Читать книгу The Valentine-Free Zone: A Love...Maybe Valentine eShort - Fiona Gibson, Fiona Gibson - Страница 5

‘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.’

‘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.’