Never Google Heartbreak by Emma Garcia

I’ll just look out of the window and probably see the car waiting there. Weirdly, there’s an unusual number of men milling about. I wander to the mirror again, inspecting my eyeliner. I don’t normally wear so much black. It looks good, but is it a bit clubby rather than weddingy? My hair has been blasted into submission and is now passable. The dress looks great, though – cool and edgy.
    Shit, it’s five to twelve! Where the hell is the taxi? I ring again.
    ‘Kins Cars,’ says the can’t-be-bothered voice.
    ‘It’s Vivienne Summers again. Where is my taxi? It’s now twelve o’clock!’
    ‘Hold on, madam.’
    Kazoo Favourites
has moved on to ‘La Cucaracha’.
    ‘Madam, so sorry, your car is stuck in traffic. He will be there in half an hour.’
    ‘No! That’s no good! Get me a taxi here now!’
    ‘Madam, so sorry, half an hour is best we can do.’
    I feel the breath being knocked out of me. ‘Oh my God! What is the point of making a booking with you if you’re just going to turn up when you feel like it? I have to get to a wedding and I booked a car for eleven thirty!’ Suddenly I’m listening to a kazoo version of ‘Nobody Does It Better’.
    ‘Oh God, oh God, oh God.’ I run a lap of the flat like a demented goose, before grabbing my handbag and flapping onto the street, feathers flying.
    ‘Let there be a taxi. Let there be a taxi!’ I get to the end of the street to find the whole road closed off and blocked with carnival floats. A steel band covers Madonna’s ‘Like a Virgin’. An Adonis wearing some sort of harness is dancing along the pavement. I grab him by one of his flying straps. ‘Excuse me, what’s going on?’
    He shimmies and pouts. ‘It’s Gay Pride, darling!’
    I look left and right. The floats line up as far as I can see, each one with a different theme. There are banners proclaiming, ‘Gay, Catholic and Proud,’ and, ‘Parents of Gays and Proud.’ The truck in front of me, the one with the steel drums, has been turned into a wicker bowl full of gay people dressed as fruit. Two cherries are joined at the head by a green stalk; the bananas in yellow thongs hold a flag declaring, ‘Fruity and Funky.’ Normally I’d be interested, but why my road? Why now? It’s ten past twelve! I call Max.
    ‘Hi, I’m ready. You downstairs?’ he asks.
    ‘No! I’m fucking stuck in a Gay Pride march, and I can’t get a taxi!’
    ‘Oh shit.’
    ‘We’re going to be late! I don’t know what to do.’
    ‘Okay, okay. Okay. Viv. We can do this. Where are you?’
    ‘Outside the flat. On the main road.’
    ‘What about if you go down the alley? Is that street open?’ I walk to the end of the alley with my head down, phone pressed to my ear, swearing as offensively as I can, and check.
    ‘There are police cars there too.’
    ‘Walk down there and go down the next alley and wait outside that nice deli, okay? That’s a cul-de-sac – they won’t be going down there. I’ll come and get you.’
    ‘You won’t be able to get a taxi close enough.’
    ‘Go there and wait for me. I’m coming to get you.’
    My heart is thumping. I turn and run down the alley, sending beer bottles clattering and dodging bins. I feel my heels sink into the cracks between the cobbles as I go, and imagine the filth of the street rising up and sticking to my beautiful, delicate dress. The next alley is worse. There’s something living in a pile of boxes. I scuttle past, trying not to breathe. I round the corner and walk briskly to the deli.
    It’s at a crossroads. The streets to my left are deserted, all cordoned off for the march. I look at my phone and a minute has passed, then look again and it’s ten minutes.
    ‘Fucking hell! What fucking fuckery!’ I feel a film of moisture on my skin and think about crying. I hear the rumble of an engine, turn towards it and a motorbike with two bug-eyed headlamps rounds the corner at speed, the rider in black leather and full helmet. As he gets closer,