Читать книгу Truly, Madly, Deeply - Romantic Association Novelist's - Страница 9

‘I’m thinking of throwing a Valentine’s party this year,’ said Katie, dishing up a big, innocent grin.

‘You’re kidding, right?’

‘More partying is in everyone’s interest.’

Jane sighed and looked at her sister with a blatant mix of accusation and incredulity. ‘You’ve hosted three birthday parties this year. Why would you even think of having another party?’

‘They were for the kids. I want to throw a party for grown-ups? I mean adults.’ Katie corrected herself. The adults she knew were not all grown up; that was her point.

Jane felt sick. This was the most ridiculous and painful idea her well-intentioned, but woefully misguided, sister had come up with yet. Valentine’s Day! Jane’s own private hell. These were the two words most likely to strike fear into her heart; crueller than ‘facial hair’, more uncomfortable than ‘smear examination’.

Jane, unlike her sister, did not have children to throw birthday parties for. Nor did she have a husband or even a boyfriend. She had been engaged once, in her early twenties. They’d split up before the wedding. On Valentine’s Day. To coin an old-fashioned phrase, she’d jilted him. Sometimes, when she looked back on her actions, she struggled to remember them with absolute clarity; she laboured to justify them. She remembered feeling panicked that the wedding planning was cutting into far too much of her studying time –she had her exams to think of –and she remembered thinking that Mark was a nice enough guy but that nice enough wasn’t enough. Although it wasn’t clear exactly what might be enough for Jane. It was all such a long time ago. She’d since dated various men on and off but she’d never committed. Sexy, bad boy types disappointed her, she ridiculed and distrusted devoted romantics and she dismissed any one in between as, ‘Boring, far too normal.’

‘What are you looking for?’ Katie often asked, exasperated.

‘Just someone who understands I have a career and friends of my own. Someone who has that too but wants to share.’ Jane didn’t think this was too much to ask. It seemed practical and sensible so it should be possible. Jane was all about the practical and sensible; admittedly she gave less thought to what was possible.

Her mother had never quite forgiven her. ‘What sort of girl calls off her wedding on Valentine’s Day?’ she’d yelled. ‘You’ve ruined your one chance of happiness.’

Jane thought her mother was wrong about her ruining her one chance of happiness. It simply wasn’t true. Jane was happy. At least, she felt very content, which was a lot like happiness. She had a full life. She was a solicitor and would probably make Partner next year; all her studying and hard work had paid off. She went to gigs with the frequency of a teenager, she had good friends, two dogs –not cats, she’d resisted becoming a cliché –and a stylish home. A home in which she was free to eat whatever she liked, whenever she liked and to watch anything she pleased on TV. Microwave meals for one and uninterrupted viewing of The Walking Dead were sufficiently compensatory. The only time that she found being single difficult, and contentment illusive, was on Valentine’s Day.

On February 14th, Jane’s life felt like an enormous black hole. No matter how many computer literacy or yoga classes she fitted in, committees she sat on or hours she spent in the office, she could not fill that day. She found herself dwelling on the fact that every other woman in the United Kingdom was wearing silky lingerie under her new, fabulous dress, eating a delicious meal by candlelight and drinking vintage champagne while her husband or boyfriend serenaded her and threw red rose petals in her path. Jane told herself that it was actually, simply a materialistic, manufactured, almost grotesque commercial enterprise but the image of a more beautiful and romantic version of Valentine’s Day, largely manufactured by glossy, glorious magazines, always chewed its way into her consciousness and, secretly, she longed for it.

Not that she’d ever admit such a thing. If there was one thing a single girl understood the importance of, it was saving face.

‘Well, count me out,’ declared Jane.

‘Have plans do you?’ asked Katie.

Jane glared at her. ‘No one will come anyway. Don’t couples want time by themselves on Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that the point?’

‘I don’t just know couples.’ Actually, Katie’s friends were mostly couples but she thought they would rally when they heard her plan; all her friends were aware of Jane’s singledom.

‘Why would you want a bunch of drunks staggering around your house and throwing up in the cloakroom?’

Katie laughed at Jane, obviously unwilling to be put off. ‘It won’t be like that. I’m going to have a romantic theme and ask everyone to wear pink.’

‘Even the men?’

‘I’ll serve salmon canapés and rosé cava.’

‘You’ll find it spilt on your new cream sofa.’

Katie ignored her. ‘I’ll have a chocolate fountain.’

‘Chocolate is not pink, it’s not theme appropriate,’ pointed out Jane churlishly.

‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Aunt Jane. A party is a marvelous idea. You might meet someone and find luuurvvve?’ Isobel, Katie’s eldest, interrupted the conversation. She had a habit of sneaking up on her aunt and mother when they were chatting. She’d found eavesdropping a tremendous source of information since she was an infant.

‘No, I won’t,’ said Jane. ‘I believe in “luuurvvve” less than I believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.’

‘Don’t let George hear you. He wavered in his belief this year.’

‘At least George is eight. Your mother told me Santa didn’t exist when I was three!’ The outrage in Jane’s voice was as crystal clear now as it had been back in 1979 when the truth was first revealed.

Katie cringed inwardly. She’d only been seven when she blurted out her discovery that the man who filled the stockings was their dad and that the elves that produced the gifts didn’t exist, it was their mum who spent from November trailing the stores for treats. Katie had spent her life trying to make up for the faux pas that robbed her sister of her innocence. Sometimes, Katie worried that the early disillusionment was the reason behind Jane growing up to be such a pragmatist. She was so sensible, rational and logical which was, in Katie’s opinion, the real reason she’d never fallen in love. To do so, you had to give a little. In fact you had to give a lot. You had to trust, hope and lose control.

Katie didn’t think that being married was the only way to find happiness, but it was the way she’d found happiness. She, Graham and their three children already had ‘it’. They were healthy, loved and loving. Between them they formed that enigmatic and enviable thing –a happy family. Of course, they squabbled, snapped and snipped at one another from time to time. There had been that very worrying period when Isobel became secretive and dated unsuitable boys. George was dyslexic, which had its challenges, and Sarah, the middle child, had started to cuss this year, repeatedly and ferociously, just to see if she got a reaction. But most of the time they were one another’s heart ease. Magic dust. Happiness. Call ‘it’ what you will.

Katie wanted more of the same for her sister. Jane had the bigger home in the smarter part of town, a career, foreign holidays, a wardrobe to die for and Katie had a demanding family whose needs had long since drowned out her own desires. Unfashionably, she had no problem with that. She believed it to be the natural order of things. Her own mother had always made Katie and Jane a priority. Katie had suggested that her sister try blind dating once.

‘I don’t know anyone who knows anyone who’s single anymore! Who could fix me up?’

‘Well then, internet dating.’

‘I’m not in the market to meet psychos.’

‘Speed dating?’

‘I have to enter into enough high-pressure pitches at work, thank you. I don’t want that sort of nonsense intruding into my private life.’

So Katie had decided to go back to basics. The good old-fashioned method of meeting people at parties.

Katie made a huge effort with the party. She blew a silly amount of cash on rosé cava and she baked and cleaned for hours. She nearly passed out blowing up pink balloons and she decked the kitchen, living room and hall with enormous red crêpe paper hearts. She was very strict about the entrance policy. Not only did she insist that her guests wear red or pink, she also explained that, instead of having to bring a bottle, every couple had to bring a spare man.

Her friends were surprised but after a little cajoling, they agreed to the stipulation. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, generally, most women are secret matchmakers and delighted in the possibility of being responsible for new love blossoming even if it did mean they had to sacrifice a romantic meal in the local restaurant.

Finally, the big day arrived; Katie could not have been more excited. It was, as she’d expected, lovely to see her friends discard their coats, hats, scarves and gloves and melt in the warmth that her home oozed. But it was especially exciting to see the number of single men that had been brought along. She quickly assessed them, as though it was a beauty contest. At least two were especially handsome men, four had friendly smiles, the rest were passable. They probably had lovely personalities. Only one chap stuck out like a sore thumb. He was sitting on his own, drinking tap water instead of the frothy cava, he wasn’t wearing so much as a red tie or pair of socks, he was dressed in jeans and a grey jumper; he was not even faking an interest in the conversations around him, the only person he deigned to speak with was Isobel.

Jane was late.

‘The invite said 7.30 p.m.,’ scolded Katie as she took her sister’s coat. She noticed that Jane had ignored the dress code too. She was wearing black as though she was at a funeral. Katie shoved her towards the kitchen, where the party –like all parties –was thriving. ‘Ta-dah.’

‘What?’

‘What’s different about this party?’ prompted Katie.

Jane looked around the kitchen. It was heaving. There were a lot of men, which was a bit odd; normally at parties the women stayed in the kitchen and the men hung around the iPlayer.

She hazarded a guess. ‘Decent food?’

‘Men!’

‘What?’

‘These are all single men. I asked my guests to bring a single man rather than a bottle. I asked them all to play cupid for you.’ Katie beamed. ‘Most of them know about your broken engagement and everything, so they were really sympathetic.’

Jane starred at her sister in horror. How could she have been so cruel? So thoughtless? The humiliation was intense; a hot blush was already forming on Jane’s neck. Valentine’s had always been ghastly when Jane was privately fighting her demons –the lack of a picture perfect scenario: flowers and hearts, hubby and kiddies –but it had been bearable. Now, Katie had outed her and the mortification was overwhelming.

Jane turned, grabbed her coat and ran. She didn’t notice that she’d dropped her glove. She had to get out of the stifling house full of pitying and patronising couples.

Jane nearly slipped on the icy path. She stopped at the gate; fighting angry tears, she had never felt so alone.

‘Excuse me.’

Oh God, that was the last thing she needed. Someone had followed her out of the house. Jane pretended she couldn’t hear him calling to her and she began to walk along the street.

The man jogged to catch up. ‘You dropped a glove,’ he called.

Normally, Jane loved her soft, beige buckskin gloves. Right now, she hated them.

‘Thank you.’ She refused to meet his eye.

‘I saw your dramatic exit. Very Cinderella.’

‘I don’t believe in fairy tales,’ she said stiffly. ‘Not even on Valentine’s Day.’

‘Nor do I. Especially not on Valentine’s Day. I hate it. The sickest day of the year.’

Jane looked up startled. It was refreshing, although somewhat surprising, to find someone else who was equally vitriolic about the day. She’d always found that there was a deep and dark silence surrounding the gloomy reality of the day. Single women simply dared not roll their eyes at the torturous nylon basques that seeped from every shop window, even though it seemed that the sole purpose of such garments was to humiliate flat chested and saggy bummed women, aka normal women.

‘Do you know what I most hate about it?’ he asked.

‘The pink, plastic “I Love You” stamps for toast and similar plethora of tack that are no doubt mass-produced by children working in illegal conditions?’ Jane wondered whether she sounded bitter and defeatist.

‘Ha! No, although that is offensive. It’s my birthday too.’

‘You’re kidding?’

‘Wish I was.’

Jane took the glove.

‘So why do you hate it then? I’d have thought it being your birthday made it tolerable. At least you’re guaranteed cards.’

He smiled wanly but didn’t answer her question. ‘I’ll walk with you, if you’re going to the tube station.’

Jane stole a glance. The guy didn’t look like a psycho. ‘Where are you going?’

‘Err, embarrassing thing is, nowhere. So I’ve got time to squander. It’s my birthday and Valentine’s Day and yet I have some time to kill until my sister-in-law and brother emerge from the party. Then I’m staying with them for the weekend. I think they thought that if they took me along to the party, then all their duties towards me, in terms of celebrating my birthday, were null and void. It’s always such a disappointing day.’ the man grinned as he made this awful admission.

Jane noticed he had nice eyes. Particularly attractive when he grinned.

‘Isn’t it?’

‘What were you hurrying from?’

‘All of it.’

‘I see.’ They both fell silent. It was a comfortable silence. Jane realised she was enjoying the peaceful company of her fellow anti-romantic.

He sighed deeply; his hot breath clouded the cold night air. ‘I know you think you are having a bad night but somewhere in that house, something truly awful is happening.’

‘What?’ Jane asked.

‘I was talking to this teenager. Her mother has set up this whole party to try to off-load some maiden aunt.’

Jane gasped. ‘How terrible.’

‘Isn’t it? I told the girl her mother shouldn’t be so interfering and pushy. Just because it’s Valentine’s Day doesn’t mean the maiden aunt is suddenly going to find love or even want it. It’s such an imposition.’

Jane nodded, mute with shock and embarrassment. She couldn’t let this cute guy know that she was the spinster aunt. Because he was, well, a cute guy. He had full lips and lovely curly hair. And a cynical side that she appreciated.

‘What did the teenager say?’ Jane knew that the forthright Isobel would have expressed an opinion.

He grinned at the memory of the bolshie teenager dressing him down. ‘She said I was a miserable devil. She said her mother was only trying to help and that she did believe things were different on Valentine’s Day; that there is a little more magic everywhere and, of course, the aunt wanted to find love.’

‘Teenagers,’ said Jane with a tut. ‘So damned optimistic.’

They both fell silent again.

‘Look, would you like to go for a drink? No bubbles though, anything but that.’

Jane considered it. Maybe. She quite liked him. She liked his sensible attitude to Valentine’s Day. She was so fed up of people insisting that it was a romantic, enchanted time. It’s just another date on the calendar. And it was his birthday, after all. No one wanted to be alone on their birthday.

‘I’m Jane.’ She held out her hand, he shook it.

‘Pleased to meet you, Jane.’

Jane waited for him to volunteer his name. He didn’t.

‘And you are?’

‘OK, well, this is it, I suppose. Crunch time. So it’s my birthday today, right.’

‘Yes, you said.’

‘I’m Valentino Lovelass.’ Jane snorted with laughter. ‘What’s funny?’ he asked with mock incredulity.

‘Nothing, nothing at all,’ Jane was practically choking on her laughter. ‘Are you joking?’ she asked eventually.

‘I never joke. I’m eminently sensible and practical. I’m always serious.’ There was a glint in his eyes that belied the fact that he was always serious so Jane insisted he produce his driving licence to prove he wasn’t making up a ridiculous alias.

‘I do at least understand why you hate Valentine’s Day,’ she said as they set off towards the pub.

‘And my parents too, don’t underestimate how much I hate them,’ he joked.

‘Oh get over it.’ Jane laughed. Teasingly she added, ‘It’s not like they destroyed your belief in Santa Claus at an early age.’

‘True, that would be really bad. Very bad indeed.’

Katie and Isobel were watching from Isobel’s bedroom window. Katie winked at her daughter. ‘Perfect,’ she sighed.

‘You are a regular cupid, Mum. Congratulations. You do know his name though, right?’

‘Oh yes. And how I’m going to enjoy hearing my sister introduce him!’