Hating Valentine's Day

by Allison Rushby - Hating Valentine's Day

  Damn. I really liked that dress.

  Justine leans against the wall and puts one hand on her chest. ‘My heart’s going a million miles an hour. You scared the life out of me,’ she says. ‘I thought you would have been asleep hours ago.’ She takes her shoes off, then pushes herself off the wall.

  I snort at this. ‘Yeah. Me too. I just, um, can’t sleep.’

  ‘Phew.’ She lets out one last final breath and flops down on the couch. ‘I’ve had it.’

  There’s an awkward silence.

  ‘So, um, how was the ball?’ I ask, and sit down on the opposite couch, the one I was trying to nap on only minutes before. I’m curious in all kinds of ways. Firstly, I want to find out if what I saw was real, and if it was I also want to know what happened after I left.

  ‘Good. Fine. Fun, I guess.’

  ‘You guess?’

  ‘No, it was fun. My date was really nice.’

  ‘Gary?’

  Justine gives me a look. ‘How did you know his name? I don’t remember telling you.’

  Oh, bugger. She didn’t, either. I wing it. ‘I, um, saw your computer matching sheet on the side table.’

  Justine nods. ‘He was nice. A builder.’

  ‘And how about Drew’s? The poodle-lover?’

  Justine laughs. ‘She was OK. I’ve had enough poodles for one night, though. I’ve had enough poodles for ever.’

  ‘What did she wear?’ I just need one more test to make sure.

  Justine gives me a look, knowing I wouldn’t usually care what anyone wore. ‘You want to know what she wore?’

  I nod.

  She shrugs. ‘I don’t know. Some purple thing?’

  ‘With beading?’

  Justine pauses. ‘Yeah, I suppose so. Why did you think that?’

  Second wing of the night. ‘Oh, I just knew another poodle-lover once. She always wore, um, purple beaded things.’

  Another look. ‘Right.’ But then Justine becomes engrossed in staring down her top. ‘I knew something was in there!’ She pulls something out from around her cleavage. ‘God, it’s been scratching me all bloody night.’

  ‘Cheap tissues?’ I say.

  ‘Very funny. No, somebody was going around throwing these in the air.’ She holds out her index finger.

  There’s a small pink metallic heart on the end.

  This freaks me out a bit. I don’t think I need any more tests.

  ‘So, um, Gary? Are you going to see him again?’ I ask.

  Justine nods enthusiastically and then stops, her gaze sliding sideways to meet mine. ‘If that’s all right with you,’ she says, and I know she’s making an abstract reference to our little ‘discussion’ this afternoon.

  I cringe.

  ‘Oh, I’m only joking,’ she says, waving one hand. ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about that.’

  ‘I’ve been wanting to talk to you about it too.’

  ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to come on so strong. Whatever’s going on between you and Drew is none of my business.’

  ‘That’s OK. I’m sorry too.’

  ‘So—friends?’

  ‘Friends,’ I say with a nod. There’s a pause before I have to ask, ‘Do you think Drew will see Michelle again?’

  Justine groans and rests her head back on the couch. ‘I doubt it. I felt so sorry for that poor girl.’

  For her? All I saw when I was there with James was Drew being ear-bashed about the pleasures of poodles. ‘Why?’

  She turns her head and eyeballs me. ‘You should have heard him. It was all Liv this and Liv that.’

  ‘Me?’ I say, a touch too squeakily for my liking.

  Justine sits up. ‘Yes, you. “You should see Liv’s photos—she’s such a good photographer—Liv, Liv, Liv,”’ she mimics. ‘Liv’s very in this season.’

  ‘Um…’ I don’t know what to say.

  Silence.

  Finally, Justine sighs. ‘Liv, I’m not trying to butt in, really I’m not, but what is going on? Between you and Drew, I mean?’

  I shrug. ‘I had a really good time when we went out for lunch. Twice. And at dinner for his birthday. But seeing him with Tiffany—it just brought the whole Mike and Amanda thing flooding back. And I’ve had enough of that for a while…’

  Justine pushes herself up a bit. ‘Look, Liv, if I tell you something, will you listen to me? As in really listen to what I’m saying and consider it?’

  Umm.

  ‘I’m not going to attack you, like this afternoon, and I don’t want to nag. So this is why I’m only going to say this once—because I really think you need to hear it. Will you listen?’

  She’s going a bit over the top here, even for Justine, I think. But she looks so earnest I decide to give her a chance. ‘All right. If it means so much to you, I’ll listen.’

  ‘It does. It really does.’

  There’s a pause.

  ‘Well? Are you going to tell me or not?’

  Justine gives me a look.

  ‘Sorry,’ I say.

  She takes a deep breath before she begins. ‘OK. Here goes nothing. I think you have to quit with this overly careful business. This trying to prevent anything awful from happening in your life.’

  I go to open my mouth and Justine holds up a finger.

  ‘You promised.’

  I didn’t, actually—promise, that is. But I close my mouth again anyway.

  ‘OK. That didn’t make sense, so I’m going to go from the start. With the dating. Drew told me you’d been trotting out this “guys don’t like me” stuff again. He was asking me what you meant, and because I had to explain it to him it gave me a sort of fresh look at the whole situation. It made me see that the reason you keep getting rejected when you date is because you pre-empt the break-up every single time. You think each and every guy is going to reject you way before it could even happen—even before the first date—so you find any kind of excuse you can to break it off. And then, when it happens—the break-up—you think your theory’s been proven. The thing is, though, it’s not true. It’s just inevitable. You’re not open to anything happening and that’s why it doesn’t.’

  I raise an eyebrow, but don’t say anything.

  ‘Right. OK. So you do this over and over again. What do you call it? Crazy-dating—that’s it. You notch the failed dates up on your bedpost, and when it gets to be too much you stop dating to try and protect yourself. You say that you’ll date if something better comes along. More than a year passes and there are a couple half-decent ones that come along, but you let them go because it’s easier to date the ones you aren’t really interested in. Remember that photographer? He seemed lovely, but you had a dozen reasons for never asking him out. Anyway, more than a year goes by, and something really, truly better does come along—Drew. And you go out a few times, and you really enjoy each other’s company. And then, just when it gets to the critical stage, you use some bullshit piece of nothing incident as an excuse to go back to good old safe singledom again.’

  I raise the other eyebrow, but still say nothing.

  ‘I think the only reason he’s got as far into your life as he has is because you were open to getting to know him because he’s my friend. If he’d just been some guy who asked you out, he’d be long gone by now. But he’s lovely, Liv. A really nice guy. He’d never intentionally hurt you, and you two would be great together. It wouldn’t kill you to date him a few more times, would it? Just to test the water…’

  This time, I open my mouth.

  Justine raises the same finger again. ‘That was a rhetorical question.’

  I close my mouth once more.

  ‘Anyway. The whole point of this is it’s not about you dating Drew or not. It’s about me being worried about how you’re living your life. And I know that it’s really none of my business, but I am worried, and as your friend I can’t just keep out of it. God, Liv, sometimes you have to take chances, you know? Give people a chance. Maybe even a second chance. I understand that you don’t wa
nt to get hurt again, and I can’t promise that things will work out with Drew if you date him, or with anything in your life, but you have to stop being so scared. You have to jump into the deep end once in a while. It’s scary, but it can be fun too.’

  I’m starting to get increasingly angry—right up until this last bit. The bit about taking chances. About giving people chances. Second chances. It’s this that hits home. I knew she was more than right when she said that this afternoon—that I needed to give Drew the second chance he’d given me.

  And as she keeps talking I can’t stop thinking about what I’ve seen tonight. About Dad and Eileen. About how he’s going to propose. And how, even though he’s scared that things will repeat on him, and that if he marries Eileen she’ll leave him like my mother did, he’s going to ask her to marry him. He’s jumping in the deep end.

  I think about Rachel and Ryan too. About how Rachel took a chance on Ryan and believed him when he said he wouldn’t cheat again. She listened to what he had to say and trusted him despite everything. I didn’t believe him, but Rachel did. And from what I’ve seen tonight it looks like he meant what he said. That he cares, that he is putting in an effort, that he does love Rachel as much as she deserves. Imagine if Rachel hadn’t taken that chance on him—she’d never have what she has now. A husband, happiness, and heart-shaped low-fat French toast. Just about everything she’s ever wanted in life.

  Then there’s Justine and Sally. I was thinking about them only the other day as Sally and I drove to the crematorium, wasn’t I? About how they live their lives, taking chances that I never would. And, yes, like Justine said, sometimes they get hurt. But they also get over it, whatever the hurt is, and keep going. So maybe it wouldn’t be so bad for me to date again. To date…

  Someone like Drew.

  I tune back in to Justine then, who’s still talking. ‘You know dating, Liv, it’s like a sushi train. You can’t just watch all the nice things pass you buy. When you see one you like, you have to reach out and pull it off the conveyer belt, not just admire it as it goes past.’

  When she says this, an image of me standing outside the studio as Drew left the other day, card in one hand and cheesecake box in the other, comes to mind.

  ‘You’ve got to be ruthless,’ Justine continues. ‘You’ve got to get in there and grab away before someone else takes it.’ She looks at my blank expression with a sigh. ‘You don’t get it, do you? The point here is Drew is the good one. He’s the guy you’re supposed to get back on track for. He’s perfect for you. Perfect! But you’re so used to shrugging them all off, you can’t see it.’

  I look back at her. I try to say something, but every time I open my mouth to let a word or two out nothing comes.

  Justine stands up. ‘Anyway, that’s all. I’m just worried about you.’ She pauses and snaps her fingers together. ‘Oh, and one more thing. You hating Valentine’s Day—that’s the biggest load of rubbish. You don’t have a reason to hate it any more. Not now you’ve given Mike the flick once and for all. Sally told me. So, yes—I know you.’ She leans forward and looks at me, eye to eye. ‘And you wish you’d come with us tonight, don’t you?’

  I still can’t get anything out of my mouth, but I point a finger and waggle it. I’m sure she knows what I mean.

  She reaches over and pats the top of my head. ‘How about you sleep on it and yell at me in the morning? I need a shower.’

  At least this time I manage to nod.

  It’s only when Justine’s walked out of the room and down the hall that I manage to speak. ‘Hey, I’ve had some pretty crappy Valentine’s Days, you know!’ I call out.

  ‘You’re female. We all have,’ she sings back, and then laughs.

  There’s not much I can say to that, so I resume my resting position on the couch and try to keep up with my thoughts. As I settle back in I can’t help thinking that maybe what Justine says is right. About the deep end and taking chances.

  But then there’s me and Drew.

  I know several things where we’re concerned. I know that we have a great time together. I know that he wants to see me again. I think I’d like to keep seeing him. But the thing I don’t know is the most important thing of all…

  I don’t know if taking that leap into the deep end is truly right for me.

  For us.

  Y Y Y Y

  Tired, and trying to figure it all out, I accidentally let my eyelids droop.

  Just as my eyelashes hit my cheeks, there’s a rustle from the other couch that makes me think Justine has come back from her shower. That was quick, I think. Maybe she decided not to have one after all. I open my eyes up and glance over.

  Right. That’s it. I am never closing my eyes again.

  Because it’s not Justine. It’s a woman. A woman I’ve never seen before, who is lounging on my couch like my living room is her second home.

  She doesn’t look at me, but I look at her all right. Stare, more like it. And there’s plenty to stare at. I give her the sideways once-over (well, she’s lying down), from her head to her feet and then back again. The best way to describe her look would be Barbara Cartland wannabe. It’s all there. From the diamonds dripping around her neck, offsetting her pouffy white hair, the glittery too-tight silver dress pulling at the bust, the overloaded blue eyeshadow, seventies-streaky blush and trowelled-on mascara to the martini resting on the coffee table and the box of expensive handmade chocolates she has sitting on her lap and has half finished.

  Yes. It’s all there. On my couch.

  Including a very pink romance novel, complete with Fabio cover, which she’s holding in the hand that isn’t busy transferring chocolates to her glossy pink-lipsticked pouty mouth.

  ‘Um, hello?’ I say.

  Nothing.

  ‘Over here?’ I wave.

  Still nothing.

  I give up and talk to myself instead. ‘You know,’ I say, thinking of Tony on my coffee table and James surfing for porn, ‘you guys have really got to stop doing this. Why don’t you just knock on the door like normal people?’

  Now she looks up. But only for a second, before she goes back to her novel and her chocolates.

  ‘I take it you’re the Ghost of Valentine’s Day Yet to Come?’ I try then.

  She nods, but doesn’t look at me. Instead, she pops a rectangular chocolate in her mouth. A hard centre? Peanut brittle, maybe? There’s a loud crunch.

  Hey, peanut brittle’s my favourite.

  Crunch, crunch, crunch.

  ‘I suppose you’re going to show me my future?’ Maybe if I get her to acknowledge my presence she’ll offer me one. But, no, she simply nods again and pops in chocolate number…I don’t know, she’s had too many for me to keep count.

  Another crunch.

  I decide to call her Barbara.

  I watch as she reaches into the box again. There are three chocolates left now.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  Crunch.

  All hard centres.

  Bitch.

  The chocolates finished, she places the box on the coffee table and stands up. My eyes follow her as she walks over to the balcony and opens the sliding glass door. It’s only when she’s out there and glancing back at me that I realise I’m supposed to be using my initiative, and that when she hauled her large silver behind off the couch I was supposed to follow her outside.

  I guess she’s not the talkative kind of ghost, like Tony, or the arm-taking kind like James.

  OK. I can deal with that.

  I get up and go out onto the balcony, stopping a metre or two away from Her Glitteriness. When I halt, she glances at me—a loaded glance that tells me I am, basically, nothing. A small turd to be stepped over on the footpath that is her life.

  Fine. I’m definitely calling her Barbara now.

  Barbara motions to the back of her silver dress, indicating the train-like appendage that’s hanging off it.

  ‘Mmm, it’s lovely,’ I lie.

  I get another small
turd look for this. She motions again, and this time I realise she wants me to pick it up.

  ‘You’ve got to be joking,’ I scoff. ‘I’m finished with bridesmaiding.’ What she doesn’t know is that by not offering me a chocolate, giving her lip has become compulsory.

  She looks away. And for the next five minutes or so we stand on the balcony not looking at each other. Stubborn vs Stubborn. There may even be some foot-tapping involved. From both parties.

  It’s about halfway through minute number six when I remember Tony’s Velcro gadget and James’s limo and put two and two together. Picking up the train is going to enable me to go into the future with Barbara. Not picking up the train is going to mean I spend a lot of time standing around on the balcony.

  I pick up the train.

  Whammo.

  There’s a flash of light and in an instant we’re transported to a coffee shop.

  I don’t even bat an eyelid. In fact, I act quite blasé about it all—I’m practically an old hand at this now.

  A jaded time-traveller.

  Barbara obviously is too, because the first thing she does now we’re at the coffee shop is not to explore, but to go over and help herself to a macadamia and white chocolate chunk cookie from one of the glass jars on the front counter. Then she takes a seat at the closest table.

  I want to go over, sit down and start grilling her on the future. On what I was thinking about on the couch before I was so rudely interrupted. Where does Drew fit into my future? But Barbara doesn’t look like she’d be too happy if I disturbed her cookie frenzy, so I let it go for the moment and turn in a full circle to inspect the coffee shop.

  I don’t think I’ve been here before. No, I definitely haven’t.

  Ah, hang on. Of course I haven’t. It’s the future, isn’t it?

  There are only two people in the coffee shop—a young couple flipping through some brochures, sitting by the window. It’s bright outside the café, and as I go over to them I check the time on the clock on the wall—ten-fifteen.

  When I reach them, I stand over the table and take a look at what they’re flipping through. Wedding photography brochures. Wedding photography brochures from the future—this should be interesting. I lean over and look more closely.