by Gill Paul
Epilogue
Lucas and Helen married in the summer of the following year, and to this day they live blissfully behind the stained glass entrance of number seventeen Delaney Street, proving that love is indeed the most powerful magic of them all.
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About the Author
Kat was born and raised in the heart of the Black Country, where she still lives with her husband, two little boys and the oldest cat in the world.
She grew up with a healthy obsession for books, and several years ago she promised her husband she would write novels if Santa gave her a macbook for Christmas. It’s a promise she is very glad to have kept.
FIONA GIBSON
The Valentine Free Zone
The Funny One
Copyright
Avon
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd
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London SE1 9GF
www.harpercollins.co.uk
First published in Great Britain by HarperCollins 2015
Copyright © Fiona Gibson 2015
Fiona Gibson asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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Ebook Edition © February 2015 ISBN: 9780008136079
Version: 2015–01–23
Table of Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
The Valentine Free Zone
Keep Reading
About the Author
The Valentine Free Zone
‘I just think,’ Michael says, as we stroll around the gallery, ‘it’s a load of commercial twaddle.’
‘Yes, I know it is,’ I say, and he’s right: do couples who exchange Valentine’s cards and presents love each other any more than those who don’t? Of course not. While I don’t have any statistics to back this up, I’d bet that the vast majority of cards are sent out of duty or guilt.
‘I mean,’ Michael goes on, taking my hand, ‘a gift means so much more when it’s thought about, rather than being bought in a tearing hurry at five o’clock on February 13th because you’d thought, shit, I forgot, better rush out and grab any old thing …’ Okay, okay, you’ve made your point, no need to over-egg it, darling … ‘And there’s nothing imaginative about a box of chocolates grabbed from the corner shop,’ he adds.
‘No, I s’pose not,’ I say, my stomach rumbling due to the fact that I forgot to have breakfast before heading out to meet my boyfriend in the foyer of the new art gallery.
‘You don’t expect me to be Milk Tray man, do you?’ Michael asks with a grin.
‘Of course I don’t.’ A tinge of annoyance has crept into my voice as we browse the artworks on display. Is this why he hasn’t mentioned the card I sent him by old-fashioned post? I feel a bit stupid now. Maybe his failure to acknowledge it suggests that I’ve broken some kind of unspoken rule, and he’d rather pretend it hadn’t arrived. Or maybe he thinks it’s from someone else? He works as a producer at our local radio station, and is very handsome in an impeccably groomed, grown-up kind of way; I bet lots of the girls there have crushes on him. However, although I didn’t sign it Love Sally, I did write, Thanks for being so wonderful. So who else could have sent it?
Oh, I must banish these feelings of irritation and focus on the positive. My friends often complain that their boyfriends and husbands never arrange dates, never come up with anything new or interesting to do - but Michael is always suggesting stuff for us to see together. At 39, he is four years younger than me, but far more mature in the way he conducts his everyday his life. He drives a gleaming silver Porsche, whereas at present I am making do with a bike with malfunctioning gears. His stereo requires special atmospheric conditions (he won’t allow me to breathe near it, let alone twiddle any knobs) and he even owns cufflinks (I don’t know anyone else, apart from my dad, who has these). He also seems rather keen to educate me – to broaden my horizons, as he puts it – as if my entire life so far has been spent lying on my dilapidated sofa watching reality TV while stuffing Wotsits into my mouth … ‘You should be open to trying new things,’ he’s pointed out, in his rather teacherly manner, on several occasions.
But then, maybe he has a point. Bringing up Riley on my own for the past ten years – plus working full-time as a beauty therapist – has left me little opportunity to browse the arts pages of the newspapers for mind-expanding events. So I guess my ‘horizons’ have been pretty limited.
Michael’s fingers wrap around mine as we gaze at the enormous sculpture which sits in the middle of the gallery. From a distance I’d assumed it was a load of random stuff shovelled up from a scrapyard and arranged in a pile. Now, though, I realise it’s all to do with plumbing (my ex-husband, and the father of our son, is a plumber: there were always taps, u-bends and other bits of ridged plastic lying about the house). Here, they’ve been welded together and splattered with blood-coloured paint as if a terrible murder has taken place. I bite a nail and peer at it. ’What d’you think it’s all about?’ I ask.
Michael shrugs. ‘Well, I think you can probably take whatever you like from it …’
I laugh and whisper, ‘We’d better not. I don’t think that woman over there would be too pleased if we started picking bits off …’
He smiles wryly and rolls his eyes, as if I am small child whose ice cream has just plopped onto the floor. I glance at the bored-looking staff member who’s sitting on a plastic chair, exhaling on her glasses before polishing them with a hankie. At the moment, we are the only visitors. It was, of course, Michael’s idea to come here on this chilly Saturday morning. I suspect he deliberately chose it as the least romantic thing he could think of to do on Commercial Twaddle Day.
We wander away from the plumbing sculpture and study a shallow glass bowl sitting on a Perspex plinth that’s filled with screws. Just ordinary screws, like you’d find in any DIY store. Okay, I know I’m in danger of sounding like one of those, ‘A three year-old could have done that!’ types, and I do like abstract art. I mean, I don’t start moaning if I see anything other than a pretty painting of flowers, or a mountain scene – but what’s this all about? I squint at the exhibit. Beside the dish sits a small laminated card saying DO NOT TOUCH.
‘Oh, I get it!’ I exclaim.
Michael glances quizzically at me. ‘What d’you get, darling?’
‘This.’ I indicate the dish. ‘The screws, the do-not-touch notice …’
He grins. ‘Oh, right, so what d’you think it means?’
I shrug. ‘Well, it’s obviously a sex thing, isn’t it?’
‘I don’t think so, Sal. I mean, I think it’s more to do with, uh …’ He frowns as I dip my hand absent-mindedly into the bowl.
‘Please don’t touch!’ the woman barks, snapping out of her spectacle-polishing reverie.
‘Sorry, I bluster, yanking my hand back out and sensing my cheeks burning. ‘I thought the card was part of the exhibit,’ I add, clearing my throat and striding towards a rusty old-fashioned pram piled high with plastic cutlery.
‘No,’ she woman says icily, ‘it means don’t touch.’
&
nbsp; ‘Sorry,’ I mouth.
‘Jesus,’ Michael hisses, ‘what were you thinking?’
He exhales, giving the woman an apologetic look, and now I really feel like a naughty kid: the one who’s run amok in the supermarket and knocked over the tower of Quality Street tins. ‘I only wanted to feel them,’ I mutter, hoping we’re done with the art now and can head to the gallery cafe. After my telling off, I’m in urgent need of sustenance.
‘You can’t just touch things like that,’ Michael reprimands.
‘No one would know,’ I say huffily. ‘It’s not as if they were arranged. They were just tipped in any old way …’
‘For Christ’s sake, Sally …’ At least he’s laughing now, and shaking his head in a what am I going to do with you? sort of way. I squeeze his hand and kiss him tenderly on the cheek.
‘Shall we grab something to eat?’
‘Yeah, sure.’ He winds an arm around my shoulders as we make our way to the cafe. It’s a chilly, dismal affair, all white Formica tables and chrome chairs, and all that’s on offer is pea soup and rather beleaguered looking torpedo rolls. We sit opposite each other spooning green liquid into our mouths while Michael expounds further on the dreadfulness of Valentine’s Day. ‘What’s romantic about going online and clicking to order a bouquet? I mean, where’s the effort in that?’
‘None, I guess,’ I say. But you could have given me a sodding card. The thought takes me by surprise. Yet of course I’d expected a card from my boyfriend; I’m a normal woman, and I appreciate tokens of affection as much as anyone else. I can understand why couples who’ve been together for twenty-five years might not bother any more, but we are still new, or at least that’s how it feels to me. On and on Michael goes: ‘… and every restaurant tonight will be crammed with couples with nothing to talk about, ploughing their way through awful rip-off Valentine menus …’ Whereas we are having watery soup … He looks up at me and smiles. ‘I’m so glad you’re not that kind of woman, Sally.’
I shrug. ‘It’d be nice to go out to dinner soon, though. I mean, I know we do a lot together, but it does tend to be going to see things …’
‘But you like seeing things, don’t you?’
‘Well …’ I pause, wondering how to put it. ‘I do, but to be honest that exhibition was a bit —’
‘You didn’t enjoy it?’
Oh, for heaven’s sake. I must get over this thing I have of saying what I think I think I should say, rather than expressing how I truly feel. I mean, I’m attracted to Michael, of course I am. When my friend Lisa murmured that the good-looking sandy-haired guy at the bar kept checking me out, I glanced over my shoulder expecting to see the woman he was really interested in. Some posh, naturally blonde thing, perhaps. Someone who didn’t get excited by the shoe sale in New Look. But no: it was me, in my Primark dress and cheap, not-especially comfortable suede heels and rather over-enthusiastically highlighted hair. He came over and bought us drinks, and the next time I saw him – alone, of course – he literally charmed the pants off me in his tasteful city centre flat. However, I am conscious of not quite being myself when I’m with him. My laugh is less raucous and occasionally, when he quizzes me about my day at work – about the numerous waxings and pluckings, and the application of eyelash dye – I slightly suspect he’s taking the piss. ‘He treats you like a work in progress,’ my friend Kev joked, last time we spoke. ‘He’s trying to improve you, Sal. Don’t let him. You’re lovely just as you are.’
I scrape the dregs from my soup bowl. ‘I know what you’re saying,’ I venture, ‘but there’s no need to be quite so down about it. I mean, to lots of people Valentine’s Day is a pretty big deal.’
He smirks. ‘I very much doubt that.’
‘It is, Michael. To young people, I mean, who aren’t as cynical as us. It’s a huge deal to Riley …’
‘Huh?’ He looks surprised by this, perhaps because I rarely mention my son: I’ve made it a personal rule to not go on about him. Although Michael has an allegedly high-maintenance ex-wife, they don’t have any children.
‘He’s invited his girlfriend over tonight,’ I add, ‘for a special three-course meal. He’s cooking it all by himself.’
‘Wow, that’s pretty unusual for an eighteen-year-old boy …’
Riley is nineteen, actually, but I don’t bother correcting him. ‘Well, they’re madly in love – they’ve been together since they were sixteen – and he’s started that catering course so he probably wants the practice. But yes, I was pretty surprised when he told me what he was planning. He’s been mulling it over it for days, choosing recipes online and buying the ingredients. He’s doing a starter with scallops, then a herby chicken thing in a pot …’
‘Hmmm.’ Michael rests his soup spoon in his empty bowl.
‘I’ve never even had a scallop,’ I add.
‘Really?’
I laugh self-consciously. ‘Guess you don’t need a detailed account of the menu.’
He chuckles too and touches my hand across the table. ‘It’s pretty impressive, I have to say. So, is he expecting you to keep out of the way tonight?’
I shrug. ‘Guess so.’
‘What’ll you do?’
‘Haven’t really thought about it. Just stay upstairs, I guess …’ I stop, realising how tragic this sounds: to be spending Saturday night alone, tucked up in bed at 8 p.m., banished from the ground floor of my own house. ‘Or I might go out,’ I add quickly.
Michael’s fingers wrap around mine. ‘Sorry I can’t be around …’
‘That’s okay. You’ve made it very clear that you don’t like going out on Valentine’s night.’
‘C’mon on, Sal, you know I’ve been called into work this afternoon. Andy’s sick, I couldn’t not cover for him …’
‘Michael,’ I cut in, ‘I know how it is, and I’m joking. It’s not a problem. It’s been great having time together today.’ With that, we make our way out of the gallery where I hug him goodbye. While he heads off to work, I pick up some groceries and have a browse in the library, then pop into the salon where I work in the hope that Lisa, who’s the receptionist there, might be at a loose end tonight.
‘Going out for dinner with Harry,’ she says apologetically. ‘I’d rather avoid restaurants tonight but you know what he’s like, loves to eat out at the weekend … Shall we grab a drink after work one day next week?’
‘Sure,’ I say, then make my way home, where I find Riley expertly chopping vegetables at the kitchen worktop.
‘Have a nice time, Mum?’ he asks, without looking round.
I dump my bag of groceries on the table. ‘It was, er …yeah.’
Now he does look round, my smart, kind, ridiculously good-looking son who’s intent on becoming a chef. Although I know it’ll be on the cards when he finishes his course, I dread the day when he moves out. I won’t show it, of course; I won’t clutch at his ankles, weeping and begging him to stay as he packs up his stuff. But I’ll feel like it. ‘You mean it was boring,’ he says with a snigger.
‘Well, you could say that …’ As he turns his attention back to his French beans, I describe the dish of screws and the toilet parts sculpture.
‘You could’ve gone to B&Q for that,’ he observes.
I laugh. ‘Yeah, I know. Guess it just wasn’t really my thing …’ I pause. ‘So, I hope you’re setting three places for dinner tonight?’
‘Huh?’ Riley’s head whips around in alarm.
‘I’m joking, hon. Of course I’m not going to be hanging about, cramping your style …’
His face breaks into a grin. ‘Thanks, Mum.’
I glance at his iPad on the table. A mouth-watering image of a gooey chocolate mousse fills the screen. ‘You’re not making that too, are you?’
‘Yes, Mum.’ A trace of impatience flits across his face.
‘Okay, love, I’ll leave you to it. I know there’s nothing worse than someone hovering around when you’re trying to cook. What time’s Zoe due anyway?’
>
‘About seven …’
‘God, you’ve only got an hour. I’d better let you get on. Erm … is it okay if I just hang out in the living room tonight?’ I catch it immediately: the pained look in his eye, which tells me he’s thinking, Oh no, she’s planning to sit there all night with only a thin wall between us …
‘Er, Mum, the thing is, we’ve got stuff to kinda … talk about.’
I stare at him. ‘Zoe’s not pregnant, is she?’
‘No! No, Mum, she’s not. God …’
I go to hug him, then, as he clearly emits please-go-away vibes, step back and survey the beautifully set table. Candles, best plates, a small bunch of flowers in a vase: he’s really pushed the boat out. ‘I could have a long soak in the bath,’ I add, realising immediately that this is a terrible idea. We have only one bathroom, and what if Zoe needs the loo? What would she do – pee by the bushes at the bottom of the garden? That would put a damper on any romantic proceedings. God, what’s wrong with me today? I’ve annoyed the gallery woman and embarrassed my son …
‘Mum …’ Riley cuts into my thoughts. ‘Er … would you mind going out tonight? Just for a couple of hours?’
‘Yeah, sure! No problem.’ I fix on a broad smile, then raid the fridge for a selection of beleaguered leftovers – ageing hummus and pitta – before installing myself in my bedroom and phoning around my friends to see who’s up for a drink tonight. I know Lisa’s going out with her newish man, but surely someone else will be at a loose end.
‘Sorry,’ Tammy says, ‘Simon’s taking me out for dinner, some French place …’
‘Really? You’re back together?’
‘Well, I don’t know, we’ve been texting a bit, says he wants a chat so I’m kind of hoping …’ She pauses. ‘I know it’ll be full of smoochy Valentine couples …’ I wish her luck, and she adds, ‘Michael not around tonight?’
‘No, he’s been called into work to stand in for another producer.’
‘Well, you’re probably best having a cosy night in tonight. Town’ll be mobbed. Let’s get together next week …’
‘Sure,’ I say, setting a date before moving onto Kev, a former housemate from my younger days, who’s generally up for a beer at short notice.
