Love...Maybe

by Gill Paul

  ‘I’ve got flu,’ he groans.

  ‘A cold, you mean.’ I try to mask the disappointment in my voice.

  ‘Yeah, maybe. But it was touch and go earlier today. I’ll see you soon, okay?’

  It gets worse, as our house fills with delicious aromas. Kate is away for the weekend, and Heather has invited her reading group round. ‘All the single ladies,’ she jokes, ‘so we can pretend Valentine’s Day’s not happening and get stuck into the Prosecco. Why don’t you come over?’

  I hesitate. While Heather’s a good friend, I’m not part of that group and I’d feel as if I was tagging along. A gooseberry’s the last thing I want to be tonight. And that’s it: the sum total of my single friends who live reasonably nearby. Everyone else is coupled up, of course they are: we are all in our late thirties or forties, mostly with children, and it’s not really the done thing to call someone to ask if they fancy a drink, with no notice, on a Saturday night. I’m lonely, is the message it sends. I am a sad middle-aged woman who has no one to see and nothing to do. I peer at the pile of novels beside my bed; nothing really grabs me. I could do my nails, a pedicure too – but even that feels faintly tragic. Then it hits me: the cinema. I shall go and see a film on my own. What a pleasingly grown-up thing to do, and far preferable to perching on a bar stool in a pub, surrounded by couples, or hiding away in the corner with a large glass of wine with STOOD UP!! beaming in huge neon letters above my head.

  No, the cinema is by far the best option. Not a fluffy rom-com, obviously. Michael is right: February 14th has spun out of control. Tonight will be a Valentine-free zone.

  I change quickly out of the floral dress I chose for the gallery visit, and into old skinny jeans, a thick Aran sweater and flat, battered boots. Aware of our hand-held beater whirring into life downstairs, I check the time on my phone: 6.47 p.m. Ideally I’d like to be out of the way by the time Zoe arrives. So I don’t bother with make-up; I mean, why would I? I am heading out for an evening of mind-expanding cinema (Michael would approve) all by myself. It doesn’t matter what I look like.

  The doorbell rings as I’m heading downstairs, and Riley rushes to greet Zoe. She is a vision of loveliness with her long auburn hair all bouncily curled, her make-up fresh and pretty. She looks up at me and darts a quick glance at Riley. ‘Oh, hi, Sally! Er, what are you doing tonight?’

  ‘Mum’s going out,’ Riley says quickly, before I can answer.

  ‘Oh … right!’ Zoe and I are usually so at ease with each other. She spends loads of time here; I even tint her brows and do her nails sometimes. Tonight, though, there’s an awkwardness you could slice with a knife.

  ‘I know I might not look like I’m going out,’ I bluster, grabbing my big waxy jacket from the hook in the hall, ‘but it’s freezing out there. It’s practicality over appearance tonight …’

  ‘Er … right.’ She smiles stiffly.

  ‘Bye then,’ I chirp, stepping out into the crisp, cold night. At the end of our street, I glimpse my reflection in the corner shop window. I look as if I am on my way to muck out ponies. In my haste to leave the house, I have also forgotten to check what’s on at the cinema. And of course, when I get there it’s love all the way: classic Hollywood romance, quirky coming-of-age-romance, and a couple-of-a-certain-age romance, starring Meryl Streep. None of them appeal, frankly. One of the films is due to start, and it’s all couples holding hands as they wander in. I think, briefly, about Michael telling me off for dipping my hand in the screw bowl, and wonder what the heck to do now.

  I am banished from my own house. I am in exile, despite paying the mortgage and giving Riley the cash for all those fancy ingredients including 80 per cent cocoa dark chocolate and double cream. I even bought them a bottle of wine and told him he could break out my posh scented candle, the cinnamon and clove one Lisa gave me for my birthday. Not that I mind, not really. But it’s slightly galling that my son and his girlfriend will be enjoying delicious food and wine and God knows what else a bit later on (maybe already, they can barely keep their hands off each other), whereas the highlight of my day was staring at a pile of toilet parts welded together.

  Sod it, I decide, marching away from the cinema as the drizzle starts. I could wander around in the rain for a bit, like a poor, lost soul. I could sit in the park like a homeless person. Or I could pop into the King’s Head for a drink. Hell, why not? It’s a friendly place, I know the bar staff and no one’s going to hassle me for being on my own. Only briefly do I pause to glance into Wild at Heart, our town’s most exclusive florist. Although closed, its window is still filled with heart-shaped bunting and Valentine bouquets.

  ‘Aw, poor Sal!’

  I spin round. ‘Kev!’ I exclaim, throwing my arms around him.

  ‘Whoa! Good to see you too, darling! You looked so sad, standing there. Like a jilted woman gazing in a jeweller’s window at wedding rings …’

  ‘Oh, shut up.’ I laugh and give him a playful slap on the arm. ‘Anyway, I thought you were far too ill to come out tonight? Weren’t you on death’s door about an hour ago?’

  ‘Well, yeah …’ He smiles and pushes back neatly cropped fair hair. ‘But then I heard some of the guys from college were getting together and I was so bored, lying around sipping Lemsip …’ He sniffs for effect. ‘So I rallied. I called to ask if you wanted to come along. Why d’you never answer your mobile?’

  ‘Sorry, it’s on silent. It’s a habit from work …’

  ‘Tried your landline too, but Riley said you’d gone out …’

  I smile. ‘Well, I am out. Here I am, pacing the streets with nowhere to go. Okay if I tag along?’

  ‘You won’t be tagging,’ he says, linking his arm through mine, ‘you’ll be the star attraction. Christ, though …’ He assesses my appearance with a rueful smile. ‘You could’ve made a bit of an effort on a Saturday night.’

  *

  I can take a ribbing from Kev, and by the time we approach the King’s Head I’ve shaken off any traces of self-pity. His friends are there already: a raggedy bunch of three forty-somethings, all jostling and butting in to finish each other’s stories, the way only old friends do. Kev introduces me to Daniel, Stu and Jamie, explaining, ‘This is my gorgeous friend Sally. She’s another Valentine’s lost soul, just like us.’

  ‘You’ve come to the right place then,’ quips gravel-voiced, bearded Daniel. He indicates the blackboard behind the bar on which Terry, the barman, has chalked: VALENTINE FREE ZONE!

  ‘Thank God for that,’ adds Jamie, a quieter sort who’s hung back until now. ‘It does my head in, to be honest …’

  ‘Not more Valentine’s Day cynicism,’ I remark. ‘I’ve had enough of that today.’

  ‘No, honestly,’ he insists, ‘it’s a nightmare …’

  I laugh and turn away, delighted as Lisa appears, with Harry in tow. ‘The restaurant was packed,’ she explains, greeting me and Kev with a kiss. ‘They’d obviously shoved in extra tables and ours was parked right by the loo …’

  Harry laughs. ‘So here we are instead, in desperate need of refreshment.’

  ‘I’m so glad,’ I say, meaning it: in fact I’d rather be here with a gang than on one of Michael’s planned dates. As a table becomes vacant we all congregate around it, cosy on sofas and warmed by the flickering open fire. I have ended up beside Jamie, who seems keen to chat, but I’d rather avoid a Valentine’s-Day-is-commercial-twaddle lecture tonight. He’s very attractive, though, in a relaxed kind of way: kind, light blue-grey eyes, dark hair needing a trim, bit of stubble lending a hint of ruggedness.

  ‘So how was your Valentine’s Day?’ asks Stu, a flirtatious type whom I’ve already noticed checking out pretty much every woman in the pub.

  ‘Just an ordinary day really,’ I reply, smiling my thanks as Kev hands me a drink.

  ‘Don’t be coy,’ Lisa laughs. ‘I saw Michael striding past through the salon window, just after you’d dropped by …’

  I shrug. ‘He must’ve been on his way to work.�
�

  ‘With a massive bouquet? I don’t think so. He looked like a man on a mission.’ She laughs and turns to Jamie. ‘She doesn’t want to show off and make the rest of sad, Valentine-less types feel even worse than we do already …’

  ‘Hey, I tried to take you to dinner!’ Harry points out.

  She grins and squeezes his hand. ‘I know, darling.’

  ‘So you got flowers,’ Jamie remarks with a smile.

  I nod and sip my drink. ‘Sounds like it. I’m amazed actually.’

  ‘And not just any old bouquet,’ Lisa adds. ‘This was a proper hand-tied arrangement, not a bunch of ratty old dyed chrysanths from the petrol station …’

  ‘Lucky girl,’ Kev teases, as it dawns on me: all that Valentine cynicism at the gallery. Michael didn’t really mean it. He was double-bluffing so the swanky bouquet would come as a huge surprise. ‘My boyfriend spent most of this morning going on about how crap and commercial the whole thing is,’ I explain to Jamie with a smile.

  He laughs. ‘Well, I guess he has a point …’

  ‘I knew it! You’re a Valentine cynic too …’

  He shakes his head. ‘No, not really. I mean, it’s been a nightmare day, virtually impossible to get all the orders delivered. Of course, it’s great for business but it happens to be the most, um, challenging day of the year …’

  I frown, intrigued. ‘So what d’you do?’

  ‘I’m a van driver for a florist’s —’

  ‘Wild at Heart?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ Jamie says, sipping his beer.

  ‘He’s just being modest,’ Kev teases. ‘He’s been working in France as a marine engineer …’ He drops his voice and, in a stage whisper, adds, ‘And he’s single …’ I laugh awkwardly. I know Kev doesn’t think much of Michael, but I wish he’d stop trying to meddle with my love life.

  Jamie shrugs. ‘I just help out a friend’s wife during the busy periods. She owns the shop …’

  ‘And why is it a nightmare?’ I ask.

  He smiles warmly, and his eyes crinkle. Smart move, I decide, on the part of Wild at Heart’s owner: hiring an exceptionally attractive man to do deliveries. ‘The thing is,’ he explains, ‘most Valentine bouquets are delivered anonymously, and the recipients often start badgering me about who’s sent them, going on and on, begging me sometimes, when I have a van stuffed full of flowers and about twenty more addresses to find …’ He laughs. ‘Even if I did know, I’m not supposed to say.’

  Kev sniggers. ‘He’s just the driver. He knows nothing …’

  ‘I’ve had people trying to bribe me,’ Jamie continues, ‘and a couple of times they’ve suspected the flowers were from some unwanted admirer, and told me to take them back …’

  I laugh. How refreshing this is, after the rather stilted dates I’ve had recently. ‘God, all this Valentine activity going on that I’ve never been aware of …’

  ‘It can get kinda complicated,’ Jamie says, getting up to buy a round.

  And so the evening goes on, extremely good-natured and cheery as we all congratulate ourselves for landing upon perhaps the only establishment that’s not decked out in hearts and flowers tonight. It’s nearing closing time when I realise I’d better call Michael to explain why I haven’t thanked him for the bouquet. He’ll be working, but I can leave a message.

  We all leave the pub together. I step away from the gang and make the call to his mobile, leaving a message as it goes to voicemail. ‘Listen, darling, I just wanted to say, it’s so sweet of you to buy me flowers. Now I realise why you were going on so much about Valentine’s Day being a crappy commercial thing.’ I chuckle, and Jamie smiles as I catch his eye. ‘You were double bluffing! Very clever. Anyway, I’m out with Lisa and Kev and some others, so I haven’t actually seen them yet. I guess you dropped them off with Riley.’ I pause. ‘Hope they weren’t up to anything when you knocked on the door …’ I finish the message and, feeling buoyed by the evening’s turn of events, agree to join the others for one last drink at a late bar.

  It’s nearly midnight when, all a little tipsy, everyone says goodnight. I’m aware of my stomach performing a little flip as Jamie gives me a brief hug. ‘It’s been lovely meeting you,’ he says. ‘I’d ask for your number if you were single …’ He tails off and, very chastely, kisses my cheek.

  And I’d ask for yours, I think, smiling to myself as I make my way home.

  *

  I find the kitchen in chaos and Riley and Zoe draped all over each other on the sofa. While my son is undoubtedly talented in the culinary department, his clearing up skills leave much to be desired. However, I don’t have the heart to ruin the romantic ambience by frog-marching him to the sink and waggling a sponge at him. ‘Nice evening?’ I ask, loitering instead in the living room doorway.

  ‘Yeah, how about you?’ Riley asks distractedly.

  ‘Great,’ I say truthfully.

  ‘Did you see a film?’ Zoe asks, sweeping back dishevelled hair from her face.

  ‘No, but I ran into some friends and we had a few drinks in the King’s Head …’ I smile. ‘They were having a kind of anti-Valentine night.’

  Riley chuckles and slides an arm around Zoe’s shoulders. ‘Not that Mum’s feeling bitter or anything.’

  I laugh. ‘I’m not, actually, but talking of which … did Michael come round tonight?’

  Riley looks baffled for a moment. ‘Oh, yeah! He left something for you. It’s on the kitchen table …’

  I smile, figuring I must be drunker than I realised to have missed a whopping bouquet parked among the dirty plates and wine glasses. It’s all I can do not to charge through to the kitchen. But there are no flowers, as far as I can see, unless Riley has hidden them in the bread bin, or the fridge, as a joke. Nope, it’s been a long time since he’s had the wherewithal to prank me.

  I see it then, on the table: a white envelope with a brownish stain on it – sauce from the Provençale chicken thing, maybe? Sally is written very neatly on the front. I call out goodnight to Riley and Zoe, tearing open the envelope as I start to head upstairs. It’s a Valentine’s card – very plain, very stylish, not a hint of red or pink. No colour at all, actually. The design is a tiny heart formed from inky black scribbles. It’s very, um … minimalist. ‘Riley,’ I call downstairs, ‘did Michael leave anything else for me?’

  ‘Uh?’ My son sounds otherwise engaged.

  ‘Was it just the card he left? Nothing else?’

  I catch him muttering something unintelligible to Zoe. ‘Yes, Mum. Why, what else you were you expecting?’ I stand for a moment, halfway up the stairs, and examine the card. Inside my boyfriend has written:

  To Sally,

  Happy Valentine’s Day,

  Love Michael xxx

  *

  I am woken by my mobile, trilling its tinny ringtone from my bedside table. ‘Sal? It’s me.’ I blink at my alarm clock: 7.47 a.m. ‘Sorry, did I disturb you?’

  ‘It’s okay,’ I say sleepily. ‘I was just dozing. So, er … did the show go okay last night?’

  ‘Huh?’

  ‘Your show, Michael. You said you were standing in for Andy …’

  ‘Oh, yeah! Yeah, it was fine …’

  ‘Was it the Valentine phone-in?’

  ‘Er, yeah. All love songs and listeners’ favourite date stories. Just my kinda thing.’ He laughs awkwardly. ‘So how was your night? Being banned from your own house, I mean? Hope you found somewhere to go …’

  I rub at my eyes. It’s a bright, crisp morning, and sunlight is beaming through the gaps at each side of my white calico blind. ‘It was great, actually. I ran into Kev, then Lisa and a bunch of other guys …’ Briefly, Jamie’s face flicker’s into my mind, and I quickly push it away.

  ‘Sounds like quite a night,’ he says, chuckling. ‘You sound a bit rough, darling. Sort of husky. It’s very sexy actually …’

  I laugh. ‘It was fun …’

  ‘And who’s been sending you flowers?’ he teases. ‘Don’t te
ll me it was Kev – I know he has a thing about you, possessive little jerk – or one of those mysterious other guys …’

  I frown and sit upright in bed. ‘Kev’s not a jerk. He’s one of my oldest friends actually.’

  ‘God, I’m joking. Where’s your sense of humour this morning?’

  I inhale deeply and decide to ignore his remark. ‘What d’you mean, who’s been sending me flowers? I just assumed —’

  ‘You left me a voicemail message last night,’ Michael cuts in, ‘thanking me for the bouquet. You sounded pretty tipsy.’

  ‘Er … I was a bit …’ A tiny kernel of unease starts to form somewhere deep in my belly.

  ‘Darling …’ Michael clears his throat. ‘You know I’m not the flowers type. I mean, I know you were a bit huffy about the lack of presents when we were at the gallery …’

  ‘No I wasn’t,’ I say tersely. In fact, that was more about us doing something – yet again – that you wanted to do, with no consideration of whether I’d enjoy it. And again, an image from last night flickers into my mind, like the flames of the open fire in the cosy pub: of all of us lolling about and laughing on battered sofas, without having to pretend to be enjoying ourselves.

  ‘… I did drop off a card, though,’ Michael goes on, oblivious to my racing thoughts. ‘Gave it to Riley. Hope he remembered to tell you. I think he was a bit preoccupied with that girl he had round, can’t say I blame him …’

  I shiver with distaste. No, please don’t comment about my son’s 19 year-old girlfriend … ‘Michael,’ I remark, ‘Lisa said she saw you walking past the salon with some flowers.’

  I hear him catch his breath. ‘What?’

  ‘A huge bouquet, she said. But I guess, when it’s one of those posh, hand-tied affairs, it doesn’t count as corny …’

  A beat’s silence, then a laugh: loud and brash with a trace of defensiveness. ‘Oh, that! Well, yeah, it’s a sort of tradition to take flowers for the girls at work. You know what the young ones are like, the poor girls who haven’t had a Valentine, all the moaning and self-pity and …’ He chuckles indulgently. ‘You have to do something to cheer them up.’