Hating Valentine's Day

by Allison Rushby - Hating Valentine's Day

  ‘Here—let me take a few of those bags.’ He reaches over and starts to unload me. First my left arm, then my right.

  ‘Um, thanks.’ I push the door open a bit wider with my foot. When he’s taken a few more bags I follow him inside. With the lighter load, for the first time in hours my shoulders feel like they’re more than a few inches off the ground.

  ‘I didn’t think you’d be back this early,’ Drew says, stacking the bags on the floor near the dining table, not looking at me.

  I check the time. Seven-forty-eight. And even though I can’t see the expression on Drew’s face, I get the impression from the tone in his voice that he thinks I’ve lied to both him and Justine about what time I’d be home, telling them it wouldn’t be until late so I can get out of going to the ball.

  ‘Well, usually I head back to the studio to sort a few things out, but I’ve got a headache I just can’t shake. I think I need some extra sleep. And I definitely need to sit down.’

  Drew looks at me now, concerned. ‘You’re probably dehydrated. It was pretty hot out there today. Er—here you go.’ He pulls out a chair at the dining table for me.

  Hot out there? Tell me about it. I’ve downed six bottles of water and only peed twice. I decide, however, that this is information no one else really needs to know. Especially not Drew.

  ‘I’ve had a headache for days. This week—it’s been a bit much.’ And then I wince and look away, knowing Drew’s probably thinking about this morning almost as much as I am. I try not to squirm in my seat. I change the topic. ‘Aren’t you going to be late for the ball?’

  ‘Er…it doesn’t start till eight. Justine and I thought it’d be better to go from here, being closer and all.’

  I nod and watch as Drew pulls out one of the chairs from the opposite side of the dining table. He undoes his jacket with one hand in an undeniably sexy move before he takes a seat. It’s quite a while before he looks at me. ‘Liv, I’m, er, sorry about this morning. But it’s true. Tiff…It was all a favour, nothing more.’

  ‘You don’t have to—’

  ‘I want to,’ Drew cuts in. ‘I’ve got a few things to say. Firstly, I don’t want you to believe there’s something going on that isn’t.’

  ‘I—’

  ‘And I wanted to tell you that I’m not trying anything on here. I’m not hiding things from you, or pretending. What you see is what you get. I know it’s bad timing, and you’ve…had a lot to deal with this week, not to mention a lot of work on, but that’s just the way it’s worked out. I’ve, er, had a really good time getting to know you better, and I think it’d be a shame for us to stop seeing each other now.’

  ‘I—’

  Drew smooths the tablecloth out with one hand. ‘So what do you think about all of that?’

  ‘Um…’ In the nick of time Justine comes into the room, attaching an earring.

  ‘Hey,’ she says, giving me a quick wave.

  ‘Hey,’ I say, turning around in my seat to face her. ‘You look great.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She keeps her eyes on the floor, concentrating as she fixes her earring. Obviously she’s still angry at me. ‘We’d better get going. Don’t want to keep our dates waiting.’

  Drew pushes himself up from the table. ‘Definitely not. If I keep mine waiting she might set the poodles on me. And if we fall out, you know what that means.’ He looks at Justine, raising his eyebrows.

  ‘What?’

  ‘No romantic walks along the beach in the moonlight for me!’

  ‘And what a shame that would be,’ Justine says, with a laugh. ‘Imagine all the fun you’d miss out on, scooping up poodle poop off the sand.’

  The pair say their goodbyes and continue chatting as they make their way out through the door. Drew gives me a final look before he closes it behind them. As it clicks shut I suddenly wish we’d had a few more minutes together.

  A few more minutes to sort things out.

  Alone now, I get up with a sigh and head for my bedroom, ripping off my shirt as I go. I can’t wait to get my nastiest of nasty bras off. I knew it was a mistake wearing the one with the underwire that cuts into my chest on a day like today, but at five-thirty this morning, when I couldn’t find the one I really wanted, I thought I’d just deal with it.

  Wrong.

  I strip off, have a quick shower, then put on my most comfortable pyjamas to console myself. And I have to admit that life looks just that little bit better now I’m out of the pinching nasty bra and into comfort wear that I can breathe in. I pause and look at myself in the mirror as I comb my wet hair.

  If only the rest of my life was so easy to fix.

  Well, maybe it is. Maybe it isn’t as bad as I think, as Tania would say. I know what else she’d say, too. She’d tell me that the situation I’ve got myself into could be easily fixed if I just wanted to fix it. And I guess she might even be right. I mean, all I’ve really got to do is sit down with everyone involved and talk things over. OK, so maybe I’ll take Justine out for dinner or something on Monday, to make things up to her. And Drew—I’ll call him tomorrow.

  I start combing again.

  Yes, I’ll call him. But what will I say?

  Well, for a start I’ll definitely apologise for the awful comments that came whizzing out of my mouth this morning without the stamped approval of my brain. I can’t believe some of the things I said. I wince as I remember a choice couple of lines, including the lovely ‘Tiffany’s fuck-buddy’. Ouch. But what about Drew’s words before—about us continuing to see each other? I’m not so sure about that. I’m not so sure it’s going to happen.

  I know Justine is right, and Drew deserves exactly the same kind of chance he gave me. Tiffany’s his baggage, just like Mike is mine. But Drew and I…we’re different people. He hasn’t had the same experiences I’ve had. Where Tiffany and Mike are concerned Drew’s baggage is carry-on while mine’s in the hold with ‘oversize’ and ‘heavy’ stickers plastered all over it. Like I told Justine, I need to protect myself from having my world shredded into little pieces again. Seeing Mike again this week, having him finally make that visit that I’d been subconsciously waiting for for so long, it’s brought it all back again—what happened between us. What happened to me. And even though I’m finally—once and for all—over him, that doesn’t mean I want to live it all over again.

  So, while I feel bad that Drew was telling the truth about his innocent date with Tiffany, and I understand that I shouldn’t have changed my opinion about him, the fact is I have. Well, maybe not about him as a person—he’s a nice guy—but I think I have changed my opinion about where he fits into my life. Where we stand. And in my eyes, at the moment, we should be standing an arm’s length apart.

  Plus, I remind myself of Sally’s phone call this morning. By the sound of things I’m going to be too busy for a relationship anyway. I can’t let anything distract me from setting up my own studio. The statistic of fifty per cent of small businesses failing within the first year is too scary to even contemplate.

  So maybe that’s it.

  Just friends.

  I cringe when this thought passes through my head, because I’ve always hated that term ‘just friends’. It’s such a meaning-loaded term. How can it not be? The whole point of its existence is that both the parties involved in being ‘just friends’ want different things—one wants more than friendship and the other doesn’t. This being the case, how can a real, true friendship ever happen at all? Personally, I don’t think it can—that difference in feeling will always be there, playing piggy in the middle. Still, that’s the way I want it to be. Just friends.

  I finish combing my hair and make my way to the kitchen, grab a Lean Cuisine out of the freezer, stab it a touch too gleefully in the appropriate places and chuck it in the microwave. While I’m waiting for it to heat I drink a large glass of water and then refill it again, thinking about Drew’s comment on dehydration.

  When the microwave beeps, I forget about my headache and concentrate on my stomach.
I empty my salmon and cheese sauce sachet onto my pasta sachet better than a celebrity chef ever could (there’s a certain trick, a flick of the wrist, that I use to get all of the sauce out). Then I take my bowl and fork out to the living room and turn the TV on. I channel-surf until I find something my brain can cope with tonight, settling on When Family Pets Turn Bad. Yep, I think, I should be able to cope with that.

  I watch as dogs, parrots, rats and ferrets have a go at their owners, their owner’s friends, neighbours, children and other pets in ways I’ve never thought about before. A story about a cat attacking both its owners in their sleep worries me—should I have asked about the soon-to-be-arriving Betsy and Shu-shu’s criminal record?—but I don’t fret for long. Veronica said Betsy and Shu-shu were twelve, didn’t she? If she’s right, their furtive pouncing and eye-gouging days are probably long gone. I placate myself with the thought that as long as I feed them they probably won’t resort to chewing off any of my appendages for sustenance during the night.

  The show finishes and the news headlines come on between programmes. I’m reaching forward for my glass of water again as I hear it. Something about Valentine’s Day. I choke on the pasta in my mouth and have to take a big gulp of water to unstick it. I can’t believe this has surprised me, caught me unawares. Valentine’s Day is tomorrow and is, essentially, what this weekend is all about for me—what I’ve been photographing all day today and will be photographing all day tomorrow. But on a personal level I haven’t made the connection until now.

  Valentine’s Day.

  I’m going to get through it unscathed. No set-ups, no dinners, no dates with my dad’s friends’ kids. And I’m floored. Because, for me, this feels like an absolute first.

  I sit, stunned, staring at the TV presenter, who’s gabbing on about some couple who are going to get married as they abseil down a cliff somewhere tomorrow, but I don’t really take in what he’s saying. Slowly I work back through the years. Last year, the year before, the year before that…My God, I think, as I scroll through time, it is an absolute first. The absolute first and only time in my grown-up, single-girl life that my family and friends haven’t arranged something hideous on Valentine’s Day.

  I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. Laugh, I guess—this should be a cause for celebration, a breaking out the Bolly moment.

  But it’s not.

  I can’t laugh, because for some reason Justine’s words from this afternoon keep ringing through my aching head: You getting what you want—it’s not a good thing… Over and over again.

  I lean forward, grab the remote and switch the TV off.

  Uneasily, quickly, I shovel down the rest of my pasta. When I’m done, I get up and put my dish in the sink to soak, then grab my Dickens collection off the dining room table in the hope of occupying myself. I’m almost finished, I realize, when I look at the page I’ve marked with a folded corner. I’ve only got another fifty or so pages to go. I take the book and myself back over to the sofa and read almost four pages before I let my eyes rest closed, just for a moment…

  Y Y Y Y

  My eyes flick open the moment I hear the noise. I look around the room nervously.

  Everything seems fine.

  Breathing a sigh of relief, I get up off the couch. I really should go to bed and get some proper rest.

  It’s only when I take my first step down the hallway that I see the light. Not in a ‘I’m having an epiphany’ kind of way, but a real light. The study light. Seeping out from under the partially closed door. I stop mid-step, place my foot back on the floor and listen. Someone’s typing.

  Hearing this, I start to think that everything isn’t fine, like I’d thought only seconds before on the couch. I reach out and put one hand against the wall to steady myself. The other hand I cover my mouth with. My breathing suddenly sounds extraordinarily loud. Someone’s typing. Someone’s typing in my flat. And it isn’t me and it isn’t Justine. I keep listening. Every so often the typing stops, and sometimes there will be quite a long pause before it starts up again. Slowly I start to creep down the hall, one step at a time, keeping my hand against the wall.

  Slowly, slowly. The typing pauses and so do I.

  Clickety-clack. It starts up again and I move down the hall once more. Who’s in there? It can’t be Justine or Drew. I’d have heard them when they came back in.

  Oh.

  I get a sick feeling in my stomach as I remember back through my week. All the way back to Mrs Batty-Smith’s funeral and the bathroom—three spirits.

  Slowly, slowly, I creep towards the door. When I finally get there I extend my hand and carefully push the door open just the tiniest crack, so I can see in the room. Then I inch forward and peek through the gap.

  There’s a man in there. A man sitting with his back to me and typing away on my computer.

  At least I think it’s my computer. Because my study…it’s changed. Very changed. The last time I left it it was serviceable. A desk with my computer, a swivel chair, some bookcases, a filing cabinet. Now all those things are still there, but in different places in the room—which seems to have morphed from its standard rectangle to something like an oval. It’s changed colour too—the new colour is…Let’s just say it’s kind of different. It used to be a not very interesting cream. Now it’s a vibrant blood-red and has been stenciled with gold hearts. There’s a heart-shaped gold clock where the normal clock used to be, red curtains where the white ones were, and the carpet—that’s changed as well.

  Red, of course.

  I must be dreaming.

  Because this—this is exactly like a room you’d see in your dreams and still recognise. It’s happened to everyone, I’m sure—you’re dreaming and recognise you’re somewhere in particular, your kitchen, or your bathroom, or in my case your study—but the surroundings aren’t like anything you’ve ever seen before. It’s that kind of feeling. This isn’t my study, but it is. I know it is. I keep looking around the room in wonder. Even the computer has some kind of a wacky heart-shaped border attached to it. It’s as if they gave the contestants on Changing Rooms an extra forty-eight hours and an unlimited supply of LSD.

  And this is the end of the line. I’m handing myself over to Tania come Monday morning. I may not have a brain tumour (if Tony’s to be believed…), but there is definitely something wrong with me. This just isn’t normal.

  The typing starts up again then, and I move my attention back to the guy whose fingers are clacking away on the keyboard. As I watch, he moves his right arm away from the keyboard for a moment to use the mouse and…

  Hang on a second.

  He’s looking at porn!

  I forget about everything then, and step forward into the room, pushing the door wide open as I go.

  ‘Hey, I hope you haven’t downloaded any of that!’ I say, remembering the charming computer STD Justine’s little brother left us with last time he visited.

  He turns on the swivel chair and looks at me.

  Oh…um, wow.

  As soon as I see him my eyes probably widen to something that looks pretty much like pre-roadkill staring into oncoming headlights. Because the guy sitting in my swivel chair is categorically, undeniably, squiffingly, lickably, the most handsome man I’ve ever seen.

  ‘I’m so sorry,’ he says, standing up and turning the computer off. ‘I was…’he coughs discreetly. ‘Passing the time. Tony has been teaching me about the Internet.’

  ‘Tony,’ I sigh. I should have known. ‘Look, it’s all right,’ I say quickly, any viruses forgotten as I stare at his gorgeousness. ‘Don’t worry about it.’ I take a big whiff. What is that? He even smells delicious. He stands in the middle of the room, adjusting his cuffs, and I, quite willingly, keep staring at him.

  Divine.

  And I don’t mean in the Hugh Grant kind of way.

  I could like this dream. I could like this dream a lot.

  This guy looks great, smells great, is over four feet tall, has a perfectly fitted tux and, to top it all off
, a gardenia in his buttonhole. Not a red rose, a gardenia. Very classy. You’ve got to love a man who knows his flowers.

  The guy buttons his jacket up. ‘If you’ll allow me to introduce myself, I am the—’

  ‘Ghost of Valentine’s Day Present?’ I butt in.

  He nods.

  ‘Right,’ I say, and keep on taking him in (there’s probably dribble running down my chin by now). After a while I notice something strange as he looks back at me. Every few seconds his face looks different. And I don’t mean his expression, I mean his face. His actual face. As if he has several different faces that keep changing from one to the next. When I walked into the room he looked rather like Keanu Reeves. But now he’s more Ben Affleck-ish. And, wait, that looks like a bit of Brad Pitt there. And is that Jude Law? I try to catch the change time and time again, but it’s seamless.

  Hopefully he’ll rotate back to Keanu Reeves sooner or later.

  ‘Shall we?’ He steps forward, one arm bent for me to take.

  I remember then that I’m in pyjamas, just like I was with Tony. They don’t really go well with his crisp tux.

  ‘Um—’ I start, but when I look down I don’t have pyjamas on any more. I’m now in a glamorous light cream beaded evening dress that matches his gardenia perfectly. ‘Um, er, OK,’ I stutter, and take his arm. He escorts me down the hall, out into the living room and opens the front door for me.

  Hey, no Velcro bungee-jumping off the balcony this time. This guy knows how to treat a lady.

  As he closes the front door behind us I become curious. ‘So, do you have a name? Or is it just the rather formal Ghost of Valentine’s Day Present? Sounds a little ominous, don’t you think?’

  ‘You can call me James,’ he says as he leads me down the stairs.

  ‘James,’ I say. ‘James is great. It’s a nice name, James.’ Don’t babble, Liv, I tell myself. Act as if men with movie-star looks miraculously appear in your study every day.

  I wish.

  Outside, we keep walking down the path towards the road. Where a limo is waiting. James opens the door for me and I slide in across the tan leather seat. Inside, there’s a glass of champagne waiting for me in the drink-holder resting within the armrest.