by Isabel Wolff
I wondered what I could expect in the way of Valentine’s endearments—not much. I’d been averting my eyes from the sickly displays: why torture myself? As for all those emetic messages in the newspapers—give me a break. It’s just mushbrained, unabashed baby-talk—it’s totally infantile: I mean, who cares if Luscious-Lips loves Chicken Pie I said crossly as I opened The Times at the bus stop on Tuesday morning. Who gives a toss that Wombat has the hots for Twinkle Toes? I’m not remotely interested in the fact that Tiger-bum adores Jumbo Prawn or that Fat-Face sends big snogs to La-La. And no, I couldn’t care less that Bunny Wabbit Finks Andwoo is Weely Wundaful! It’s just sick-making sentimental tosh. Bunny Wabbit? I stared at the paper, eyes popping like ping-pong balls. Where the other messages were all tiny classifieds, this one was huge, and boxed. It shouted its absurd blandishments in thick capitals half an inch high. I rummaged in my bag—it’s such a mess—for my mobile, then hit the speed-dial button for Bea.
‘You’ve got to take Bella to the head doctor,’ I said. ‘I’ve just seen it.’
‘I know, it cost her three grand!’
‘What!’ In the background I could hear hammering and sawing.
‘That would pay half our fitting-up costs. We’ve just had the mother of all rows and she stomped out of the shop. She says it’s her own private cash, not the company money, and she can do what she likes—I went mad! Worse, she claims it was “worth every penny” because Andrew’s the “love of her life.”’
‘What are you going to do, Bea?’
‘I don’t know. It’s going to be hard enough to get the business up and running as it is without Bella going bonkers, plus we’re arguing all the time. She says she’s not happy to be the one who minds the shop and does the accounts—she wants to go out on site as well. But the fact is that when it comes to design Bella couldn’t find her own backside with both hands. I mean, the other day she had to ask me what the difference was between Swedish Provincial and Rustic Guatemalan!’
‘Hmmm. That doesn’t augur well.’
‘It’s all because of that idiot, Andrew,’ she added angrily. ‘The excitement of having a boyfriend—however sub-standard—has sent Bella round the twist. Ooh, change the subject quick, Rose, she’s just coming back.’
‘Okay. Er, did you send Henry something for Valentine’s Day?’
‘Yes. A really nice card.’
‘And have you had one from him?’
‘Er, no I haven’t,’ she said casually; ‘at least, not yet.’
‘Well I’m sure you’ll get something,’ I said reassuringly. ‘He’s terribly thoughtful like that.’
‘Oh yes,’ she said airily, ‘I’m not worried about it. I’m not worried about it at all. Er, did he send you a Valentine’s card when you were going out with him?’
‘No,’ I replied truthfully. ‘He didn’t’. He actually sent me two dozen red roses and a huge box of Bendicks. I heard Bea exhale with relief.
‘And did you get anything today?’ she enquired anxiously.
‘Absolutely zilch. There was nothing in the post at home, and I’m just on my way to work. I know I won’t get one but I really don’t care—I mean, who needs it, Bea?’
Yeah, who needs it? I repeated as I stamped up the steps of Amalgamated House. February the fourteenth is just a silly love-fest I told myself as I crossed the foyer and got the lift up to the tenth floor. It’s not even romantic—it’s big business, it’s ruthlessly mercantile. They should call it Interflora Day, or Hallmark Day or Veuve Cliquot Day instead. I shall simply give it the cold shoulder, like I did Christmas, I decided as I arrived at my desk. As for being taken out to dinner tête-à-tête—no thanks! Nothing could be worse than sitting in a restaurant with a load of gruesome twosomes who are simply responding to the imperatives of the calendar. And what about the notorious Valentine’s Day Massacre, I reminded myself grimly as I pondered my huge pile of mail. No, I really couldn’t give a damn about it I repeated as I quickly riffled through the pile of post. Letter, letter, letter, flyer, letter, letter, letter, post-card, letter, letter, letter, invitation, letter, letter, letter, airmail, letter, letter, letter, letter, Valentine’s card!!! YEAAAAAHHHHHHHH!!!!!!
‘GOT ONE!’ I shouted, to a surprised-looking Serena.
‘Got what?’
I held up a large, red envelope and smiled. ‘A Valentine. Phew. Thank God!’ I now noticed that the card felt slightly thick, squidgy almost. Hmm. ‘Did you get one from Rob?’I enquired.
‘Er, no. He’s got a lot on his plate, with work. You know how it is.’
Thanks to Andrew, I did. ‘I’m sure he’ll get you something,’ I said soothingly as I ripped open the envelope. Serena seemed even more tense than usual and it was only half past nine. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked her. She was tidying out her drawer.
‘Yes, except for that awful rain last night. We had a very bad leak.’
‘Oh dear.’
‘I was up all night emptying buckets, so I’m rather tired. Still,’ she said philosophically. ‘It’s my own fault for not getting it fixed. A stitch in time saves nine and all that, and they say there’ll be more storms tonight.’
The card resisted slightly as I tried to pull it out of the envelope, so I gave it a good, sharp tug. As I did so a shower of something—I didn’t know what—suddenly shot through the air.
‘What the—?’ Tiny bits of tissue paper flew up, then floated down in a light cloud, like confetti, covering my hair and clothes. I felt like a figure in a shaken snowstorm as they gently descended, strewing my desk.
‘What on earth are those?’ said Serena as they fluttered and pirouetted through the air like a blizzard of bonsai ticker-tape. She picked one off her jumper and examined it. ‘They’ve got writing on them. Look!’ Printed on both sides, in neat red letters, was CSThnknAU.
‘CSThnknAU,’ I read out, wonderingly. It was like a Scrabble hand. ‘What on earth does that mean? Is it Czech?’ I added.
‘No.’
‘Polish?’
‘It’s a text message,’ Serena explained. ‘I’ve got a little book of them, hang on.’ She opened her top drawer and took out a tiny dictionary. ‘CantW82XU,’ she said, ‘no, that’s Can’t Wait To Kiss You; CUIMD—that’s See You In My Dreams; ah ha! CSThnknAU—Can’t Stop Thinking About You. That’s what it is.’
‘Oh. I see.’
There were hundreds of them—maybe a thousand—they seemed to get everywhere. As I blew them off my keyboard and brushed them off my chair I wondered who could have sent them to me. I looked at the card, which bore the same strange message, encircled by a heart: inside there was no signature, just two crosses and a large question mark. On the back was printed the name of the company, Confettimail, whose slogan was ‘Spread The Word.’ Well, they certainly did that all right: their words got everywhere. I called the given number, gave them my name, and asked to know who my card was from.
‘I’m afraid we can’t tell you that,’ said the woman at the other end.
‘But can’t you give me a clue?’
‘I’m sorry, but it’s confidential.’
I had a brainwave. ‘But I’d like to send him something too. I think I know who it is actually,’ I lied, ‘but I just need to make absolutely sure.’
‘Oh, then in that case,’ she said judiciously, ‘I can give you a tiny hint. The man who ordered it sounded rather nervous, and said you’d be “annoyed” if you knew.’
My heart sank to the soles of my shoes: just what I’d dreaded—it was Colin Twisk. I’d hoped it wouldn’t prove to be—but who else would come up with something like this? Something guaranteed simultaneously to capture my attention and irritate the hell out of me. He’d said I’d be annoyed and I was! I was also dreadfully disappointed I realised miserably as I pulled them out of my hair. If it were from anyone else I’d have been pleased; but with Creepy Colin it was symbolic of the way I couldn’t get rid of the guy. Like these tiny bits of paper, he was ubiquitous and invasive, reaching into the no
oks and crannies of my life.
All day long, I kept finding them. I’d go to the loo and at least six would flutter out of my knickers: there were even a couple lodged in my bra. They’d got into my shirt, and my shoes, and my ears—they were everywhere. Each time I thought I’d got them all, I’d be sure to find a few more.
What a bore I thought bitterly as I delicately extracted one from my left nostril; and it was depressing too, because a year ago my friends had thrown real confetti over me, on the steps of the Chelsea Town Hall. All I’d wanted today was just one simple Valentine card to remind me that I wasn’t completely unloved. Trevor, by contrast, had received eighteen from his new army of devoted fans. I found myself in the novel, and morally challenging position, of being jealous of a dog.
‘There are another five for Trev,’ Linda announced as the second post arrived after lunch. She put them in a large jiffy bag. ‘I’ll send them to him first class.’
‘No, don’t post them,’ I said, ‘I can take them round. Then he’ll get them today.’
‘Okay, thanks. Reception called to say they’ve had a bouquet for him too, so don’t forget to pick that up.’
‘I won’t.’
‘And there’s a large box of Bonios.’
‘Right.’
‘And a presentation box of Good Boy! chocolate drops.’
‘Got it.’
‘And a gift-wrapped squeaky toy.’
‘Okay…’
At five, I wondered again about my divorce petition, and phoned Frances, who told me that it hadn’t gone out.
‘But I thought he’d get it today.’ I felt crestfallen—I’d hoped to make a dramatic impact—then suddenly strangely relieved.
‘You have to have been married for a year and a day,’ Frances explained, ‘which means he won’t actually get it until the sixteenth.’
As I put the phone down I realised I hadn’t spoken to Ed for almost five months. I’d resolved to cut him right out of my life, and I’d done it. I felt proud of my self-control, but all day I’d wondered whether he’d been thinking of me and of our wedding exactly one year ago. As I made my way home I reflected on why we’d married: well, because we were mutually attracted, that’s why, and at a stage in our lives when we were willing to marry. We were also available. I could hardly believe my luck that someone as conspicuously attractive and engaging as Ed was still single. But for some reason, which we’d never discussed—well, what’s the point?—his previous relationships hadn’t worked out. There had been women, of course—as I say, he’s sex on legs—but they’d never lasted more than a few months. Perhaps he’d been unfaithful to them as well, but he would never have admitted that.
I thought of the house in Putney again with a bitter sigh. He’d only just bought it when we met—it had cost him an arm and a leg. And I remember the first time I saw it being amazed at its size. I found it odd that a single man with no kids—and no intention of having any—should choose to live in such a big place. But Ed explained that it was the house he’d dreamed of owning one day, when he was a small boy and terribly poor. After his father died, the family had to move into this two-bed-roomed cottage on the outskirts of Derby. He showed me a photo of it once—it looked tiny—I don’t know how they all fitted in. Ed shared one bedroom with his two younger brothers—in bunks—while his mother slept with the girls. And he said that it was so unbearably cramped and claustrophobic that he’d had this obsession ever since with having space. So much so that, for example, he can instantly calculate the square footage of any property he enters. He should have been an estate agent I’d sometimes thought.
‘All my life I’ve wanted a really spacious house with large rooms,’ he’d explained. ‘The biggest I could possibly afford.’ So for the past fifteen years he’d traded up and up, buying shrewdly, moving constantly until, finally, he’d bought Blenheim Road. I used to tease him about it. I called it his ‘Putney Palace’. Don’t get me wrong—it’s lovely—but it’s just rather big for one person on their own. It’s a white-fronted, stuccoed, Victorian semi-detached villa, done up in a classic English way. Yellow speckled wallpaper in the drawing room, pale green soft furnishings; a smart oxblood on the dining room walls, a soft coral below the dado on the stairs. And in his bedroom, periwinkle blue and cream, with a co-ordinating window seat. It was all so quietly elegant, so understated, so beautifully comme il faut. It had four further bedrooms, two en suite, and the kitchen was a dream. Lovely glazed terracotta tiles on the floor and an Aga in a distinguished dark blue. I sighed. Hope Street, though charmingly raffish, was a far cry from Blenheim Road. I put up my hand to ring Beverley’s bell, but Trevor had got there first.
‘Happy Valentine’s Day, Trev,’ I said as he let me in. I handed him the jiffy bag. ‘You’re a very popular guy.’ Tail wagging, he ushered me into the sitting room, where he and Bev were watching TV.
‘He’s got twenty-three cards,’ I announced as he settled himself back on his beanbag. I handed her the bouquet and the gifts.
‘Nice going, Trev,’ Bev said with a laugh. ‘Some of us had to make do with one! Not that I’m complaining,’ she added with a smile. I looked at her Valentine positioned in the centre of her mantelpiece. It simply said ‘You’re A Star!’ The word ‘star’ gave it away; it was clearly from Theo—who else? He’d said Bev was ‘special’ and ‘wonderful’ and he called her ‘pet’.
‘How lovely,’ I said suppressing a pang.
‘I don’t know who sent it,’ she fibbed.
‘I bet you do really.’
‘I don’t!’
‘Well Trevor revealed in his column that you’d sent someone a card,’ I said nonchalantly.
‘Did he?’ she replied with an enigmatic smile. But I knew who Bev had bought it for—she’d bought it for Theo of course. ‘LOVE ME!’ it had commanded in red glittery letters: he must have had it by now. As I helped Bev put up Trevor’s cards—several containing photos of hopeful-looking girl dogs—I looked at all her trophies and medals and shields. We usually sit in her kitchen when I go round, so I’d never seen them before. There were twelve, all engraved with her name.
‘You are a star, Bev,’ I said quietly as I looked at them. ‘You’re amazing. You excelled not just in one sport, but in three.’ She shrugged. ‘But why did you change from athletics to hockey?’
‘Because I was getting too old for the track; plus I’m not really an individualist, Rose; I wanted to play in a team—I still do. I hate working on my own here all day, for example, even though I’m with Trev. I’d love to go out to work,’ she said with sudden ferocity: ‘I get so desperately lonely here; it drives me crazy…’ Her voice trailed away. Suddenly Trevor got up, went into the hall, returned with the phone, then tried to put it in her lap.
‘It’s okay, Trev,’ she said gently. ‘I don’t need to call a friend, Rose is here. Put it back. If he thinks I’m sad he brings me the phone,’ Bev explained again. ‘He hit on that idea without me even asking him—he thought it up all by himself.’
‘I hope you’re not sad,’ I said.
‘Not really,’ she sighed, ‘it’s just that I feel very isolated at times, and I do get a bit down working from home, and…anyway,’ she forced her features into a grim smile, ‘enough of all that. Any news of Rudy?’ she asked, clearly wishing to change the subject.
I shook my head. ‘The police are looking, but I don’t think I’ll see him again. It’s terribly sad.’
Back home I looked at the empty space where Rudy’s cage had been: without him the kitchen was horribly quiet. His nonstop chatter had been so irritating, but now he’d gone I missed it like mad. I just hoped that whoever had him was looking after him properly and peeling his grapes, like I do: I hoped that they were keeping him warm, and watered, and cleaning him out every day. I hoped they talked to him when they were there, and put the radio on when they went out. As I took off my coat I saw that the sleeves were covered with Trevor’s golden hairs. And I was just reluctantly reaching for the cloth
es brush—I could hardly be bothered—when I heard a huge BOOM! and glanced outside. The semi-twilight had turned to pitch as the towering cumulo-nimbus churned and boiled: and now the rain began to strafe the windows like machine gun fire—except that it wasn’t rain, but hail. White stones, like ball bearings, were driving down with such force I thought they’d shatter the panes. I dashed outside where I’d left my garden tools—I’m so careless these days—and as I ran back inside I glanced up. Theo’s dormer window was wide open. There was no security risk because it’s up in the roof but I knew that the hail would come in. So I decided to close it to protect his computer and telescope—I didn’t think he’d mind. I ran upstairs and as I went to the window I saw that his table was already quite wet: the pages of his desk diary, which he’d left open, were becoming rippled and mottled with damp. As I shut the window I averted my eyes from them—but then something caught my eye. My name.
Rose is very…—his writing was so unreadable it might as well have been in Esperanto—Rose is very, I tried again, diff…t. Diffident obviously. Something…mother…problems…feel sorry…very something…ctive. That looked like ‘active’. Well, I am very active. I’ve got a lot of energy. Something…but…a b…pole. Hhmmm. A beanpole? Well it’s true. And on the facing page I was just able to make out, ‘…and Henry’s clearly keen on Bea.’
As I say, I only read those few words because the journal was open, but of course I didn’t read any more; because although I was quite naturally consumed with curiosity, reading someone else’s diary is the pits. And I was just leaving his room when I suddenly heard, Would You Like to Swing On A Star, Carry Moonbeams Home in a Jar? His mobile phone—identical to my own—was lying on his bed. He’d forgotten to take it with him. I peered at it and there, on the screen, were the letters, BEV/H—he’d clearly programmed in her number—and there was the dancing telephone icon, and at the bottom of the screen it said ‘Answer?’ Would You Like to Swing on a Star… Now it had stopped, and then a few seconds later I heard the trill of his voicemail alert and the ringing envelope appeared on the screen. I stared at it, and then, involuntarily, my hand reached out and I did this awful thing. I picked up the phone, pressed the voicemail button, and held it to my ear. ‘You have one new message. Message sent today at six-fifteen.’