Read Online Never Google Heartbreak by Emma Garcia - Free Book Online
Authors: Emma Garcia
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eyes looking me over and every inch of me cringes. She moves much closer to Rob. They’re practically having sex, sharing the one hymn-book. I’m glued to the spot, unable to sing, thoughts madly circling. I’m totally winded and for the rest of the service I can’t bear to look to my left. I’m desperate for this to be over.
The bride and groom seem to be in slow motion as they walk down the aisle as a married couple. Jane smiles as she passes and I get the feeling I’m on a shipwreck and she’s rowing away in the last of the lifeboats. I’m leaning heavily on Max and he suddenly gives way; we stumble into the aisle and scramble out into the friendly light of the July afternoon, as if tumbling from the mouth of a whale.
I’m breathing in sobs and pushing Max forward; we scarper round the corner until I find a cool wall to lean on, out of sight. I put a hand over my eyes.
‘Oh Jesus! Oh my God!’
‘I think you’re supposed to say that kind of thing inside the church.’
‘I can’t do this. I really thought I could . . . but I can’t.’
I try to breathe, listening to the sparrows fussing in the trees behind us and the chatter of wedding guests. Random exclamations like ‘Lovely!’ and ‘Oh, I know!’ flute into the air. My eyes fill up. A tear drops and soaks into the dusty pavement, sending a line of ants into panic. I see Max moving little piles of gravel with the toe of his shoe. I look up, shielding my eyes.
‘What am I going to do?’
He smiles and reaches out his hand. ‘Come on, my soggy friend. There’s a pub. Let’s go.’
The Laughing Monk is a refuge for lone men in bad jumpers. A couple of them look up in mild surprise as we enter arm in arm and take up stools at the bar. A television screen shows horseracing with the volume down. The gaunt, unhappy barman looks expectantly at us rather than bothering to speak. I order.
‘Two large tequila and Cokes, please.’
‘And two whisky chasers,’ adds Max.
The barman sets down the drinks in grubby glasses without ice and takes the twenty pounds I offer. He brings a couple of coins for change, all without breathing a word.
I down the whisky; its warmth explodes in my stomach.
Max sips his with narrowed eyes.
‘Was it that bad, seeing him again?’
I think about this question. ‘Bad’ doesn’t begin to cover it. This Sam girl is a disaster. I look down at myself; the magical dress now seems more fancy dress than cutting edge.
‘Max, what do I look like?’
He finishes his whisky, looks me over and considers. ‘You look like . . . a lovely bit of coconut ice.’
‘You see, that’s not the look I was going for.’
‘Okay . . . a beautiful marshmallow.’
‘Forget it.’
‘No, really, Viv, you look gorgeous.’
‘Did you get a look at Rob’s girlfriend?’
‘Yeah, she was all right.’
‘She’s stunning. He’s obviously in love.’ My eyes fill up with the shock of saying it. I take a long swig of tequila.
‘He didn’t hang about, then.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you, with a girl like her?’
‘She’s not all
that
, Viv.’
I let out a sob and both nostrils fill up. I sniff and down the drink, slamming the glass on the bar. ‘God, I feel so
stupid
! I mean, there was I, thinking all it would take was a nice dress and a bit of slap and I’d get him back. It isn’t even a nice dress! I look like a fat fairy next to her.’
A man in a knitted tank top looks up from his paper. I know I’m wailing and this is nearly all the excitement they can bear in the Laughing Monk, but I don’t care. Max orders two more large tequila and Cokes. Through the window I can see the church, and a photographer striding about arranging the congregation for photos. A few women in hats are already wandering across the green towards the hotel and the champagne reception.
‘Viv, what are you on about – “fat fairy”? You make me laugh sometimes.’
‘I don’t know . . . I just want him back.’ I
The bride and groom seem to be in slow motion as they walk down the aisle as a married couple. Jane smiles as she passes and I get the feeling I’m on a shipwreck and she’s rowing away in the last of the lifeboats. I’m leaning heavily on Max and he suddenly gives way; we stumble into the aisle and scramble out into the friendly light of the July afternoon, as if tumbling from the mouth of a whale.
I’m breathing in sobs and pushing Max forward; we scarper round the corner until I find a cool wall to lean on, out of sight. I put a hand over my eyes.
‘Oh Jesus! Oh my God!’
‘I think you’re supposed to say that kind of thing inside the church.’
‘I can’t do this. I really thought I could . . . but I can’t.’
I try to breathe, listening to the sparrows fussing in the trees behind us and the chatter of wedding guests. Random exclamations like ‘Lovely!’ and ‘Oh, I know!’ flute into the air. My eyes fill up. A tear drops and soaks into the dusty pavement, sending a line of ants into panic. I see Max moving little piles of gravel with the toe of his shoe. I look up, shielding my eyes.
‘What am I going to do?’
He smiles and reaches out his hand. ‘Come on, my soggy friend. There’s a pub. Let’s go.’
The Laughing Monk is a refuge for lone men in bad jumpers. A couple of them look up in mild surprise as we enter arm in arm and take up stools at the bar. A television screen shows horseracing with the volume down. The gaunt, unhappy barman looks expectantly at us rather than bothering to speak. I order.
‘Two large tequila and Cokes, please.’
‘And two whisky chasers,’ adds Max.
The barman sets down the drinks in grubby glasses without ice and takes the twenty pounds I offer. He brings a couple of coins for change, all without breathing a word.
I down the whisky; its warmth explodes in my stomach.
Max sips his with narrowed eyes.
‘Was it that bad, seeing him again?’
I think about this question. ‘Bad’ doesn’t begin to cover it. This Sam girl is a disaster. I look down at myself; the magical dress now seems more fancy dress than cutting edge.
‘Max, what do I look like?’
He finishes his whisky, looks me over and considers. ‘You look like . . . a lovely bit of coconut ice.’
‘You see, that’s not the look I was going for.’
‘Okay . . . a beautiful marshmallow.’
‘Forget it.’
‘No, really, Viv, you look gorgeous.’
‘Did you get a look at Rob’s girlfriend?’
‘Yeah, she was all right.’
‘She’s stunning. He’s obviously in love.’ My eyes fill up with the shock of saying it. I take a long swig of tequila.
‘He didn’t hang about, then.’
‘Well, you wouldn’t, would you, with a girl like her?’
‘She’s not all
that
, Viv.’
I let out a sob and both nostrils fill up. I sniff and down the drink, slamming the glass on the bar. ‘God, I feel so
stupid
! I mean, there was I, thinking all it would take was a nice dress and a bit of slap and I’d get him back. It isn’t even a nice dress! I look like a fat fairy next to her.’
A man in a knitted tank top looks up from his paper. I know I’m wailing and this is nearly all the excitement they can bear in the Laughing Monk, but I don’t care. Max orders two more large tequila and Cokes. Through the window I can see the church, and a photographer striding about arranging the congregation for photos. A few women in hats are already wandering across the green towards the hotel and the champagne reception.
‘Viv, what are you on about – “fat fairy”? You make me laugh sometimes.’
‘I don’t know . . . I just want him back.’ I
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