Hello, Heartbreak Read online

  ‘Thanks, Iz. Don’t worry, we’ll get you there,’ Bling Girl piped, and trotted off, dragging Dad with her.

  God, I was sad. Maybe it was time I got myself together. Here I was, wedged between Mum and half-shorn Doris on a Friday night, drinking a mug of tea.

  Where had my life gone?

  I sighed. Mum moved her hand to mine and stroked it gently. ‘Emma has a point, sweetheart,’ she said softly.

  ‘I know,’ I whispered. ‘I’m fed up feeling disappointed and hurt, Mum. I want to move on so much, really I do, but it’s like I’m stuck.’

  ‘Well, some things do take time, love. But there also comes a point when we have to help ourselves.’

  ‘But I just don’t know how to do that. I’ve been trying to be more positive the last while, but it’s like every time I move forward, I get stuck in all this hurt and shame and disbelief all over again.’

  ‘Izzy, you’ve never been a quitter. And you know what? No one else is going to do the hard work for you.’

  Jesus, she was right – Mum should get her own afternoon TV show. She could be an Irish Oprah. That’d be so cool. And we’d probably get loads of free stuff too. I’ll run it past her once I get my life back on track.

  Decision made. I was going to do it.

  I was going to get back out there.

  Goodbye, heartbreak! Hello, world (but hopefully not Hello, People With Access to Facebook).

  It was official. Getting over it was the new black.

  6

  … Seven months p.m.

  No iPod choice. No iPod. Fecked iPod against wall.

  Blame Gloria Gaynor

  I’ll be honest, going to Odds and Sods always terrified me. Even after four years living on the same street, I didn’t know anyone else who dreaded popping into the local newsagent’s like I did. Okay, okay, I know it could have been worse. I could have been living in Beirut or Cardiff. But, then, Odds and Sods was definitely situated on the most frightening corner of Dublin City. Think screeching tyres and late-night police raids. Think shouting and screaming. Think twelve-year-olds in hoodies with fluffy moustaches – and that was just the girls. Honestly, it was a trip to the dark side.

  There was nothing for it, though: Odds and Sods was the nearest local shop so we had to cross to the dark side fairly often. Whenever we discovered we’d run out of milk or ciggies or bread, Susie, Keelin and I would stare each other down, and the first to crack would be sent on a tour of duty.

  ‘Izzy, you haven’t gone in ages and it’s serious this time – we’re out of Skittles.’

  ‘What? That’s so untrue! I went last time.’

  ‘Well, I went the last two times.’

  ‘And I’ve developed some sort of wheat and lactose intolerance, so perhaps you guys should leave me out of the proceedings.’

  ‘Well, if that’s true, then what exactly are these?’ Susie cried, pointing from the crusts of bread on a plate in the kitchen to the milk moustache on my top lip.

  Jeez. Easy, Professor Plum. ‘Fine, fine,’ I said sulkily.

  Some friends they were! How come they didn’t hate going to Odds and Sods as much as I did? Maybe it was because Keelin had never been assaulted by a ‘young hoodlum’ with a Loop the Loop while she was innocently perusing the magazines. Hey, don’t laugh, I know it doesn’t sound very dangerous, but it sparked a lengthy hyperventilating and screaming fit in me. Or maybe it was because Susie had never suffered the misfortune of having a half-bald cat jump onto her head from above the shop door. (I can’t elaborate on this because I’m still far too traumatized.)

  As I scuttled towards Odds and Sods, I prepared for my ‘safety measures’, which involved a charming charade I liked to call Blending In With the Locals. In layman’s terms, I adopt a tic and appear slightly pissed at all times. Take it from a woman who knows: the key to survival is attracting as little attention as possible. I know because – and call me a posh fuck – I once had a child lob a sliced loaf at my head because I’d had the temerity to inquire about semi-skimmed milk.

  I pushed open the door, triggering the bell, which always made me think of a boxing ring. Okay, okay, concentrate, Izzy! Speed and precision! Quick and fast, like ripping off a plaster. We needed three things: bread, milk and Skittles. Go! Go! Go! Ooh, chocolate spread. Some bloke in a pinstripe suit jacket and swimming shorts was shouting obscenities at a jar of Hellmann’s right beside the chocolate spread. I turned to him and said, ‘Fucking mayonnaise,’ so he’d think we had loads in common and therefore wouldn’t mug and/or kill me.

  ‘Tell me about it!’ he answered, flashing me a smile. Sheer brilliance. My ‘blending in’ never failed. I plucked a jar of chocolate spread off the shelf and wished him luck.

  Now that I was feeling a little braver, I decided I’d get some Cheerios and maybe a few eggs while I was at it. The girls would be so proud! It might even win me a bit of compassionate leave before I was forced to come back here again.

  Hang on… was that… Jesus H. Christ… No fucking way!

  I dropped the chocolate spread and pinned my back to the cereal shelf. I couldn’t breathe! Christ, I was dying! Wait, no, I could breathe. I just had to… breathe. Like I’d always done. Same method I’d been using for the last twenty-seven years. In, out, in, out. But my hands were all tingly and my heart was doing a gymnastics routine in my chest.

  I started to move, very slowly and very carefully, towards the voice I could hear. When I got as close as I could without being seen, I peered around the edge of the shelf.

  Holy good Jesus! It was him. Cian.

  I craned a bit further. He was talking to someone. A woman. Oh, Christ, no, no, no!

  It was Edna McClodmutton, a.k.a. Bitchface, a.k.a. Saffron, Saffy, ‘up-and-coming’ actress-socialite and all-round robo ride who stole my man. I had renamed her Edna McClodmutton as ‘Saffron’ really was far too nauseatingly cool.

  I closed my eyes and tried desperately to hear what they were saying. I willed my ears to translate their mumbles into recognizable words, but it was like doing an Irish-aural exam: I couldn’t understand a bloody thing. They might have been discussing Áine agus Ronan going to an phairc to kick a liathroid for all I knew.

  Now they were laughing, like love’s young dream. It was enough to make me throw up right there in front of the All Bran.

  I had to get out.

  Now.

  I couldn’t see them. Meet them. Face them.

  My God, I’d only managed to come out of hiding a few weeks ago. I’d only gone back into a nightclub for the first time last week. For the first time since… since Black Saturday. I went puce and light-headed whenever I thought about it or anyone mentioned it. Black Saturday, 10 November 2007, the day I did a Britney and lost my marbles. Not only that, but Black Saturday had become a hit on YouTube, thanks to whatever arsehole had recorded it on their mobile and put it on Facebook under the title ‘Girl Has Shit Fit Over Ex-Boyfriend’s New Girlfriend’. Thank you, arsehole, whoever you are. I owe you one.

  Anyway, there was absolutely no way I could face Cian and Edna McClodmutton now. It would set me back months. And what the hell was he doing in my local shop anyway? He lived nowhere near here.

  Okay, okay, calm. Think. I needed a quick exit.

  I peeped over the cans of beans to where the door was. Yes! It was still in the same place. God, you couldn’t beat consistency in a world gone mad. Hang on, though. If I made a break for it, the heavily tattooed woman behind the counter might think I was shoplifting, impale me on a stick and parade me up and down the road. Hm, but that did sound far more appealing than meeting Cian and Miss Asia.

  I checked the route again. A quick leapfrog over the stack of toilet tissue, past Mayo Man and out of the door, never to be seen again.

  This was it. Now or never!

  ‘Izzy?’

  Bollocks!

  ‘Izzy?’

  Not knowing what to do, I panicked and began to swipe random items off the shelves like some lunatic
contestant on Supermarket Sweep. ‘Izzy,’ he repeated. What should I do? Keep ignoring him? His voice was closer now and my heart pounded violently as I turned to face him.

  There he was, all six feet and two inches of him, as gorgeous as ever. Euch. He was still so bloody predictable.

  Neither of us spoke. We just stood there in silence, gawping at each other for what seemed like an eternity. Like ten Palm Sunday Masses back-to-back. In Latin. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost, and I knew exactly how he felt. He struggled to say something, but failed. I allowed myself the opportunity to reacquaint myself with his face, his hair, his eyes, his mouth. Did I want to kiss or punch it? I wasn’t sure.

  The silence was broken by a high-pitched whine: ‘Cian? Sweetheart? Will you ask if they have any sushi?’

  Sushi? Was she having a laugh? We were in a shop where the mere mention of semi-skimmed milk could land you with GBH.

  Cian turned to her, leaving me standing directly in her eye line. I felt like one of those timid gazelles you see on nature programmes, the ones the lions are going to be picking out of their teeth in about an hour’s time.

  ‘Oh. My. God,’ she said.

  ‘Hello,’ I said, trying to sound dignified, confident and very much over it. Didn’t work, of course. It came out as a pathetic squeak – the squeak of a scorned woman who was still alone and miserable and would be for ever more because she’d turned herself into a social recluse. Never knew one squeak could say so much about a person.

  I wasn’t at all happy with how this was panning out. I wanted to turn back the clock to this morning so I could get my hair blow-dried, my makeup applied professionally, a spray tan, choose a tailored skirt and sheer silk shirt from Dita von Teese’s wardrobe and buy a pair of skyscraper heels. In red. Not too much to ask, was it? After everything I’d been through?

  This was not part of The Plan. You know how it goes: you bump into your ex a few months down the line and you’re wearing Diane von Furstenburg? And there are people all around you in convulsions laughing at something hilarious you’ve just said? And then a man who is sex on legs walks up to you and asks for your hand in marriage, which prompts your ex to burst into tears and cry inconsolably? The Plan.

  So how was the plan shaping up when I needed it most? Well, let’s see. Smelly old trainers, bleach-stained raggy jeans, a dark green shapeless hoodie, greasy hair thrown together in a hideous scrunchie that had made its way straight from the 1980s into our bathroom, where I’d found it this morning. Yeah, not so much Dita von Teese as Rita von Shameful Sleaze.

  Naturally, Edna McClodmutton looked amazing, which made everything even worse. (Murphy, if you’re out there, I hate you and your bloody law.) Her shiny dark hair spilled over her shoulders, looking so soft and silky that in other circumstances I would have run my fingers through it and asked her what conditioner she used. Even without makeup her almond eyes were compelling: they were almost black against her honey complexion and her pouty bee-stung lips.

  I shuffled uncomfortably from foot to foot as she strutted down the aisle towards us. Well, this was cosy, wasn’t it? Group hug, anyone?

  She smiled broadly, clearly savouring my discomfort. ‘Izzy, darling, it’s been a while.’

  ‘Uh-huh,’ I replied, trying to sound casual. As though I’d last seen her at the cinema or on the street.

  ‘Em, Saff, could you just see if they have any… um, dishwasher tablets?’ Cian muttered.

  She looked from him to me and back again, let the perfect space of awkward silence choke the air around us, then sauntered up the aisle in her gorgeous lace-up ankle boots, her hair swishing like a sheet of black silk. Just as she was about to disappear around the corner, she turned and glared at me. Again, I had to restrain myself from congratulating Cian on what a ride she was.

  ‘Listen, sorry – you know about what happened after…’ he started.

  ‘Please. Don’t.’ I had to look away. This was horrible. I moved away from him and went into the next aisle.

  Her heels were clipping back already to where he was standing. This time I could hear everything they were saying. And it was awful.

  ‘Is she going to have another public breakdown? Honestly, Cian, I’m not in the mood.’

  ‘Sssh, for Christ’s sake!’

  ‘You said it yourself – she’s probably still obsessed with you.’

  Bastard!

  ‘What? No I didn’t, I said –’

  ‘Seriously, Cian, she makes me really uncomfortable. My friends think she’s clinically deranged. Remember last month when I went to that open audition for the part of a psycho lady in Fair City? Well, guess whose monologue I downloaded from YouTube and learnt for my audition? That’s right, your crazy ex’s. And, okay, I didn’t get the part, but the director said my piece was very “real”.’

  Lord, take me now.

  ‘Would you be quiet? She’s still in the shop,’ he barked.

  ‘No! I will not pussyfoot around her just because she’s mentally unstable. She lost. She needs to get over it.’

  Bitch! I could not believe my ears. I lost? That was my boyfriend! Not a bloody game of tennis! I sloped towards the counter, almost too numb to move.

  ‘Izzy, wait.’ I turned to see Cian whirring towards me like an annoying wasp. I wanted to splat him, the pretentious prick.

  ‘Just leave it, Cian,’ I said, plonking down the items I’d managed to gather during my fit of shopper’s mania. There, laid out in front of me in all their embarrassing glory, were a packet of nappies, some nappy rash cream, an odd brand of toothpaste for ‘problem bad breath’, an aerosol can of Odour Destroyer and a jar of Bovril. Yep, any time now will do just fine, Lord!

  ‘Izzy, I’m really sorry about that. God, this is awkward. Are you okay?’

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I asked.

  ‘I dunno – we were just passing…’

  ‘And you realized you’d run out of sushi and dishwasher tablets?’ I fished around in my pockets for change as the incredibly-manly-once-you’re-up-close lady totted up what I owed.

  ‘There’s no price sticker on this rash cream,’ she roared. ‘Go over and check the price on another.’

  You. Have. To. Be. Kidding.

  By this stage, Edna McClodmutton had snaked her way back into view and was surveying the scene. My cheeks flushed bright crimson. ‘Em, yeah, just hang on.’ I staggered back to the display and stood there muttering, ‘Price stickers, price stickers,’ like a mad woman. I could feel all their eyes on me. There wasn’t a sticker on any of them. Someone, please, give me a break!

  Just then, like a little ray from heaven, I spotted a bright orange glow shining out at me from the back of the shelf. Forgetting I wasn’t an eight-year-old Cub Scout who had just stumbled on the final clue in an orienteering competition, I turned and spluttered, ‘Three euro fifty,’ waving a tube of the cream victoriously.

  Edna raised an eyebrow and folded her arms.

  I cleared my throat. ‘It’s, eh… three euro fifty, quite reasonable, really…’

  Mute button, Izzy.

  I kept my head down as I fished out a stash of chocolate at the counter and paid the cash-till beast. Then I walked straight out of the door. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t look back. And when I knew I’d walked far enough to be out of sight, I broke into a sprint.

  One thing was for sure: chocolate alone was not going to cut it today. I needed something a lot stronger. I ran into my street, past my neighbour’s front door, past my own front door and didn’t stop until I reached the off-licence at the end of the road.

  7

  The next morning I woke up feeling like road-kill, the kind you can’t believe is still alive, considering the state it’s in. As I lay there, swaddled in self-pity, I had an overwhelming desire to be at home with Mum and Dad. Okay, I know I wasn’t seven years old, but I wanted to be transported back to a time where my biggest problems were whether to watch The Raccoons or The Snorks or to make a den in my bedroom and dress
the dog in my doll’s clothes.

  Maybe I’ll call over to them, I thought, as I tried lifting my head. No luck there. It was as if someone had sewn my scalp to the pillow, which in turn had been sewn to the mattress. How much had I drunk last night?

  I couldn’t get up, so I switched my energy to attempting to bring different blurred objects into focus. It was a game I liked to play whenever I was lying in a hungover state of paralysis, killing time until feeling had returned to my body. The rules were simple: if I guessed correctly before managing to de-blur the object, I got five points. Points for what exactly, I wasn’t sure. Although sometimes I’d award myself a cheeky McDonald’s hangover treat if I did well.

  My eyes rested on a small white bundle. What was it? A pile of unironed clothes? Probably. It started to move. ‘Dermot!’ I thought he was going to puke, as he normally did when he got a fright, but a moment later he was hopping towards my outstretched arms.

  Dermot wasn’t some weird one-legged guy with a weak constitution who lived on my bedroom floor. He was our pet rabbit. We all adored him, even though Susie was seriously allergic to him. But what were a few hives and a couple of extra puffs on an asthma inhaler when you could have him in your life?

  Keelin and I had rescued Dermot from an animal shelter about a year ago and since then he had become the centre of our little urban-family unit. We stumbled upon him one Saturday afternoon after we’d got lost trying to run an errand for Keelin’s dad. Bored and frustrated driving around Rathfarnham looking for an address that clearly didn’t exist (one of Keelin’s dad’s ‘little quirks’ was mixing up Rathfarnham and Raheny), we decided to follow the signs to an animal shelter ‘just for a look’.

  They say ‘you just know’ usually in reference to falling in love, but it’s true of so many other things too, like the perfect pair of shoes, or knowing when it’s time to eat some chocolate. Well, if any rabbit on this earth was for us, it was Dermot. As soon as we laid eyes on his little fluffy face, we just knew. He looked so lonely and miserable in his cramped little hutch that we couldn’t possibly leave him to his animal-shelter fate. He looked as if he had been chewed, swallowed and regurgitated by an Alsatian, but it was nothing a warm bath, some volumizing shampoo and a dose of TLC couldn’t cure.