Hating Valentine's Day

by Allison Rushby - Hating Valentine's Day

  That it really is over. That this time Amanda doesn’t leave.

  Myself two years ago stands in the same spot she’s been standing in the whole time and cries soundlessly now that he’s gone. Big fat tears roll down her face and drip onto her shirt, the table, the floor. After a while she reaches forward and takes something out of the basket on the table that’s holding letters and bills and pens and other junk.

  It’s a card. A Valentine’s Day card.

  Leaving it unopened, she goes over and throws it in the bin. Then, standing upright again and looking out of the kitchen window, she watches as Mike’s car drives off.

  He hasn’t even remembered what day it is.

  I watch myself two years ago for a long time, my heart breaking all over again and my tears mirroring hers, falling sadly onto the floor. I don’t know how long I stand like this, but it seems like hours before I feel that I’m done. Finally, I look down at Tony. ‘Are you happy now? Satisfied?’

  He doesn’t say anything.

  ‘Take me home.’

  He comes over silently and straps the Velcro back on my wrist. I close my eyes, feel myself lift again, and then, with a thump, we’re back on my balcony in exactly the same spot we started from.

  ‘I hate you,’ I say to Tony, pulling the Velcro off.

  ‘You’ve always hated me—remember?’ he replies, not meeting my eyes. ‘But this is for your own good, Liv. Your own good. It wasn’t always like the day in the café. You tend to forget that.’ He looks up then, and even though I try not to look at him something makes my eyes turn to his.

  ‘I thought you were going to help me? How is this helping? I just want to forget.’

  ‘It’s not that easy. You have to learn from what happened before you can forget.’

  ‘Why can’t everyone just leave me be?’ I sob, my chest heaving as I struggle to breathe.

  ‘Everyone will, if you’re not careful,’ he says. ‘But I can’t. And I don’t fail. I never fail. Remember that.’

  So very tired, I don’t reply, but head inside. I slide and lock the balcony door behind me, leaving Tony out there, and go and curl up into a ball on the couch, where I keep right on crying, making up for all the times that I was strong and held the tears back instead.

  Y Y Y Y

  Wednesday 10 February-here it comes…

  When I wake up to the beeping of my alarm at seven-thirty a.m. I wonder why it’s so damn loud this morning. It doesn’t take me long to work out it’s not my alarm clock at all, but my head beating away in time with it that’s the problem. I’ve got such a headache. And little wonder, I think, sitting up. What was going on in my head last night was more than strange.

  I start to remember the events of a few hours ago and my heart beats a little faster. I bring my hands out in front of me. Like I’d thought—shaky. Last night was…awful is the only word for it. It was simply awful reliving those moments. Especially the last one at my old apartment. I look around me then, at my bedroom. I don’t remember getting back into bed at all. Hmm. I guess I shouldn’t have had any wine at all at Rachel’s dinner party last night. And especially not red. I know it gives me migraines.

  Maybe I really should go to the doctor’s today? Or make an appointment with Tania. But what would I say? To either of them? All they’ll tell me to do is try and relax, and there’s no chance of that happening for quite a few days yet. And, really, do the dreams, or hallucinations, or whatever they are, honestly mean anything? I doubt it, I think, recalling another very vivid dream I had a few months ago, after a day spent shopping for a new fridge—in that dream a deep freeze had eaten me. Yes. The only reason I’d seen Mrs Batty-Smith the other day was because I was at her funeral and I was upset. And the dream last night—well, I’d seen Mike earlier that day, hadn’t I? That had been reasonably upsetting too. Especially as I wasn’t expecting it.

  So, while I’d love to take the day off and relax, I can’t. Exhausted as I am, I crawl out of bed immediately, knowing that if I don’t I’ll fall asleep again, get into work late, and Sally will have my guts for garters.

  I stand under the shower for as long as possible, trying to wake myself up. I tell myself over and over and over again that it was all just a dream. Just a dream like all my other dreams. All the other dreams I’ve told Tania about. I say the phrase ‘just a dream’ so many times I realise I’m not even saying it in my head any more and I’ve started to whisper it out loud. Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream. However, standing so long in the shower means that I then have to rush as fast as my poor head can go through getting dressed, throwing on a bit of make-up, reminding myself to take my medication (and resisting the urge to double it), preparing a coffee to take with me on the road, and stuffing my handbag full of Snickers and muesli bars. Snickers bars…

  Again.

  I shudder as I remember not only last night’s dream, but Mrs Batty-Smith.

  Just a dream, just a dream, just a dream.

  Next week I’ll start looking after myself. Next week I’ll see Tania. Next week I’ll make that doctor’s appointment.

  But now—now I have to get through to the weekend. Now I have to try and forget…

  Y Y Y Y

  I’m working reasonably hard for twenty-six minutes past ten (well, OK, maybe seventy-five per cent), when my mobile beeps, distracting me. When I finally locate it in my bag (there’s that lipstick and tampon again…) I have an SMS from Justine.

  U GET MY NOTES OK? BE HOME 7.

  I start to reply, then, a few letters in, I clear the screen and throw the mobile back in my bag. It’s easier to e-mail. It’d be even easier to call, but I think if Justine received as many personal phone calls at work as she does e-mails, it would be a firing offence. I begin typing away.

  From: “Liv Hetherington”

 

  To: “Justine Holden”

  All right already, I’m coming, I’m coming, believe me! I got all three notes. The one in the kitchen, the one on the TV and the one on my pillow. This night out is starting to take on the kind of organisation usually reserved for NASA shuttle launches…

  L

  I spend the rest of the day working feverishly, trying to keep my mind off everything. Sally’s out of the studio, booked up to her perfectly plucked eyebrows with engagement portraits, so sadly there aren’t any ‘can I have a fag/I’ll get the coffee and biscuits/let’s do boozy drinks from three onward’ distractions.

  By five-thirty-two, I’ve managed to finish off putting together a wedding album that’s due to be picked up next week; de-flabbed and de-cigarette-packeted a whole slew of photos from the lot I was working on but didn’t finish last Friday (as it turned out, that mother-of-the-bride could have auditioned to be the Marlboro woman); and have had a quick look through Kirsty and Shaun’s engagement portraits from yesterday (I was right about the hair against that grass…).

  All in all, a good day’s work.

  At five-forty-one, I close the studio door behind me. On my way home, I stop off at a bottle shop to buy Drew a birthday present of a nice bottle of red, and at six on the dot I’m banging shut the garage door at home.

  Justine opens the door to the apartment just as I’m about to stick my key in the lock. ‘Thank God you’re home,’ she says, holding the door back.

  ‘Why? What’s going on?’ I scan the inside of the apartment to see what’s recently been on fire.

  ‘You’ve got to get ready,’ she says, grabbing one of my arms and dragging me inside.

  I check my watch in case I’ve read the time incorrectly. ‘But I’ve got almost an hour.’

  ‘Well, that’s just enough time, isn’t it? Go on.’ She takes my bag off my shoulder and gives me a little push on the small of my back towards my bedroom. ‘Go and have a shower. And wash your hair.’

  ‘What’s wrong with my hair?’

  ‘Just wash it, missy. And no talking back!’

  I pause in
the hallway and look at her. She’s obviously already had a shower and is dressed for going out, though she hasn’t put on any make-up yet or done her hair (however, with Justine’s short red crop this only takes a five second blow with the hairdryer, a slap of wax and she’s done). ‘Um, aren’t you just a little too excited about this?’

  She puts her hands on her hips. ‘Yes. Yes, I am. I’m very excited about this. I’m very excited indeed.’

  ‘OK, OK.’ I wave both my hands in front of me, surrendering, before I turn and keep going down the hall.

  I do as I’m told and go straight to my en suite bedroom, undress and have a long shower. And as I wash my hair I have to admit to myself that, like Justine, I really am looking forward to tonight. I find myself humming as I towel off, don my dressing gown and start blowdrying my hair. Product applied and hair done, I slap a bit of moisturiser on and step into my walk-in wardrobe to choose what I’m going to wear. I decide on my favourite pair of camel-coloured Lisa Ho pants, the sequinned glittery sandals I bought specifically to go with them, and a silky dark blue, green and camel Charlie Brown striped shirt. I put everything on and take a look in the mirror. Not bad. Not bad at all for a crusty old overworked wedding photographer.

  I run my hands down the sides of my pants. All right! They’d been getting a bit snug lately, but all the running around I’ve been doing in the last couple of weeks seems to have worked off that pesky half a kilo I gained over Christmas. Either that or I forgot to send the pants to the drycleaner after I wore them last. Come to think of it…Damn.

  Oh, well, make-up time.

  Back in front of my mirror, I pull out the first of my cabinet drawers and bring out the big guns. The good stuff. My everyday make-up sits on the top of the counter in a tiny, free-gift-with-purchase toiletry bag. It consists of concealer, mascara, cream blush and a lipgloss. But tonight I go all out. I start by tweezing my Neanderthal-like eyebrows, which I obviously haven’t paid much attention to in the last few weeks. Or maybe months. I repeat the ‘no pain, no gain’ mantra as I go—something I picked up from a particularly cruel PE teacher I had in high school. At least it comes in handy for real life (plucking, waxing, those last two minutes on the Stairmaster at the gym…). That done, I move on to painting myself—concealer, foundation, powder, blush, eyeshadow, eyeliner, mascara, brow pencil, highlighter, lip liner, lipstick—then squirt, squirt with my perfume of the moment and I’m done.

  I take a final look in the mirror.

  I’m a vision. If I do say so myself. A vision with perfect timing to boot, I think as Justine yells out, ‘You almost ready?’ from the lounge room.

  ‘Coming.’ I grab my handbag from where I’ve left it on the bed and stuff my lipstick and a few tissues in. I do one last fluff of my hair before I leave. Definitely a vision—though, I remind myself firmly, I am not looking this way for someone else. A someone called Drew. Sometimes it’s nice just to look…well, nice.

  OK, then.

  I go over to open the bedroom door with a flourish, take a few hip-sashaying supermodelesque steps up the hall and into the lounge and twirl in front of Justine.

  ‘I have arrived.’

  And then I spot Drew, standing over near the table.

  Shit.

  ‘Very nice.’ He nods.

  Justine just laughs.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me he was here?’ I give Justine a look. ‘I could have been running around naked!’

  ‘That’s OK. Nudity’s fine with me,’ Drew says. ‘In fact, I’m all for nudity.’

  I give him a look too.

  Drew laughs. ‘Wait right there,’ he says, and turns and steps into the kitchen for a moment. He comes out with two white tulips, each one wrapped in clear cellophane. ‘Ladies…’ He steps forward and presents me with one, and then goes over to give the other to Justine.

  ‘Um, thanks,’ is all I can say as I reach inside the wrapping, stunned, and touch the tulip. It’s gorgeous. I love tulips. They’re so gauzy—even the green stems always look like you’re seeing them through a soft-focus filter (sorry—the photographer in me…). ‘Tulips are my favourite.’ I look up from the flower to Drew.

  ‘It’s beautiful,’ Justine says.

  I wake up to myself slightly then, my brain kicking in. Tu-lips? Hmm. Isn’t that a bit NG? As Sally would say. I mean, on the NG scale surely this would have to rate at least an eleven out of ten? And in my mind, just like Santa Claus, the Easter Bunny and the good old Tooth Fairy, eleven-scoring NGs don’t exist.

  It’s all a bit too good to be true.

  I take a step back and Drew looks at me. ‘Liv?’

  I put my flower down on the dining room table that bit too quickly, as if it’s burning my hand. ‘Um, I was just thinking…what are you doing giving us flowers? It’s your birthday.’ I look around for a moment, and then go over to the dresser and pick up Drew’s present from where Justine’s left it beside my handbag. I take it over and hand it to him. ‘Happy birthday.’

  ‘Thanks. You didn’t have to,’ he says with a smile, pulling the bottle of red out of its glittery gold hologram bottle-bag packaging. As he takes a look at the wine, I can tell he’s genuinely surprised I’ve taken the trouble to buy him a present. ‘Wow.’ He looks at the label. ‘You really didn’t have to.’

  Just as I’m standing around, starting to get uncomfortable and knowing I’m about to say something stupid along the lines of ‘what kind of a birthday cheapskate do you think I am?’, Drew says, ‘We’ll definitely have to drink it together,’ and takes a step forward towards me.

  At the same time something blinds me. A flash. At first I think it’s the lightbulb going, or Drew’s watch catching the light, but then I realise it can’t be either of those things as the flash is pink and like a streak. Tony again. I stop myself with this thought. OK. That’s it. I’ve got to see some kind of a doctor before someone finds me dead on the floor somewhere. I’m really losing it. I’m starting to think this is all real…

  Confused, I blink hard. When I open my eyes again Drew is closing in, and as he keeps coming I finally wake up to myself and what’s going on. My brain still caught up on the tulip, along with everything else, clumsily I step forward as well, moving in to give him a kiss on the cheek. But when I take that step suddenly everything seems wrong. Really wrong. Halfway there I work out Drew’s not going for a kiss on the cheek. He’s moving in for a hug. I reposition myself, turning my head quickly, and instantly know everything really is wrong here. He hugs me and, with my head pushed back uncomfortably, I kiss him on the lips. Right on the lips.

  There’s no getting around it.

  It’s not a slightly off-centre cheek-kiss.

  It’s not a ‘whoops, sorry, I brushed your lips’ kiss.

  It’s a ‘bang, right there, no disguising it, hello, there you go’ kiss, and for a moment we’re all wrongly placed arms and legs and still kissing and—ugh, how embarrassing. I detach and step back awkwardly, opening my mouth to say sorry, but nothing other than a small squeak comes out.

  ‘Well, thanks again,’ Drew says with a short laugh. ‘For everything!’

  As for me, I quit squeaking and look over at Justine, who’s grabbed a tall glass vase from atop the entertainment unit and is heading for the kitchen. She’s either not noticed what’s just gone on or is pretending not to notice as she fills the vase with water, unwraps her tulip and places it inside. When she’s done, she comes over and takes mine from the table, unwraps it and puts it in beside hers.

  ‘Right, then.’ I clap my hands together three times, like I’m a kindergarten teacher announcing it’s nap time. ‘Let’s get going, shall we?’

  Justine and Drew both look at me and I try to melt into the floor unsuccessfully. I turn and glance down the hallway for a second, as if I’ve just heard something, and cringe as the moment I’ve just had with Drew replays itself over and over again in my head. I take what I hope isn’t too obvious a deep breath, and compose myself before I turn back again.

&nb
sp; Drew is looking at his watch, checking the time. ‘The cab should be here in five minutes. Should we wait for it outside?’

  I nod.

  ‘All set?’ Drew turns to Justine, who’s in the kitchen again, this time shoving the cellophane from the flowers into the bin.

  She gives her hands a quick rinse under the tap and then dries them on a hand towel. ‘I am now.’

  The cab arrives right on time and we head into town, deciding on the way that we’ll go to the Guava Bar for dinner. Both Justine and I have been there dozens of times before, but Drew never has, and he must, Justine says, be introduced to their cocktail list immediately.

  Soon enough we’re sitting at the long steel bar, with three of the barman’s finest in front of us. I’ve ordered a musk stick cocktail, Drew’s gone for a toffee apple (we wouldn’t let him have the dirty martini that he chose first up, as it wasn’t ‘birthday’ enough) and Justine’s playing with the frozen guava in her Guava Bar special, and prattling on to Drew about her day at the office at usual Justine top speed. Meanwhile I’m pretending to listen, but am actually still having an inward cringe about the incident back in the apartment. And as many times as I tell myself to get over it and move on, I can’t. I don’t quite know why—after all, I’ve had far more embarrassing moments than this.

  I don’t have to search very hard to come up with one.

  Like the time at a wedding last year, when I was standing on a high cement wall taking a group photo of approximately one hundred and fifty people, and my skirt blew up at least to my waist, exposing my favourite white strawberry motif undies.

  Yes. That was fairly embarrassing.

  I glance over at Drew for a second, but he’s still listening to Justine and laughing every so often. I try desperately to concentrate now, to listen to what Justine’s saying, but I can’t.