Hello, Heartbreak Read online

  She opened her perfect mouth and crashed me back to the present. ‘Who’s this, baby?’

  I swear to God, if she said ‘baby’ to him one more time, my ears were going to bleed.

  Cian was swishing the end of his beer into a little vortex at the bottom of the glass. ‘Erm, this is… eh, Izzy,’ he muttered.

  ‘I see,’ she purred, scanning me up and down like a security camera. ‘So this is Izzy!’

  What the hell was I supposed to do? Wave? Shake her hand? Move in for the airkiss? All I wanted to do was punch her dainty little nose, but that might not sit too well with my ‘nonchalant’ thing.

  ‘Ah, Cian,’ she said, smiling at me like a reptile. ‘She’s so… cute.’

  Excuse me? Was I wearing pigtails and dungarees? Did I look like a puppy?

  I strove to cling to the last vestiges of dignity. ‘Sorry, and you are?’ Let’s not be too hasty here, perhaps she was just some long-lost overly tactile cousin of Cian’s whom I’d never met.

  ‘I’m Cian’s girlfriend. Saffron. But you can call me Saffy.’

  I could, but I think I’ll stick with shameless hussy if it’s all the same to you.

  ‘Izzy, I think you should head off,’ Cian said quietly.

  She snaked an arm through his. ‘Yeah, maybe you should do that, Izzy. Things could get, you know, a tad awkward otherwise.’

  I looked at Cian helplessly. Was he going to let her speak to me like that? As if I was someone insignificant, dismissible?

  ‘All the best, Izzy,’ he said, and turned away.

  Yes, apparently he was.

  The room started to spin in slow motion. She nestled into Cian like a cat, not taking her eyes off me for one second. I started to inch backwards, resisting the urge to get the hell out of there. I wanted to give them an I’m-so-over-it look of contempt, flick my hair and walk away, taking my incredible arse with me. But it was impossible – I couldn’t stop staring at them. It was like watching a car crash, or an episode of The Jeremy Kyle Show. Even though it was making me nauseous, I couldn’t look away.

  The really painful thing was that she was a total ride. There were no other words for it. A ride. I had led myself to believe that the woman he’d chosen to run off and sleep with was a wiry-haired, overweight, overwrought minger, preferably with false teeth and a limp. That was how the story had gone in my head.

  But, no, that wouldn’t be how things worked out in the real world at all, now would it? No, here she was, with her sickeningly predictable long black silky hair and the longest legs I’d ever seen on anyone bar Naomi Campbell. (I saw her in Brown Thomas once when she pelted past me like an ostrich.)

  And her dress. Oh, dear God, her dress! That was the final nail in the coffin. It was a backless gold number with long lace sleeves down to her wrists and an elegantly cut neckline. Stunning. Plus it was set off by the most amazing pair of Louboutin gold peep-toes, which looked like they’d cost about three pay cheques, where my crummy wages were concerned.

  She was everything I wasn’t. Tall and dark, with expensive clothes and killer accessories – she looked almost Asian. Her skin was flawless, clear and radiant. I felt like yelling, ‘Good score!’ and high-fiving Cian. ‘Saffy’ was an A1 boyfriend-stealer, I’d give her that.

  She was eyeing me equally frankly, which made me feel unbearably vulnerable and exposed. I looked down at my gold dress, so tacky and cheap beside hers, like a sprig of lacklustre tinsel. There was no comparison, and it crippled me.

  Had he always been too good for me? I’d never really thought about it before, but he was gorgeous. Even now, when he was being so cold, I couldn’t tear my eyes off him. He had an undefinable, inexplicable something that had me hooked. Some would call it sex appeal but it had always felt like so much more than that to me. His cropped sandy-blond hair, his big blue eyes, his tall lean frame and broad shoulders had become a blueprint for what I thought of as beautiful. Every other man on the planet paled beside him.

  He turned back to me, catching me offguard. I half smiled at him, but he didn’t smile back. ‘It’s time you made yourself scarce.’

  ‘Yeah, Cian’s right,’ said Bitchface. ‘It was lovely to meet you, but we really just want to enjoy our night together now.’

  ‘Izzy, honestly, you should go before you make a fool of yourself,’ Cian said, with an edge to his voice.

  Well, all I can say in my defence is that he’d found the only button he hadn’t already pushed and just pressed ‘detonate’.

  ‘I’m sorry? Before I make a fool of myself? Fuck you, Cian Matthews!’ All the pain was suddenly replaced by an overwhelming fury. ‘Fuck you, you self-righteous, self-satisfied, heartless, cocky fuckhead!’

  ‘Okay, time to go,’ Susie said, behind me.

  I’d forgotten they were there. Anyway, where was I? Oh, yeah. ‘You are the one who made a fool of me in the first place by not having the balls or the decency to inform me you were shagging another woman behind my back!’

  ‘Seriously, Izzy, abort!’ Keelin pleaded, trying to pull me away. She would have had more luck trying to bridle a wild horse: this girl was not for turning.

  By this stage a rather substantial group had formed around us, all wanting a slice of the action. ‘What?’ I shouted at the crowd. I think adrenalin had pumped the alcohol around my body because I was suddenly feeling out-of-my-mind blind drunk. Some of them looked away, others were cringing with embarrassment, while a good majority were shaking their heads as if I was the most pitiful sight they’d ever chanced upon.

  ‘Don’t pity me!’ Was this really my voice? It didn’t sound like it. ‘Pity them!’ I yelled, my arms flapping about wildly to illustrate my point. ‘They are going to be miserable!’ God, I sounded like Skeletor from He-Man. ‘He is going to be miserable without me!’ I roared, wrapping the entire argument up neatly for the crowd. ‘Ha!’

  I may have even bowed.

  I didn’t receive a round of applause or calls for an encore. Instead, the shocked, silent stares continued to burn through me until they’d melted all my resolve. I suddenly felt weak and pathetic, like some circus freak who’d stepped outside the tent. As quickly as it had arrived, the rage that had hijacked me departed, replaced by utter mortification.

  I burst into tears. And, no, not the subtle tears I’d shed rather eloquently earlier on, but full on, snotty, wailing, heaving sobs. I stood there, swaying, with mascara staining my face, looking every inch the woman scorned. The last thing I remember is Cian, eyes wide, staring at me with horror. Then everything went blank.

  2

  One month p.m. (post-mortification)

  iPod choice: ‘I Will Survive’

  I’d decided that flowing, silky hair and long, skinny limbs was just such a cliché. Far more intriguing and quirky to have to get every pair of jeans you buy turned up and to have hair that’s slightly unruly, with a fringe that won’t lie flat.

  I’d also decided that Cian sleeping with the Cliché behind my back was possibly the best thing that could ever have happened to me: I’d dusted down all the shelves in my bedroom, something I always said I’d get around to but never found the time to do. Being single meant I had lots of time. And I’d put it to good use by vacuuming under my bed as well and pairing off all my socks. And sewing missing buttons back on to all of my blouses. I honestly couldn’t believe I’d sacrificed all of this just so I could be with a boyfriend! I mean, was I mad?

  I’d spent most of last week trying out different conditioners, which had been a right hoot. It wasn’t an attempt to make my hair lovely and silky, no, just so I was up-to-date and well informed the next time I found myself in a discussion about haircare.

  I honestly had to say I’d never felt happier in my life. People kept asking me was I ‘okay’? Of course I was okay! What not-okay person goes and alphabetizes the food presses? Or sorts out all of the towels in the hotpress? Or scrubs the moss from the gutters? I was more than okay, was what I was! I had a new lease on life! I felt fresh and
fantastic and wonderful, and all of my blouses had their buttons on them and the tins of beans were now so easy to find and my sock drawer looked so pretty and lovely.

  I was just so goddamn happy!

  Cian had been holding me back all this time!

  3

  Two months p.m.

  iPod choice: ‘Everybody Hurts’

  I’d decided that Cian sleeping with the Cliché had ruined my life. For ever. I hadn’t come out of my duvet cocoon in quite some time. It was really quite cosy and I’d made no plans to leave any time in the near future. Westlife and I had forged a new type of bond. I mean, I’d always been very fond of the lads, but now? We were tight.

  I’d told my boss I had meningitis. (Must remember to look up symptoms before I go back to work so I can relay the horrors of what I went through.) People just didn’t want to give you time off work if you told them you had brokenheartitis. Why not, for God’s sake? This was far worse than anything else I’d ever had to suffer through before. Even worse than that full body rash I got when I was eleven and Mum had to slather me in anti-itch cream and wrap me in tinfoil for a week.

  Keelin and Susie kept asking if I was okay and leaving sambos with the crusts cut off outside my door. Why couldn’t they see that Blue Nun and Tayto were the only food groups I needed now that everything was ruined? Now that Cian had dumped me for the tall girl with the long, silky hair.

  God. The only people who understood me now were Westlife.

  If I propped all my pillows around me, I could sit up to drink my wine and still have the duvet over my head. What more could I want? A life? No, didn’t have one of them any more. Not after the girls tried to make me go out last weekend. Not after I’d stepped into the pub and some drunk person shouted, ‘Oh, my God! Look! It’s that psycho from Facebook!’

  That’s right. My meltdown. Captured on camera phone. Uploaded on web. Posted on Facebook.

  Hello, heartbreak. Hello, public humiliation. Goodbye, dignity. Goodbye, life.

  It was official. Social reclusion was the new black.

  4

  Three months p.m.

  iPod choice: ‘Wind Beneath My Wings’

  This was it for me. I was going to turn into that crazy lady who roamed the streets shouting at children, ‘Enjoy your lives while you can, you little shits! One day someone will break your heart and then you’ll be miserable! Just like me!’ I’d be that bent-over old witch in the corner of the nursing home, rocking in my chair and stroking my beard, chanting, ‘Cian Matthews broke my heart. Cian Matthews broke my heart,’ while the staff had to restrain me to administer my sedatives.

  Because he had. He had broken my heart.

  And I felt hollow, bruised and raw.

  This was how it would be for me from here on in. I’d never get over him. In fact, I’d make a stand against getting over it and win some award for being the Most Heartbroken Person Ever (also known as the Martyr Award) and then he’d finally know just how badly he’d hurt me.

  Oh, he’d know all right.

  They’d interview me under my duvet and say, ‘So tell us, Isobel, where did it all begin?’

  ‘Well, you see it was when Cian Matthews, my first love, shagged the tall lady with the long, silky hair behind my back. It nearly killed me because I thought we were going to be together for the rest of our lives. Because we just knew. We knew when we got together that it all fitted into place. Some said, “You’re too young to know that,” and we said, “No, we’re not. People in the olden days got married at sixteen!” We didn’t care what they thought because we knew. But then he went and spoilt it all and shattered my life. So, thank you for the award, but could you go away now, please? I’m not used to too much social interaction and it makes me nervous. Oh, but you couldn’t just fill up my wine glass before you leave? And hit “play” on the Westlife CD on your way out?’

  5

  Four months p.m.

  iPod choice: ‘Movin’ On Up’

  Still slightly traumatized over what had just happened, but Mum said sweet tea would help. She kept lifting the mug to my lips and making me drink. I didn’t want sweet tea. What was the point if there was no alcohol in it? But I drank it anyway because if I didn’t it’d spill down my front and scald my chin.

  Mum, Emma, Keelin and Susie had staged an intervention. I kid you not. I hadn’t seen it coming. I’d thought it was someone coming to drop off another crustless sandwich at the bedroom door, but all of a sudden I was picked up, duvet and all, wrestled down the stairs and into the back of Mum’s car.

  And now here I was. Back at home. Violated, defeated, held against my will.

  ‘It’s for your own good, love,’ Mum said sternly. ‘You cannot continue like this. Keelin and Susie are going out of their minds with worry, and so are we.’

  ‘But I’ve been going to work!’ I wailed dramatically.

  ‘Yes, but you can’t spend every other waking moment up in your room, under your duvet, drinking cheap wine.’

  ‘Fine. I’ll buy expensive wine. It’s not like I’ve anything else to spend my wages on.’

  ‘Izzy, it’s time. Girls,’ she called, waving her hand, ‘be strong. I can’t watch.’

  Emma, Keelin and Susie took out huge scissors and started shredding my duvet.

  ‘No!’ I howled, as Mum held me pinned to the couch, her face turned to the wall.

  An hour later, after I’d worn myself out crying, I was lying on the couch, curled up in a little coil of dejection. Keelin and Susie, two of the Scissor Sisters, had gone home. Dad came in to check on me every so often. I liked Dad. He wasn’t as mean as the others.

  Doris, our dog, was staring at me.

  ‘Did Doris get a haircut?’ I asked, looking at her. Why was she staring at me? Had she seen the clip on Facebook?

  ‘Er, not exactly,’ Emma – Scissors and real-life sister – muttered guiltily. ‘I was sort of trying out these new curling tongs I’d got and they fried a huge chunk of her hair because I kept trying to make it go into ringlets. I ended up cutting the rest off.’

  Oh, I see. Doris was actually pleading with me to take her to my home when I left.

  ‘Izzy, you can’t go on like this. I’m seriously worried about you!’ Emma said gruffly. ‘You have to get a grip now. You used to be such a cool big sister, but now you’re –’

  ‘I’m what?’ My bottom lip began to quiver. ‘I’m an embarrassment?’

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘Emma!’ Dad exclaimed.

  ‘Sorry, Dad. Well, no…’ she lowered her voice ‘… but you’re not far off, Iz.’

  ‘Emma!’ Dad again.

  Her big blue eyes went doe-like and cartoonish, as they always did when she was insulting me. She had this uncanny knack of verbally abusing people in such a cute way that it was virtually impossible to get mad at her. Like the time I got my hair cut into a bob and she told me I looked like a seven-year-old boy. She’d looked so sweet while she was saying it that I ended up apologizing and promising I’d grow it out.

  ‘I’m sorry, Emma. I know you’re disappointed, but I tried, okay? I really tried this time.’

  ‘If you don’t start going out and enjoying your life again soon, you’ll go down in history as the Internet Bunny Boiler. Not that I’m saying people are calling you that – well, not everyone – but you have to come back fighting. Once you’re out there, people will forget. But you have to face the music! There was a girl the year ahead of me who dressed up as a gimp for her boyfriend one Valentine’s for a romantic surprise, but his flatmate caught her and took a photo of her on his phone and sent it to everyone in college. Okay, sure, she was humiliated and no one would sit beside her in tutorials and her boyfriend dumped her, but she got back out there! And now she only gets abused two or three times a week, tops. So, Izzy, please! You’ve got to get a grip before it’s too late and you end up moving back home permanently, putting on fourteen stone and growing a beard!’

  That didn’t sound too bad to me. Apart fr
om the beard. ‘Why would I grow a beard?’

  ‘Because, Izzy, when women lash on a speedy fourteen stone their hormones go haywire and they grow hair all over their face.’

  ‘There you go, love,’ said Mum, nestling in beside me on the couch. I took the mug from her and slurped the tea.

  ‘Okay,’ Emma said. ‘I’ve gotta go now, Iz, but we’ll talk more about your recovery plan tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m not the economy, Emma.’

  ‘Well, you kind of are. You’re like one big nasty recession that we have to pump some resources into before you sink entirely.’

  ‘Where are you going?’ I asked limply. I was worn out with all this intervention and recovery talk.

  ‘Out, Izzy. It’s Friday night. It’s what most people do, remember? And it’s what you’re going to start doing again. And, Dad, you’re driving me over to Barbara’s.’

  ‘You could have asked,’ he huffed.

  ‘Oh, sorry. Dad, please will you drive me over to Barbara’s?’ she said, switching on the blinky cartoon eyes.

  ‘On you come, you.’

  Worked every time.

  ‘You look great, Em. Have fun,’ I said, eyeing her attire.

  It was true, she did look great – but, my God, did she have crazy dress sense. She was like some superhero of bling. Bling Girl! Coming to save the universe from boring colours and lack of sparkle! I think she was wearing every shade of the spectrum in her outfit and the fifty bangles she had stacked up her left arm. It was a pity our tastes clashed so completely as we were more or less the same size. Ah, I remember my youth… going out clubbing, flirting, socializing. I was only five years older than my sister, but it all seemed so far away.

  Psychodelic madness aside, Emma really was a stunner, no doubt about it. She looked more like Dad, while I was like Mum. We reckoned Stephen, our brother, looked a lot like Maurice Gibney from number thirty-eight, which we slagged him relentlessly about. Mum would just roll her eyes and tell him he was gorgeous and not to worry, that Maurice only moved onto the road in 1983 and Stephen was conceived in 1978.