The Valentine's Card

by Juliet Ashton

  ‘You know I appreciate it, don’t you?’

  ‘So stiff!’ giggled Maude. ‘I thought the Irish were profligate with emotions. You lock yours away in a safe. It’s all right to cry. It’s all right to rend your garments.’

  ‘It’s not!’ Orla was suddenly vehement. ‘I’ve done it already. I can’t do a second lap. I thought I was over the worst of it but no. Fresh shit hits fresh fan.’

  ‘Nibble away at the pain. Manage it in bite-sized pieces.’

  ‘If only it wasn’t such a …’ Orla groped for the appropriate adjective, ‘such a stupid heartbreak. I mean, come on, to be jilted posthumously. To be dissed by a man who’s already feckin’ dead. There are no support groups. There’s no self-help guide. It’s funny, goddamn it, and I’m the only one not laughing.’

  ‘Dear me, the well of self-pity is deep today.’ Maude pointlessly tidied the counter, moving paperclips and rubber bands to little effect. ‘Nobody’s laughing. Everybody is appalled. Even Sheraz. He asked after you when he delivered my groceries this morning.’

  The door opened.

  ‘Ah! Bogna. At last.’

  ‘Don’t have go at me.’ Bogna streaked past, shrugging off a yeti fur coat. ‘I have migraine.’

  ‘Don’t have a go.’ No such thing as an ex-pupil for Orla. ‘You have a migraine.’

  ‘No, she has a hangover.’ Marek caught the door before it banged in his face. ‘She called me for a lift. When she finally got up.’

  He found Maude first and said a polite greeting, then saw Orla and said nothing.

  ‘Always he follows me and nags me and UGH!’ Bogna threw her hands in the air with an angry chin jut, a teen archetype.

  ‘Hi Marek,’ said Orla, with acute self-consciousness.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marek, baffling her. He left the shop, went to the kerb and got into his car.

  ‘What goes on with you two?’ Bogna called as she sought out the kettle beyond the beaded curtain. ‘Did you mess with his head? He never is in bad mood about woman but my God this week. He is like bear with sore bum.’

  ‘Head, dear. Head.’ Maude, on tiptoe, squinted over the window display. ‘He’s waiting for something. Or somebody.’ Her eyes swivelled towards Orla.

  ‘Get out there!’ shouted Bogna irritably, slamming down the Kenco. ‘Stop being like little virgin!’

  Joining Maude at the window, Orla saw Marek’s fingers drum on the wheel. His outline seethed with energy even when he was still. She saw his fine nose, the round of his definite chin, the slant of his dark eyes. It astonished her that this man should be waiting for her, a man she’d barely thought about in the past few turbulent days. Orla wondered at her priorities, and reminisced about the good old days when she’d recognised a good thing when she saw it.

  ‘He’ll get a ticket,’ murmured Maude.

  ‘I should go. I can’t let him get a ticket.’

  ‘No,’ said Maude. ‘Heaven forbid.’

  The sight of Marek had transformed the day for Orla. Marek was like nobody else. And he kept coming back. Like a goat, he gobbled up the rubbish she strewed in his path, and kept on coming. She sauntered out to the car and bent to look in through the open passenger window at his profile.

  One of their characteristic silences ensued. Marek broke first, leaning back on the headrest, looking at the ceiling and asking, exasperated, ‘Are you getting in or not, woman?’

  With a smile, a proper one full of glee, such as Orla assumed she’d never crack again, she climbed into the passenger seat and Marek drove off through the knotted traffic.

  A few streets away, in an industrial estate that housed DIY warehouses and tile depots, the car slowed and stopped with a sexy grunt beside a skip.

  ‘Scenic spot,’ said Orla.

  ‘I like it.’ Marek’s dimples flared. ‘Nice for picnics.’ He turned, took off his seat belt and took her head between his hands in a motion so fluid it seemed rehearsed. He kissed her gently but confidently. ‘I’ve missed you.’

  With nobody to betray any more, she could admit it. ‘I’ve missed you too.’

  ‘You have?’ His voice soared girlishly high with surprise.

  ‘Just a bit.’

  ‘It’s a start.’ By lowering the pitch of his voice, Marek created a bubble within the car, one that contained only them and their recent history. ‘I can’t stop thinking about that night. Your heart told your head what to do for the first time since we met. Perhaps you should shut up and listen.’

  His finger trailed along her nose.

  ‘That’s the sweetest nose I’ve ever seen,’ he whispered. He kissed it, and something unfolded, like a flower opening on fast forward, within Orla. His hand fell to her shoulder, trailed down her arm and when his fingers met hers they snaked together. ‘I see your face everywhere now. I think you’re in every crowd. But you never are.’

  ‘Marek, I’m damaged, I’m—’

  ‘No, no, no.’ He overrode her fledgling demurrals. ‘Listen. This is you and me. It isn’t about Sim or … or Anthea Blake. It’s about Orla and Marek. Orla and Marek are going on a date. Like two normal adults. Because, moje słotko, that’s what they are. Normal. And lucky.’ He kissed her, urgently this time. He meant business.

  Marek’s lips on her neck, one hand scooping the peach curve of her bottom, Orla whispered, ‘Your sister said you get what you want.’

  ‘And I want you.’

  Something in obstinate, obdurate Orla responded to his forthrightness, and admired his expectancy.

  ‘A date, then.’ She pulled away a little, delighted when his hand, thwarted from exploring her bottom, immediately moved to the buttons of her blouse.

  ‘A date.’ Marek sat back, dishevelled, happily dissatisfied. ‘Oh Orla, you’ll drive me mad. Tonight?’ He saw her hesitation. ‘Are you busy?’

  ‘No, but—’

  ‘Then it’s a date. We’re normal people and normal people go out on Saturday night. Yes? Good. You pick the place. I’ll meet you there. Be quiet. I know you’re an immigrant and you hardly know any restaurants – that’s what Google is for. Pick somewhere nice because tonight I’d like to get a little drunk with my new girlfriend. Because,’ he registered her start, ‘I think that’s what you are.’

  He dropped her home. He always would, she knew. Male gallantry could bring out her haughty side but Marek didn’t make her feel patronised. He made Orla feel like a woman.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘I knew Sim was thick. I knew he had a shady side. But this!’

  ‘Ju.’

  The pig. The revolting, grotty, underhand, piggy little pig man.’

  ‘Ju! Enough. And stop jiggling, stay near the camera.’

  ‘Do you know who he was shagging?’

  ‘Anthea Blake.’

  ‘Oh come on! She’s a hundred years old.’

  ‘Fifty and two months.’

  ‘Do you hate him?’

  ‘If I do, if I give in and loathe him, then that’s the best three years of my life made pointless. Her, I hate, though. That’s easy.’

  ‘Why? She’s nothing to you. Why does the woman get all the flak?’

  ‘Please don’t say it takes two to tango. She burrowed in between me and my man, like a tick. Thanks to her I’m just the little colleen he toyed with before he found the love of his life. You’ve got the wrong idea about her. Anthea’s clever. She’s written a book. She has a degree. She collects Jane Austen first editions. And there was me in Sim’s other ear, jabbering about Year Two’s nativity play. She’s met Obama, for Christ’s sake.’

  ‘I’d love to meet Obama.’

  ‘Well, there you go. You run off with her too.’

  ‘Never. She can’t hold a candle to you. Sim was crazy. Please, please don’t let this set you back. You were just coming to life again.’

  ‘I’m doing my best. But it’s hard.’

  ‘You’re crying! Lean closer to the camera. Are you crying? Oh, Orla, I wish I was there to hug you.’

&nbs
p; ‘Me too. I’m not crying. My eyes are wet, that’s all.’

  ‘Mind you, maybe Sim was right. To get out, I mean. Maybe he was brave.’

  ‘I don’t follow.’

  ‘We all hang on, don’t we, after the love runs out? Or lust, or whatever the feck it is.’

  ‘Sim was not brave, Ju. He dumped me by valentine card.’

  ‘But he did it. He took the leap into the unknown. If he’d lived, you might be thanking him by now.’

  ‘Big if, Juno. Big huge ma-hoo-sive if.’

  ‘I’m just saying that—’

  ‘Please don’t. Don’t just say that kind of thing.’

  ‘So I’m not allowed to call him names but I’m not allowed to suggest he might be right.’

  ‘Look, I’ve got to go. Marek’s treating me to dinner and I’ve to choose the restaurant.’

  ‘Marek? When were you going to tell me about this?’

  ‘I just did.’

  ‘Yeah, offhand, as you’re signing off.’

  ‘Sorry. Next time I go through a heart-breaking trauma I’ll make sure to send you a bulleted memo. But for now – goodbye.’

  ‘Hang on, don’t—’

  ‘Bye, Juno.’

  Know thine enemy.

  Orla wouldn’t recognise General Sun Tzu if he fell on her head, but his 1,600-year-old maxim rang in her ears as she opened her iPad to research restaurants.

  Anthea had the journal. That was greedy: stealing Sim’s heart wasn’t enough for her. Anthea’s memories of him, although sad, were uncomplicated: she’d lost him in the first flush of love and now she danced on through her gilded life with the journal in her hands.

  The injustice burned.

  She has everything, thought Orla, scanning the Wikipedia page dedicated to Anthea Blake. And I have nothing.

  This lady Tweeted. Infrequently, impersonally, with a reliance on exclamation marks.

  Trying 2 learn lines. Mr Shakespeare I love you!!!

  Orla had assumed that Anthea was the wrong vintage to work up any interest in Facebook, but a page existed in her name. Written in the third person but seemingly ‘official’, Orla guessed that some assistant in the lower echelons of Reece Dodds Artists kept it fresh.

  ‘After filming a new advert as the face of Royal Blend instant coffee, Anthea will take a few days’ well-earned rest before rehearsals for her Lady Macbeth in the forthcoming prestigious Globe production of the ScottishPlay. Time, maybe, to get down to some serious baking and turn out one of her famous cakes!’

  Orla recalled the cake she’d made for Sim on his birthday. It had refused to rise, but she’d persevered and iced it, producing, in his words, ‘a cowpat with candles’. She’d laughed at the time, but now it was just another memory smudged by Anthea’s grubby fingers.

  More clicks, more haphazard fact-finding. Orla felt vaguely squalid. Enough, she thought to herself, and set about searching for somewhere to eat. ‘Nice + restaurant + London’ was no help. Every restaurant in London thought it was nice. This was more Juno’s territory; Juno could sniff out a hipster hangout blindfolded.

  Juno’s bad-mouthing of Sim earlier was very characteristic. All her opinions were brightly coloured and loudly expressed. Orla cherished Juno’s outspokenness, and forgave the occasional bruise it caused. They were bonded. When she thought of her best friend, she still saw a gap toothed seven-year-old with nits. She knew Juno had to poke Sim in the eye for his offence, just as she’d done to the class bully in Juniors when he’d grabbed Orla’s skipping rope.

  Even so, it didn’t help to hear Sim torn to shreds. For this reason, Ma must be kept in the dark a while longer. Telling her would spark off an eruption of abuse that would make Juno sound like an amateur.

  But Juno’s assertion that Sim was somehow brave had irked. Orla should thank him for taking a hammer to every sweet memento she had of him? No.

  A website for a chi-chi bistro claimed the screen, all purple walls and zinc tables. ‘Nah, wrong end of the road,’ she concluded, wandering virtually to a Greek taverna, garnished liberally and tastelessly with plastic lemons and portraits of Archbishop Makarios. Checking it out on Google Street View, she declared it ‘perfect’ and texted Marek with the address, adding a small ‘x’.

  After pressing send, Orla took a moment to do something unthinkable a week ago, but now a must. With two jabs of her forefinger she deleted Sim’s number and all his messages, including his last, sent at midnight on the thirteenth of February.

  Tomorrow’s a big day for both of us, Fairy. Brace yourself. X

  A soft rap at her door startled her and made her throw down her iPad, as flushed as if she’d been caught masturbating in John Lewis. ‘Come in, Maudie!’

  ‘Dear?’ Maude stood, nonplussed, on the threshold. ‘Shouldn’t you be getting ready?’

  ‘I’ve bags of time. It’s only—’ Orla looked at the ormolu clock on the mantelpiece and her hand went to her throat. ‘Shit!’ she said.

  ‘Quite,’ agreed Maude.

  The entire afternoon had been eaten by the internet.

  ‘Jump in the shower,’ ordered Maude. ‘Chop chop.’ She clapped her hands for emphasis. ‘And then I want to talk to you.’

  Damp, smelling of ylang ylang, Orla sat on the bed and rubbed moisturiser strenuously into her face as if waxing a car.

  ‘Slow down, dear. Not washing your hair?’ Maude disapproved.

  ‘Not enough time. I’ll backcomb it.’ And make it look worse, thought Orla. ‘Shall I wear the black dress with the bits on the shoulders or shall I, hang on, no I can’t wear the new dress because he saw it the other night.’

  ‘Black with bits.’ Maude was decisive enough for Orla to suspect her of shutting her up. ‘Now. Listen.’ Maude sat on the end of the bed, clear of the pile of tubes and brushes and goo that Orla was applying as she squinted into an inadequate hand mirror. ‘I have something to tell.’

  ‘Yes?’ Orla’s hand stalled in mid-air, one eyelid only half anointed with liner.

  ‘Don’t stop, dear.’ Maude settled her full velvet skirt around her. ‘I haven’t talked about this, well, ever, so forgive me if it sounds a little rusty. I need you to know you’re not alone, not unique. Well, not in one important aspect at any rate.’

  The mascara wand swooping in and out of her vision, Orla waited while Maude cleared her throat, uncharacteristically hesitant.

  ‘Very well. Here we go. Arthur and I were married in 1961. I was twenty-two. To save you counting on your fingers, that makes me seventy-four. You might imagine I had long ironed hair and miniskirts, but the swinging sixties never reached our corner of the home counties. I dressed like my mother, in neat suits and stupid hats and always, always stockings.

  ‘Arthur was destined for great things. In my parents’ world, the one I happily and unthinkingly inherited, great things meant a powerful job with the Foreign Office. That was just the icing on the cake, because Arthur was handsome. The first time I saw him he was in tennis whites and I thought he was a young god.’

  A lipstick lolled forgotten in Orla’s towelled lap.

  ‘We were happy. He’s the only man I’ve ever gone to bed with. And no regrets there. I adored him. And he me. He was proud of my looks. Forgive the boast, but now that I’m just a mass of wrinkles and bones I feel I can say it. He also applauded the way I kept house. A lovely big rambling thing, on the edge of the village. We had a duck pond and a paddock, with a fat little Shetland I just loved.

  ‘I’d been trained to be a wife from the moment I could walk. I was required to look pretty but not tarty, run the homestead and churn out babies. That last was beyond me.

  ‘Arthur wanted a son to carry on both barrels of the family name, but we shared a cheery philosophical outlook. “Never mind,” he’d say. “We’ve got each other.” That helped when I gave in and cried into my pillow. I used to imagine what our baby would look like. His eyes. My hair, God help it. It would have – but listen to me rattling off on a tangent, dear, that’s quite an
other story.

  ‘He said it over and over. “We’ve got each other.” We were close. I wanted for nothing. And then, after thirty-four years of marriage we were blighted by serious illness. Oh, Orla, it was hard. Eighteen months of hopeless agony for Arthur, who fought all the way in the certain knowledge he couldn’t win. I nursed him, read to him, slept at the foot of his bed. I knew he’d do the same for me. Goodness gracious, girl! Don’t gawk like that – finish your face!’

  ‘Oh. Yes.’ Orla hurriedly returned to her features in the mirror. Rubbing in blusher felt too banal an activity while listening to Maude’s never-told tale. She wondered where it would lead.

  ‘After he died, Arthur left me very comfortably off, but the lion’s share of his legacy went to a woman in the next village, a woman I knew rather well. Or thought I did. Arthur had fathered four children with her. Set them up, supported them, sent them to the best schools. Spent every Wednesday night there when I thought he was up in London on Her Majesty’s service.’

  Orla gaped. In idle moments she’d fleshed out a past life for Maude but never had it sounded like this. She slung her make-up into the bag, stood up and grabbed a pair of cranberry jeans; the black dress with bits felt too dressy.

  ‘Four children, Maude?’

  ‘All girls.’ Something like the first cousin of a smile flitted across Maude’s features. ‘So I too was dumped from beyond the grave.’ Maude attempted a comedy horror intonation, but she was wan and couldn’t pull it off. ‘You’re wrong, Orla: one can survive such exquisite betrayal. I’m living proof. People say this all the time but I know how you feel.’

  ‘Yes, you do. I wish you didn’t.’

  ‘Pish. It made me the woman I am. I can’t disown a single hour of my life, even the truly horrid ones. And nor should you. I imagine, if you’re anything like I was, you had an initial period of denial when all your senses told you that your beloved Sim could never be so barbarous.’

  Orla nodded.

  ‘Then there was flaming anger, the kind that makes you want to punch things or even people.’

  ‘Quite a lot of that,’ admitted Orla.

  ‘I smashed a lovely Meissen bowl when I got home from my solicitor’s office. Been in the family for yonks. I wanted to roll up to the woman’s house and have it out with her. Can you imagine?’