Hating Valentine's Day

by Allison Rushby - Hating Valentine's Day

  Finally, I cave. ‘OK, OK, I’ll take them both,’ I say.

  Sally snorts.

  Veronica, of course, is ecstatic. This time she grabs both my arms and pronounces me to be a treasure. When she’s calmed down, she takes my details and then, wisely, pushes off before I can change my mind. ‘I’ll call you,’ she says as she leaves.

  I’m sure you will, I think uncharitably.

  ‘Sucker,’ Sally says with a laugh when Veronica is out of earshot.

  We spend the next half an hour talking to the other photographers. And I must still look miserable as Sally and I cross the parking lot to the car, because she gives me a dig in the ribs with one elbow.

  ‘Seems you and Mrs Batty-Smith had more in common than you imagined.’

  ‘How’s that?’ I ask, guessing I’m not going to want to hear the answer.

  ‘No men, a cat collection…If you’re not careful, you’ll end up with eighteen four-legged friends, a permanent bun on your head and a wardrobe full of fashion stories in grey.’

  I groan.

  Sally flips her hair. ‘But then you’ll also get to live to eighty-five, eat three Snickers bars a day washed down with two litres of Coke, and have your name on a plaque in a rock garden. So cheer up.’

  I stop in my tracks when she says this.

  ‘What?’ In front of me, Sally stops as well.

  ‘Scarily enough, that’s what I had for breakfast.’

  ‘Three Snickers bars and two litres of Coke?’ Her eyes widen.

  ‘Well, one Snickers and a can of Diet Coke. Still, it makes you think.’

  Sally pauses. ‘Yeah, I know. I always thought it was a bit weird. An eighty-something-year-old addicted to Snickers and Coke. Still, cheaper than crack, I guess.’

  I don’t answer.

  ‘Liv? Liv? Hello? Sorry, what were you saying? Makes you think what?’

  I pause. ‘I don’t know…’ I say slowly, then glance over at the car and think of the long drive home. ‘Except that maybe I should make a quick trip to the ladies’ before we head off.’ I toss Sally the car keys. ‘I’ll be back in a sec.’

  Y Y Y Y

  That’s strange, I think to myself as I cross the parking lot. I’d forgotten about Mrs Batty-Smith’s Snickers and Coke addiction. And having them for breakfast, together, on the morning of her funeral…Well, it’s a bit of a coincidence, isn’t it? Especially seeing as I usually manage to throw down at least a cup of coffee and a piece of toast. This morning, however, I slept in and had to hurry to work to pick up Sally. On my way out of the apartment I simply grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and one of Justine’s Snickers bars from the freezer (she says they taste better and last longer that way), and ran.

  I walk quickly towards the main set of buildings, the sweat starting to bead on my forehead. It must be thirty degrees already, and I feel horrible and sticky in my charcoal-coloured sombre suit. In fact, I feel a bit sick, I think, and I remember I forgot to take my medication last night—often this can make me feel a bit queasy. On my right, the sun reflects off a windscreen and blinds me with a pink flash, making me squint and start to walk a bit faster.

  Finally I make it to the ladies’. I’m surprised to find it’s reasonably swish, with a little powder room to tidy yourself in, complete with mirrors and a few toiletries, and then a separate room for the toilets themselves. I cross through the mirrored powder room, catching sight of myself as I go. Ugh. Not looking pretty. But in the bathroom proper I smile as the coolness of the tiles hits me. It’s beautiful in here. I could lie down right now and stay here all day quite comfortably. For a second I look at the floor and think about it. But I can’t. Sally’s waiting for me out in the car, so I move over to the handbasins and satisfy myself by turning on the water, running the flow over the insides of my wrists and then bending down to splash a few handfuls onto my hot face.

  It’s as I stand back up again that the wooziness hits me and I have to lean one hand on the benchtop to steady myself.

  I really should have got up in time to eat a real breakfast, I chastise myself, remembering again the Snickers bar and the can of Diet Coke. I close my eyes for just a second. When I open them again I glance up at myself in the mirror, and, behind me, something catches my attention.

  Mrs Batty-Smith.

  My heart stops, then starts again far, far too suddenly.

  I look again. The person, the thing standing behind me, looks exactly like Mrs Batty-Smith. No, wait…

  It is Mrs Batty-Smith. Dead Mrs Batty-Smith. Cremated Mrs Batty-Smith. Grey and dusty and…luminous Mrs Batty-Smith.

  My pulse skyrocketing now, I reach out my other hand to the bench to steady myself further, thinking I’m going to be sick. I lean over the basin and retch. Nothing happens.

  And when I gather the courage to look into the mirror again Mrs Batty-Smith is gone.

  I put my head back down and suck a big lungful of air into my lungs. I need to breathe. My head is spinning, confused, but at least the nausea has stopped. What’s going on, I have no idea. I can’t believe it. I’ve just seen a dead person. A dead person! I’m stunned. Nothing like this has ever happened to me before—I’ve never ‘seen’ things. Well, that’s not quite true, I suppose. At times I do have some awfully vivid dreams that Tania and I have spoken about at length. She thinks they’re stress-related and ‘meaningful’, and I guess she’s right. Either way, sometimes they’re so vivid Justine has to wake me up from them and I find myself lying in a pool of my own sweat. But they’re never like this. And never during the day.

  I splash some more water on my face and after a while start to feel a little more normal. Slowly, I push my hands off the benchtop and stand up. That’s better. My head still isn’t quite what it could be, perhaps, but other than that I feel…well, average. And by the time I’ve finished going through my vital signs, like the hypochondriac that I am, I’ve almost forgotten about Mrs Batty-Smith.

  Except that she hasn’t forgotten about me, I realise, as I turn around and my eyes immediately lock together with hers.

  Because she’s still here. Up at the end of the room. Near the hand-dryers. Mrs Batty-Smith, with a whole bunch of cameras strung around her neck, weighing her down.

  My mouth opens and I try to scream, but nothing comes out. I take a step backward. Then another. And another. Not watching where I’m going, I hit the wall that separates the toilets from the powder room with my shoulder. It hurts. My eyes suddenly sting like mad and I can’t blink, can’t look away from Mrs Batty-Smith’s gaze.

  And, oh, my God, it’s definitely, definitely her. There’s no mistaking it. Grey clothes, like always—grey stockings, grey cardi, grey dress, grey hair in a bun, and the same old ravine-like wrinkles across her forehead. I can see them clear as day from here, from across the room. The kind of wrinkles you get from a lifetime of frowning at people. The only difference is the cameras. The cameras around her neck. There are so many of them they’re making her stoop. Wait. One other thing I notice. Her eyes. That’s why I can’t stop staring. Because her eyes—they’re different. Almost hypnotic. They used to be a soft greyish blue, a colour that gave her away—told you that she wasn’t hard through and through like she pretended to be. But now…now they’re just grey. Grey and lifeless. Cold and hard.

  We stand looking at each other from opposite ends of the small room, saying nothing. And I know, staring at her, that there’s something wrong here—apart from the fact that we cremated Mrs Batty-Smith just half an hour ago and now she’s taking a final bow in the crematorium ladies’. No, there’s something really wrong, and it’s in those eyes. This isn’t a social call. This is no lippy-borrowing trip to the loo. There won’t be any girly ‘have-you-got-a-tampon-darl?’ moments here. Mrs Batty-Smith’s eyes mean business, and they’re boring right into me.

  This is her funeral and she’ll haunt if she wants to.

  I shake my head and force myself to look away. OK, Liv, time to wake up, I think to myself, coming to my senses.
After all, that’s what’s happened here. I’ve fainted, haven’t I? And any moment now someone will walk in here and find me and shake me and I’ll wake up. Yes. That’s what will happen. I look over at the door hopefully.

  It doesn’t happen.

  Fine, then. Maybe I can wake myself up? I reach down and pinch my arm—that’s what you’re supposed to do, isn’t it? Pinch? I pinch good and hard. But when I look up again Mrs Batty-Smith is still there. Staring.

  My eyes dart around the room quickly, trying to figure out what to do, how I’m going to wake up. I want out of here. Now. I attempt to push myself away from the wall, but I can’t seem to move. I’m stuck. Think, think, think, I repeat over and over to myself, my breath starting to come in shorter and shorter bursts and not reaching my lungs at all. I’ve got to wake up. Got to get out of here. My gaze slides back warily to the grey shape, and, keeping one eye on Mrs Batty-Smith’s form, I attempt to collate all the tips I’ve learnt from the horror movies I’ve seen over the years. I can only come up with a few. Try and stay awake (all the Freddy Krueger movies—but I guess I’ve already stuffed that one up by fainting); remain a virgin (various teenage horror flicks—oops, too late there); and sometimes being super-nice and smart-talking to a ghost will buy you time (Ghostbusters).

  Right. Ghostbusters, then. Ghostbusters is the way to go.

  At the other end of the room there’s a movement, and my eyes flick back up to look directly at Mrs Batty-Smith. She’s moved forward a touch, which makes me want to take a sprightly step back, or sideways, or anywhere, really, but I can’t. I’m still stuck against the wall.

  ‘Um, um,’ I stutter, before I remember—Ghostbusters. ‘Um, can I get you a drink or something?’ As this comes out of my mouth, I realise how ridiculous the words are. We’re in a bathroom, for God’s sake. And I’m talking to a ghost. A figment of my imagination. ‘Or a piece of toilet paper?’

  By the look that crosses Mrs Batty-Smith’s face, I guess she doesn’t want either a drink or any toilet paper. But at least I’m thrown a crumb—I know she can hear me because the look I get isn’t just any look. It’s the look. The famous Batty-Smith narrowing of the eyes.

  I used to see it quite a bit at the studio, that withering look that would tell you exactly how stupid she thought the comment that had just come out of your mouth was. Generally, she was right. People, including myself, tended to get verbal diarrhoea around Mrs Batty-Smith. She’d watch you with that look while you got more and more uncomfortable until you said anything—the first thing that came into your mind. About your favourite aunt’s special shepherd’s pie, how those little nodding dogs you put in cars are supposedly making a comeback, or that in Switzerland it’s against the law to mow your front lawn while dressed in an Elvis outfit. It was like some kind of disease. So now I make a conscious decision not to say anything else. Instead of speaking, I look straight at her and meet her gaze.

  Big mistake.

  She starts moving towards me then—shuffling, really, still stooping, weighed down by the cameras. Scared, I press myself into the wall. But as she gets closer, with her last few steps, she veers off towards the basins. She leans against the benchtop with a humph, facing me, the cameras crashing around, banging against each other and the basins, some kind of grey dust-like substance coming off her.

  I keep very, very still for a while, looking at Mrs Batty-Smith looking at me. After a few minutes I start to feel a touch braver. My heart-rate begins to slow to under three hundred beats per minute. And knowing it’s probably not a good idea, but also knowing I’ll do anything to pull out of this, I try something. And it works. I’m able to take a few steps forward, closer to Mrs Batty-Smith.

  She watches me carefully.

  With my next step, as my foot goes out, the worrying thought runs through my mind that maybe I’m not unconscious at all. That maybe this is…real. Actually, truly real, and that Mrs Batty-Smith’s ghost is haunting the crematorium. Haunting me. I decide to take one more step, closer to Mrs Batty-Smith again, and I get a rush of adrenaline as my foot hits the floor. Finally, I stop.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ I ask.

  Nothing.

  I look away again, not able to keep staring at those eyes for very long. Those awful, awful eyes. This time my gaze rests on the cameras around her neck. I try and work out how many there are, but keep losing count halfway. Fifteen, eighteen, twenty…

  ‘Do you know what they are for?’ a voice rasps.

  I exhale quickly and shake my head. Got to leave. Got to get out of here.

  ‘Do you know?’ she asks again. ‘Do you know my story?’

  ‘Not really. Not properly. Only bits and pieces.’

  ‘Tell me what you know. All of it. Now.’

  So, standing there, only a few steps away from her, I tell her what I know. About her career ending. Her husband leaving her. When I finish, I instantly wish I’d had the sense to lie. I’ve got no idea how she’s going to take this. And really I don’t know for sure whether anything I’ve said is true. I watch closely for her reaction to my comments.

  ‘Word gets around with you lot, doesn’t it?’ she snorts, nodding her head outside in the direction of the photographers who are still chatting in front of the chapel. I know that this isn’t her usual snort of derision, which I heard many a time sitting at my desk in the studio. Something tells me it might be OK to follow this snort up a little further.

  ‘So he, um, did leave you? It’s true?’

  Suddenly the grey eyes don’t seem as hard as before. ‘Oh, he left me all right. Left me for some red-haired telephonist floozy. No brains and all legs. But she did the right thing. Whatever she was told. Gave up work, for a start.’

  ‘And you stopped photographing?’

  ‘Rubbish.’ She draws herself up to attention with this. ‘That was years later. Years!’

  There’s a pause as I try to work a few things out. But I can’t. I don’t have enough information to go on. ‘I don’t understand,’ I say hesitantly. ‘What happened that made you stop photographing?’

  She looks straight at me when I ask this. ‘I hated weddings,’ she says. ‘Hated couples. Hated it all. That’s why I stopped. Couldn’t bear it. Pah,’ she ends, with a shake of one fist, and sends dust flying once more.

  I almost take a step back again. The way she said ‘hated’. It was with real venom, actual, real hate. But something makes me stand my ground. I feel like I need to know, need to understand after all these years of not knowing. ‘But why?’

  ‘Because of men,’ she spits. ‘Lying pigs. Swine, all of them. Couldn’t bear to be around weddings. All that false love. False hope.’

  ‘Right,’ I say, the bits and pieces that I do know about Mrs Batty-Smith starting to fit together perfectly. I mean, if you felt like that about weddings, you could hardly hang around them all day. Doing the books would look like an enjoyable pastime if you felt like that about relationships and marriage.

  Veronica’s words from before pop into my mind now—how she mentioned that her mother liked working at Sally’s studio the most because there weren’t any men around. That makes a lot of sense after what I’ve just heard. Still, while things are starting to fit together now I have more information, how Mrs Batty-Smith got to be the way she is, with these views, doesn’t.

  I work up some more courage to ask what I want to ask. ‘And you felt this way because of your husband? Because he left you?’

  ‘Him? Pah.’ Another wave of the hand. ‘Fool.’

  ‘But you never remarried?’

  ‘A man?’ Mrs Batty-Smith looks at me like I’m insane.

  ‘Well, yes.’

  ‘Wasn’t possible. Men didn’t like me.’

  Funny, I think. That’s my line. And it’s one I find hard to believe coming from Mrs Batty-Smith. I’ve seen pictures of Mrs Batty-Smith when she was younger. She was stunning. Tall and coiffed and up-to-the-fashion-minute, dressed in the shortest European-length skirts, the most daring patterned and
fishnet tights, in order to show off her legs. (Even in her late forties she had a pair that I would kill for now, in my late twenties.) The kind of woman who looked like she should have a full dance card in one hand and a very dry martini in the other at all times.

  ‘But men must have been queuing to take you out.’

  ‘Ha! That’s how much you know about those days. Didn’t like my clothes, my job, my money and especially my attitude, did they?’

  Oh. I start to get it now, including what Mrs Batty-Smith said earlier about the red-haired telephonist floozy doing what she was told. Back then, Mrs Batty-Smith’s job—how much she worked, how much she earned—had been a problem. A big problem. ‘But you must have dated, surely?’

  Mrs Batty-Smith snorts again. ‘One date here and there. Hardly what you would call successful. Too strong-willed. Too involved with my work to have time for anyone else.’ She pauses for a second or two. ‘There was someone…’

  I catch her eye, wanting to know more. Asking to be told more. I take another small step forward.

  ‘But I got rid of him, didn’t I?’ she spits, and I take two steps back in surprise. ‘Yes. Quick-smart. Too hard. I’d had it with men. Fools. What were they good for? Nothing! They just got in the way, stopped me from doing things my way.’

  I want to ask why—why she got rid of the guy, why it was too hard when she obviously had a soft spot for him—but when I see the expression on her face I think twice. ‘And then what?’ I ask instead.

  ‘And then nothing. After him I stopped seeing men. Looked after myself and the business. And Veronica.’

  Glancing down at my now crossed arms, I fill in the details for myself. She stopped seeing men, slowly dropped photography as she became more and more bitter, did the books for all the wedding photographers around town and started collecting cats.