Hating Valentine's Day

by Allison Rushby - Hating Valentine's Day

  I hold my hand out for the phone with a final withering look and she trails off.

  ‘Hi, Eileen. How’s it going?’ I say wearily. We spend a minute or two exchanging social pleasantries. Eileen asks about work. I ask how she is, how Dad is, how the cat is, how the ant problem in the kitchen’s faring, etc. Then she gets down to business…

  ‘This ball Justine’s going to sounds like fun, doesn’t it? Maybe she’ll meet a nice boy there?’

  Sigh. I think about next weekend as I form a reply in my head. Saturday and Sunday are really going to take it out of me—days with two weddings are bad enough, but ones with three weddings are a killer. Of course, as Sally mentioned just this afternoon, the money’s spectacular, and it’s all going to a good cause—what she calls the ‘That Bitch Who Set Up On Her Own and Took All My Business’ fund. Because that’s what I’m going to do. My Big Plan. In a year or so I’m going to set up my own studio.

  ‘I can’t go, Eileen. I’ve got three weddings to shoot that day. But say thanks to Dad for getting you to nudge me along, won’t you?’

  Eileen coughs. ‘No, no. He didn’t. He, um…Oh, look. Here’s your father. He wants to say hello.’ She passes the phone over.

  ‘Nice one, Dad. If you can’t set me up, you’ll get Eileen to do your dirty work, hey?’

  ‘I was doing nothing of the sort! I’ve tried before and failed. Look at that fiasco with Bob’s boy, Clarence. Now, why would I try again?’

  Good question, I think, remembering last year’s failed date with Clarence. Clarence, the guy who makes glass eyes for a living, just like his father, his grandfather and his great-grandfather before him. It was all he talked about. At the end of the evening I could probably have made a glass eye.

  ‘I really don’t know, Dad. Why would you try again?’ As I say the words, my mind works its way back to another of his all-time greats—funnily enough, another Valentine’s Day special.

  A retired primary school teacher, Dad now provides daycare for three little girls from the neighbourhood. He does the whole deal around every holiday. At Christmas they play Secret Santa and decorate a Christmas tree and make popcorn strings and paper chains to hang around the living room. At Easter they hard-boil eggs, colour them with food dye, wear bunny ears…You get my drift—it’s little-girl heaven. Dad heaven too. My dad’s always been a bit of a little girl man…

  No, not in that kind of way.

  What I mean is he’s always been the kind of guy who doesn’t mind wearing silver glitter fairy wings, having his face painted like a pussycat and sitting down to pretend tea from a china teaset in the back yard. He’s having the time of his life doing this child-minding thing. The kids are ecstatic. Their parents are ecstatic. My dad’s ecstatic (he gets to play all day). Whatever makes them all happy, I say. And it’s nice to see him happy, because for a long time after my mother left us he wasn’t.

  The kids he’d been minding last year all being four-year-old girls who were very into pink, they’d gone all out for Valentine’s Day. They’d made each other cards and baked pink patty cakes with pink icing to give to their parents. It was a cochineal love-in over there. Anyway, at that time, a distant second cousin of mine happened to be staying at Dad’s. He’d come to check out the job prospects in the area and my dad was putting him up for a few days. We hadn’t seen him for years, but as soon as he got there, Dad was on the phone trying to lure me over to the house, because apparently this second cousin had become ‘very good-looking’. It didn’t seem to matter to Dad that said second cousin and I were related and, if married and mated, would most likely have children with two heads and six fingers. No. I was to get over there pronto.

  After the fourth phone call in two days I couldn’t bear his nagging any more and I went. To be fair, the second cousin was very good-looking now he didn’t have a pizza face. But the way Dad left us alone in the kitchen to ‘finish off the Valentine’s Day patty-cakes’ was a touch obvious. Then there was the way I brought up Dad’s little plan as soon as he’d left the room, mentioning, in passing, the two-headed, six-fingered children.

  That didn’t seem to go down very well. The second cousin choked on the patty-cake he was eating, some pink icing actually came out of his nose, and Dad had to come rushing in to pour him a glass of water. When he’d done that, he had the gall to ask me in a loud whisper how I thought we were getting on. Eileen didn’t make things much better either, shouting, ‘Leave the poor girl alone!’ down the hall.

  I appreciated the gesture, but I’m expecting to get strange looks and wide clearance by all the single males at our annual picnic in the park family reunions from now on. Poor disillusioned Dad. He thinks a guy—any guy, really—is the solution to all my problems, and that when I find one I’ll be able to live happily ever after. It’s funny that what he sees as the solution to all my problems I see as the cause of all my problems. Frankly, the last thing I need is another guy screwing up my life and my head.

  I sigh again. And it is way too early on a Saturday morning to have sighed thrice already. I knew I should have got in earlier. I’d told myself to get onto the problem a good fortnight ago—before it was a problem. Right. That’s it, then. Time to say my piece. I compose myself for a second, then hold the phone out at arm’s length.

  ‘Is everyone listening?’ I say loudly.

  Beside me, Justine jumps. Across the table, Drew sits up in his seat. A noise bleats out from the phone.

  ‘This year, you are all going to leave me alone. I know what you’re all doing, but I’m OK. I’m not thinking about…anything. I’m busy. I’m working. I don’t need a date. There won’t be any set-ups. There won’t be any fortuitous meetings. There won’t be any friends of friends of friends who just happen to be in the same place at the same time as me. So, um, yes…that’s the announcement of the day. Thank you for listening. We’ll now return to our scheduled programming.’

  Beside me, Justine snorts. Across the table, Drew looks confused. Another noise bleats out from the phone. I bring it back to my ear. ‘You hear that, Dad?’

  ‘Er…ah—how’s work, then?’

  I knew it. I knew he was up to something. It’s my dad’s favourite pastime, playing matchmaker. But I let him off the hook and talk about work instead. I explain about the line-up that Sally and I have next weekend, and he asks a few questions before he moves into father mode.

  ‘Now, don’t you overwork yourself, or you’ll fall ill,’ he says. ‘Maybe you should start drinking those little greebie drinks Eileen’s got me on.’

  ‘Greebie drinks?’ I say, starting to pull fluff off the tablecloth absent-mindedly.

  ‘There’s some kind of creature in them. I don’t know. Here she is. She’ll tell you about it.’ He passes me back over to Eileen.

  ‘What’s he talking about?’ I ask her.

  She clicks her tongue impatiently and I can tell she’s giving Dad what he fondly calls ‘one of her looks’. ‘He’s talking about those lactobacillus drinks. He needs them with his diet. I know for a fact he’s been sneaking packets of pork rinds at the pub.’

  I hear a protest from my dad in the background.

  ‘Now, what were we talking about before? That’s it. The ball…’

  I stop de-fluffing the tablecloth. Will they never learn? And I have now officially run out of my daily quota of sighs. ‘Um, I’ve got to go, Eileen. Sorry. Something’s, um, burning on the stove.’

  Drew looks over at the empty stove and then back at me as I say this. He laughs.

  Eileen pauses. ‘I’ve never seen you cook anything on that stove,’ she says dubiously.

  ‘It’s film,’ I shrug. What anyone would be doing with film on a stove is beyond me, but she’s quite right—I don’t think I’ve ever cooked anything much on the stove besides two-minute noodles, so it’s not a very believable excuse.

  ‘Oh, right. You’d better go, then. Be a dear and put me back on with Justine, will you?’

  Obviously it was the right thing to say. ‘OK.
Bye, Eileen,’ I say, and hand the phone over to Justine, who’s been sitting down next to me and listening the whole time.

  ‘Hi, again, Eileen.’ She takes the phone off me and gets up to start pacing once more.

  I look over at Drew.

  ‘Parents, huh?’ he says, with a lift of his eyebrows.

  I can’t help laughing then. I must have sounded like a complete teenager with my ‘Yes, Dad; No, Dad; Fake excuse got-to-go, Eileen.’

  Justine starts giggling over in the corner of the room, making Drew and I look over.

  With a shrug, I turn back. At least someone can laugh about my life. ‘Coffee, tea?’ I get up from the table and head into the kitchen.

  Drew follows me. ‘What are you having?’

  ‘Coffee. Definitely, definitely, definitely coffee. Strong coffee. Maybe two cups.’

  ‘Sounds good.’

  I put the jug on, then grab two mugs and two coffee bags. Drew takes a seat on the bench.

  I’m pottering around, sorting out sugar and milk and chatting to Drew, when Justine has another giggle. ‘No, she’s not seeing anyone and keeping it a secret from you, Eileen…’ she says, pointing to the phone with a ‘your sort-of-stepmother’s such a card’ grin.

  ‘Oh, God,’ I say, looking over at Drew and shaking my head. ‘You know, I do have a limit. I wouldn’t want you to think I’m a complete doormat.’

  ‘What’s the limit?’

  The jug boils and I go over and grab it. ‘If either of them ask me if I’m a lesbian, that’s it. They’re off my Christmas card list for good.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ he says, as I pass him his mug. ‘You’ve got to draw the line somewhere.’

  I lean against the opposite bench and take a sip of my coffee. It’s only then that it really hits home. Justine, Rachel and now my dad and even my sort-of-stepmother. I pause with that. God, but I’m sick of saying ‘sort-of-stepmother’. I’ve been having to say it for over ten years now, ever since Eileen came onto the scene.

  Somehow, though, I don’t think anything’s going to change on the sort-of-stepmother front, because my dad is—how should I put it?—a little scared of remarrying. A little worried. Personally, I think he’s frightened that if he marries Eileen she’ll leave him, like my mother did. The thing is, she wouldn’t. I know this. Eileen knows this. It’s Dad we’re both waiting on.

  Now, what was I thinking about? Oh, yes. Justine, Rachel, my dad and Eileen have all said in one way or another today that they’re not man-hunting for me any more. That they’ve given up even before I made my little speech…

  ‘Oh, I wanted to ask you something,’ Drew says, bringing me back from my daydream. ‘Can I come in to your studio one day next week for a chat? I need you to take me through some of the wedding packages.’

  I try to swallow the coffee in my mouth before I choke. ‘You’re getting married?’ That was quick.

  He laughs. ‘No, I’m being someone’s best man. It’s just that I told him and his fiancée that I know a good wedding photographer…’

  ‘And who would that be?’ I try to look offended for a moment. ‘You shouldn’t talk about the competition in front of me like that. Very rude.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He grins and his eyes light up. For the first time I notice the tiny flecks of green in them. God, he really does smell good. Is that sick, or what?

  I take a second or two to think through my schedule before I reply. ‘Um, come in any day except for Monday. I’ll be out and about a bit that day, but any other time should be fine.’

  ‘Maybe Tuesday, around lunchtime?’

  ‘Sure, that shouldn’t be a problem.’

  Off the phone now, Justine strolls on over to the kitchen.

  ‘About time,’ I say with a roll of my eyes.

  She snorts. ‘I’ll swap you sort-of-stepmothers any day.’

  ‘And I’ll raise you one,’ Drew pipes up. ‘Though I’ve only got a real stepmother.’

  We both turn, wide-eyed.

  ‘Well, la-dee-da!’ Justine says. ‘Aren’t we grand? Only a real stepmother!’ She pulls herself up onto the bench beside Drew. ‘Hey, we’re going out for breakfast,’ she says to me. ‘Want to come?’

  I shake my head. ‘I can’t. I’ve got an, um…’ I glance at Drew for a second before I turn back to Justine ‘…appointment.’

  Justine gets what I’m talking about instantly. ‘Oh, right. Tania.’

  ‘I’ve got a couple of hours, but I just want to have a bath and curl up on the couch with my book for a bit. I’m supposed to be conserving energy for next weekend.’ And I know conserving energy for something seven days away sounds like a pitiful excuse, but I’m going to need to fill my reserves. Last year I didn’t and as soon as I slowed down I caught the flu to end all flus.

  Justine snorts once more for good measure. ‘Curl up with that thing?’ She jerks her head in the direction of the dining table, where my collected works of Dickens is resting. ‘You’ll need a forklift to get that onto the couch with you.’

  ‘I’ll manage, I’m sure. I don’t do all those biceps curls at the gym for nothing.’

  ‘Oh, come on—come out with us,’ Justine wheedles. ‘Come on, come on…’

  I push myself off the bench and stick my now empty mug in the sink. ‘Haven’t you seen the ads? No means no.’ I point at my flatmate. ‘And now I’m going to have that bath. Have fun, though, kids,’ I say as I head for my bedroom. ‘And don’t spend all your pocket money at once.’

  Y Y Y Y

  I add some pretty luxurious-smelling vanilla and mandarin bath oil that Eileen gave me for Christmas to the bath water (‘It’ll help you relax, dear.’). But even after a full ten minutes of floating and staring at the ceiling I can’t stop my brain from ticking over.

  Something isn’t right.

  And it all revolves around what I was thinking about before, in the kitchen. About everyone having given up on me. First Rachel, without any man up her sleeve or her usual Valentine’s Day dinner party. Then my dad, with his ‘I’ve tried before and failed—now, why would I try again?’ line. And Justine, all too readily understanding that I couldn’t come to her latest wacky singles event.

  There was always one on the go—dinners for six, dinners for eight—singles paintball (Please! I’d drawn the line there…). Last year Justine had pushed me into attending a terrible, last-minute speed-dating exercise which had cost me eighty dollars to find out that only one of the guys there would be half bearable. Naturally, he wasn’t the guy that gave me a big red tick on his form. That guy was a thirty-nine-year-old computer programmer with a pet rat named Stevie.

  Lucky, lucky me.

  Frankly, why they’ve become united in the desperate search to find me a partner over the last few years, I have no idea. No, hang on, that’s an outright lie. I know exactly why—they’re all scared. Scared I’m in a dating slump after the break-up to end all break-ups. But isn’t that normal? And, anyway, what’s the point of getting back out there so quickly? What are the odds, after all, that I’ll find someone like Mike again? I just don’t understand those three. Then again, they all cried during Titanic while I laughed hysterically, choking on my popcorn and trying not to clap when Leo finally drowned. (I think we all know it would never have worked out between that pair—it simply wasn’t a landworthy relationship…) So maybe I’ll never understand a lot of things about them and this is just another point to add to my long list of noncomprehension. And it is a long list, believe me.

  OK. So I know I sound ungrateful. I know everyone’s only trying to do the right thing by me—and, yes, I love them to death for it. Any other time of the year I can take their ‘helpfulness’ on the chin, but around Valentine’s Day? Sorry. Tania, my therapist, thinks my reaction to the whole Titanic thing is ‘telling’. I’m not quite sure what she means by this, but I don’t think it’s entirely complimentary.

  Another Tania-ism pops into my head at this. Tania also thinks I should try to look at the positive side of things inst
ead of just the negative, but there are no positives where Valentine’s Day is concerned. And I’ve tried to think of one, I really have! (The woman costs me a fortune and will put another dent in my credit card at my appointment today—something I’m definitely not looking forward to…)

  ‘I hate Valentine’s Day,’ I groan at the ceiling, and I mean what I say.

  Hmm. The mandarin and vanilla stress-relief scent mustn’t have kicked in yet.

  Yes, yes, I realise I sound like a Valentine’s Day Scrooge, with all my ‘Bah, humbug’. But, really, someone should rename the day and call it what it’s become—S.A.D. Singles Awareness Day. Anyway, that’s how I feel.

  Sort of.

  Because I guess you could say I’ve thought about it a little bit more than this over the years…

  THE TOP FIVE REASONS I HATE VALENTINE’S DAY

  (IN NO PARTICULAR ORDER)

  1. Because it’s so fake and ridiculous

  Right. OK. Look at Christmas. Christmas started out as a celebration of the birth of Christ. Now, for most people it’s a commercial hell, where the closest thing you’ll get to a religious experience is nabbing the last ‘Tickle Me’ Elmo at Toys R Us. Valentine’s Day is shot too. It’s a complete commercial fake. The thing is, no one will come out and say it. Why?

  Because everyone’s too scared.

  If you break the silence and admit the truth about Valentine’s Day you either look like a cheapskate who can’t be bothered to buy their partner a present, or a bitter single person who doesn’t have anyone to share the day with.

  So everyone fakes it for the day.

  Why we should all celebrate the one saint at the one time is beyond me, anyway. There are plenty of saints to go around. One for everybody. There are saints for architects (St Barbara) and authors (St Francis de Sales), bakers (St Elizabeth of Hungary) and bankers (St Matthew). For the mentally ill among us (St Dympna) and skiers (St Bernard). There’s even one for cab drivers (St Fiacre), and no one likes them. Personally, I think we should just go with our respective Saints and do something festive on that day instead. Plus, if people knew more about St Valentine, they’d want to switch.