you going to pay for it, huh?’ I kick the pillow. ‘And that was my favourite pillow.’ He bats at a floating feather as I kneel to pile the pillow remains on the bed. ‘Listen, stupid, you can’t do stuff like this, okay?’ A feather sticks to his lip and he tries to eat it. ‘Do you need a scratching post or something?’ I consider the best way to clear up, deciding to sweep the whole mess into a bin bag. ‘Go on, scat!’ I chase him out; he scarpers, tail down, and hides under the coffee table.

I walk around the flat looking for traces of Rob. It’s such a relief to be rid of him, I can’t believe it. I loved him . . . No, I was obsessed with him. I thought I’d be upset, worried about the future. The future I’m actually facing right now – jobless, soon to be penniless, almost without a friend, single. I allow the ‘spinster’ word in and mull it over . . . No, still huge relief. It’s actually lonelier to be with the wrong person than it is to be on your own. See – alone you have hope, and peace of mind. Alone anything can happen; you’re in the driving seat: you can learn trapeze, get that piercing, travel to Guatemala in a van, have a fish finger sarnie for dinner.

I move to the fridge, experimenting with thoughts, seeing if they hurt. Rob with someone else . . . nothing. Pushing a pram? God, he’d be a terrible father! Bumping into Rob while I’m single and he’s with some supermodel and their baby and I’m all sweaty from the gym? I pour a glass of water. Ow, yes, something hurts in that scenario, but it’s only a scratch; it’s okay without the sweaty part. Dave appears, looking hopefully up at the fridge, white front paws placed neatly together.

‘What? I’m not speaking to you.’ I glare at him and he gives a soft squeak. I scoop out cat food onto a saucer and he purrs, pulling chunks of meat onto the floor.

‘You’ve no manners at all,’ I tell him. ‘Like your owner.’ Your delicious, sexy owner. How would it feel to lose Max? To bump into him when he was with someone else? Devastating. Unimaginable. Well, I’m not going to lose him. I hurry to the laptop, open up the website and begin a blog to him.

By the time I’ve finished typing, I’m wiping tears from my eyes. If he were here, everything would just be better. I post the blog and wait. But what am I expecting to happen? Some kind of magic? He’s not going to appear at my door with a huge bouquet of roses. I flick on the TV to drown out the silent phone and search the kitchen for snacks. I find some out-of-date cheesy biscuits and a bag of Twiglets and lie on the sofa flicking through channels. Dave settles himself on my tummy and we share them. I feel myself relax as I stroke the back of his head; a comforting feeling settles around us. We’re just getting interested in a programme about embarrassing body hair when the phone rings. I freeze. Could it be Max? It could be him. He’s read the message and he’s coming over. I rush to answer.

‘Vivienne?’ says a familiar voice.

‘Nana!’

‘Hello, love.’

‘How are you?’

‘I’m all right. How are you, my darling?’ Her voice sounds weak.