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.