Never Google Heartbreak (37 page)

‘It says, “Where’s Max?”’

‘It doesn’t say that, though, does it?’

‘Well, it’s written in French, so “
Où est Max?
”’

‘Is he French, then?’

‘No, he’s Irish.’

‘Well, as long as you’re following this, folks at home! Ha ha ha!’ He laughs and I feel the first pinprick of foolishness. ‘So have you had any luck? Have you heard from this Max fella?’

‘Not so far, but here’s hoping! Here’s hoping!’ I guffaw.

‘And tell us about your blog, Vivienne. Have you put your heart online, literally, do you think?’

‘Well, yes, I suppose so. I’ve been writing a blog to Max, so he can, um, you know, so he’ll realise that not a day goes by when I don’t think of him.’ Oh no, I suddenly feel my throat getting thick . . . I can’t cry!

‘And has your Max ever replied?’

I try to collect myself. ‘No. No, he hasn’t.’

‘So maybe, Viv – and I don’t want to be cruel to you when I say this – but just maybe he doesn’t want to be found. Have you thought of that?’

I start to notice some sad music floating in the background. ‘I just hope he does, I suppose.’

‘Of course you do, my love. Can you tell us why he went off in the first place?’ he asks gently.

‘Yes. I . . . We had a misunderstanding and he thinks I was with someone else, but I’m not and I wasn’t.’

‘Now if it was me – and bear with me, because I
am
a bit old-fashioned – I’d just ring him up. Why the big campaign?’

‘He didn’t answer my calls. This is my way to show him how I feel and . . .’ The sad music swells.

‘Because it might be just that he wants to get away from you, sweetie pie. I’m not being rude; I just wondered if you’d considered that.’

‘I don’t believe it.’ I suddenly get a vision of myself sitting in this shabby studio in my T-shirt with these stupid headphones on and I have the urge to run out of here. I know I will find Max. But not like this. Not by being publicly humiliated or by humiliating Max. This is not how I thought it would be. I don’t know what I was thinking. I’m trying to explain something so personal to this Stuart guy and it just seems hopeless and silly.

‘Well, it seems a lot of people are interested in the search for Max – I mean, over ten thousand friends of the Facebook group. Hell, I’m even one of them! Why do you think that is?’

‘I think it’s to do with people needing to believe in love.’

‘Do you think they do? Isn’t love a failing force in our cynical and materialistic world?’

‘Not for me . . . or a lot of other people.’

‘And not for me. We’re believers, aren’t we, Vivienne? We believe in the power of love.’

‘The thing is, I just want to find my friend. That’s all.’

‘Okay, then! What’s next for you, Vivienne, if you don’t find your man?’

‘If I don’t?’

‘Yes . . . let’s just imagine, he’s reading all your blogs and Facebook stuff, even listening to us right now, thinking,’ Stuart affects an Irish accent, ‘“For God’s sake, woman, will you ever just leave well enough alone!” . . .’

And then I consider it for the first time. What if he
is
thinking that? I’m doing all this to show him I love him, but what if he hates me for it? I think back to the conversation with Nana. ‘Always searching for something,’ she said. ‘Wanting to change the world.’ I suddenly see myself not as a lover writing messages across the sky, but as an arrogant, selfish person who won’t let someone she hurt get away.

‘What will you do then, Vivienne?’

‘I haven’t thought that far.’ I try to smile through the crescendo of violins in my headphones. I haven’t thought at all. As usual I ploughed ahead regardless. I thought it would be fun. I thought he’d respond. This is Max I’m talking about. My lovely loyal friend, and here I am turning everything into a circus. I feel my chest tighten. I’ve got it all wrong. How have I ended up here with everything all wrong, again?

‘Actually, Stuart . . . can I say something?’ I blurt out.

‘You’re on Romance Radio, we
love
to talk.’

‘Well, I’d like to stop the search for Max.’

‘You want to stop?’ The sad music quietens.

‘I want to call it off.’ He waits, looking down at the decks. There’s a fizzing in the headphones. Is this radio silence? It can’t be good. Is it my fault? ‘I want to stop looking for Max,’ I say again to fill the gap, looking desperately over at the bird’s nest of grey hair on Stuart’s bent head. He says nothing. ‘I . . . I’m not looking for him any more. I think I’d like to respect his privacy now. He clearly doesn’t want to be found.’ Stuart raises his head; a look of triumph glitters in his eyes. He nods sagely. ‘So I’m sorry to all the members of the “Where’s Max?” group. I’m stopping now, so please could everyone just stop as well?’ I take off the headphones, making a muffled scratchy noise into the microphone. I take off the T-shirt and fold it carefully in my bag and I sit there in my vest. Stuart scrabbles about, pressing buttons.

‘Well, listeners, there she goes! That was the extremely lovely and perhaps a little confused Vivienne Summers, who wants to call off her search for Max Kelly. And in a way I think she’s right, because you can’t force love and you can’t hurry love either, as we all know! Hey, you heard it here first, exclusive to Romance Radio.’ He plays a jingle that merges into Adele singing ‘Someone Like You’. He slides off his headphones and pinches the bridge of his nose, seeming a bit deflated now. Ruby rushes in to escort me from the studio. I look over my shoulder at Stuart. His eyes are closed.

‘Is he okay?’ I ask.

‘Oh yeah, fine. He’ll just be getting ready for the next bit.’

‘Well, sorry. I don’t think it was what he expected.’ Ruby just smiles. ‘Thank you for having me,’ I say, like a child at the end of a party.

‘Aww, you’re welcome!’ She shows me the door and I stumble down the dirty stairwell into the street, a bit stunned. I turn into the wind and start walking and thinking, and the more I think about calling off the search for Max, the more I know it’s the right thing to do. With each step I feel a kind of calm, flowing through the workings of my mind like oil.

* * *

At home I take a very long hot bath. I lie in the steam, letting my fingers shrivel. People can change. I’ll change. I’ll be a serious person, a calm person, like the kind of person I’ve always admired. I won’t be off on wild-goose chases. No more funny ideas. No more partying. I won’t even read poetry. I mean, poetry! Where has that got me?

When the water starts to cool, I get out and put on my fluffy dressing gown. The one that reaches my ankles. The only one I have now since Dave savaged the sexy silk one. Still, I won’t be needing a sexy dressing gown anyhow, will I? I switch on the laptop in the living room and begin to type.

BLOG TO MAX #6 – IT’S OVER

Days since I last saw you: 30

Oh God, I was a disaster today on the radio. It started okay and I was really excited and then Stuart Hill kept asking, ‘What makes you think this Max wants to be found?’ and I was thinking, Well, it’s obvious: we love each other. But the truth is, I don’t know how you feel any more. I’m presuming I can win you round, but what if I’ve hurt you too deeply? What if you never want to see me again? It doesn’t bear thinking about. It kills me to say this, but maybe I need to face the fact that if you wanted to be found, you’d be here by now.

So. Now. Max.

I want to say sorry. I want to tell you that when you saw me that day with Rob, it wasn’t what you thought. I want to tell you I know I’m a stupid arse. And I want to say this will be my last blog.

I’ll always be hoping for you and looking for you and loving you, but I’m calling off this crazy big search. This campaign is over, and if you want me . . . well, you know where I am.

V x

I stare at the cursor blinking there until my vision begins to blur. This is the right thing, though. It’s time for me to go quietly about my business and stop searching for things, just like Nana said. I’ll be calm. I’ll be at peace. Serene. I stifle a little sob.

I read some of the messages posted by members. I suppose I should write a little thank-you message to them, sign off properly. I look out of the window at the twilight sky. Now the nights are drawing in, it’s getting nippy and my mad summer’s over. I think of those few hot days spent with Max. I missed my chance for love, I guess. I look back at the screen, take a tissue and blow my nose. Dave appears and curls around my ankles. A new message appears.

Hey V, it’s me.

M x

My heart briefly leaps, until I realise it’s some joker. There have been a few pretending to be him. I’ll ignore it. I stare at the words . . . What if it is him and I miss my chance again? Of course it isn’t, though, because he’d phone, wouldn’t he? This’ll be some weirdo.

It wouldn’t hurt to check, though.

If that is you, Max, phone in five minutes.

V x

I wait. Nothing. I wait some more. Who am I trying to kid? I go to the kitchen and pour myself some orange juice. No more boozing. I’m changing my ways. I walk back into the living room, deliberately not looking at the laptop screen. I sit on the sofa and flick through the paper. Dave starts mewing and scratching at the chair leg. Bloody cat.

‘Stop that or I’ll have you stuffed.’ He jumps onto the chair and then the table, rubbing his face against the laptop screen and purring. ‘I’m not joking,’ I warn him, and then it occurs to me that Dave might be trying to tell me something, like Lassie. I say, ‘What’s that, boy? There’s a message from your owner? He’s stuck down a well?’ Dave stares. He blinks. I go and check.

In Spain. Big mountains. No signal.

M x

I’m not going to get myself all excited about this. It’s obviously some fool thinking he’s hilarious. But . . .

How do I know it’s really you?

V

I wait, scratching the top of Dave’s head. He purrs like a buzz saw. A message appears.

What u on about? It’s me, look!

M x

I stare at the screen. I dare not hope. My heart is in shreds as it is; if this is a joke, I’ll be tipped over the edge.

Prove it.

V

I can’t sit and wait. I walk around a bit and check. Nothing. See? This is not Max. I pull my dressing gown tighter and tuck my hair behind my ears. Nothing. I look at Dave still sitting by the screen, purring. ‘It’s not him. Don’t get your hopes up,’ I say, and take my glass through to the kitchen.

I check on my way back. Still nothing.

SOME THINGS I KNOW ABOUT VIVIENNE SUMMERS

By Max Kelly

She has a birthmark the shape of Ireland on her right arse cheek.

She has the dirtiest laugh I’ve ever heard.

She’s stubborn as a mule.

She doesn’t like motorbikes or Arsenal or tattoos, but she does like me, and her mad nana and English roses.

She likes tea in the morning, coffee after lunch and dry white wine any time.

She has always been crap at poetry and she can’t draw.

I fancy her most when she smiles.

She can’t handle her booze.

Her favourite colour is pink but she thinks it’s blue.

She’s bossy and impatient but kind and lovely.

I nearly died of a broken heart when she walked into an art gallery with someone else, but I can’t live without her, so I’m having to look her up again.

If I think she might love me, I’d take on the world.

She’s the sexiest thing I’ve ever seen.

She’s my beautiful, hilarious, clever friend.

I fancy spending some time with her.

I heard she might be looking for me and I wondered if she’d like to come to Spain for a bit.

Believe me now?

M x

It’s you!

V x

So how about it?

M x

1 September, 19:14

From:
Ryanair.com

To:
Vivienne Summers

Subject:
Flight confirmation

Thank you for choosing to travel with ryanair.com.

This receipt is not valid for travel.

Your ticket will be emailed to the address you provided.

Please check the details below carefully and click to accept.

Name of passenger: Vivienne Summers

Date: 2 September 2012

Airport From: London Stansted, UK

Airport To: Barcelona (Girona), Spain

One way/Return: One way

Click.

Thank you, Steve Garcia, for tirelessly being my muse and making me write this.

I’m extremely grateful to my agent Madeleine Milburn for all her encouragement and wheeling and dealing. Thanks to everyone at Hodder, especially Isobel Akenhead for her hawk-eyed editing and her lovely assistant Harriet Bourton, who is not at all like Christie. Thanks to Charlotte Maslen, Tessa Ditner and Danielle Shaw for repeatedly reading my writing and being so cool, clever and honest. Thanks to everyone who ever broke my heart and apologies to all my funny friends whose one-liners I’ve pinched. Thanks, Mum and Dad, for everything.

Author Emma Garcia has enjoyed plenty of her own romantic misadventures over the years – some hilarious, some just . . . weird. She spills the beans to her editor in this exclusive Q&A.

In NGH, Viv has a knack for rather embarrassing herself at entirely inappropriate moments in the name of love. What is the craziest thing you have ever done for someone you loved?

Erm, I’m a bit shy and nerdy so not as brave as Viv, but I once followed a man because I liked his coat and we ended up going out for brunch. Also I made a necklace with a shoelace and one of my teeth for a boy at school . . . but that ended badly. Then ultimately I got married and had three babies . . . That’s a totally bonkers thing to do when you think about it.

When you were writing NGH, was there a particular heartbreak of your own that you had in mind?

Might have been. You know who you are and I want my juicer back!

I think we all fell in love with Max pretty instantaneously. He had us at ‘Hello’. He really is a very fine specimen of a man
 . . . 
Sorry, back to the question. Do you think being in love is at its best when it’s with your best friend?