Valentine’s Day
She’ll ask Valentino this evening. It won’t come as a complete surprise to him – she’d hinted as much last week. She won’t leave it to him to broach the subject. She chuckles. Tonight will be the perfect occasion. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all!
Grabbing her coat from the hall stand, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror – rosy-faced and decidedly menopausal. Has she overdone the rouge, or whatever it’s called these days? Blusher…? Flusher, more like. She runs her finger along the newest wrinkle that had manifested itself between her eyebrows on her fiftieth birthday – wishing it away.
Now, where has she left her bag? It certainly hadn’t been visible in the living room, amongst the usual chaos of unwashed mugs and half-finished pieces of artwork. Her boots are peeking out from beneath the hall stand, but there’s no sign of her bag. Ignoring the boots, she goes for her fancy high heels. As she puts them on, she peers through the living room door – at the scraps of old rag sprawled across the dining table, together with the well-squeezed tubes of oil paint, glue and brushes soaking in methylated spirit. If Valentino agrees to her proposal, she’ll have to give this place up. Her comfortable haven of several years will no longer do. She’ll need an extra room to call her studio – somewhere to hide all her necessary detritus.
Her bag… it’ll be on her bed. Rushing into her bedroom, she imagines the two of them curled up together. He would probably leave white hairs on the pillow case. Oh well, she’s due some new bedlinen – she’s bored with dark colours. She’ll go for something bright and patterned.
Once outside, her smart leather-soled shoes slip on the frosty path, and she only just manages to keep upright. What’s wrong with her? She should have come out in her sensible, fur-lined ankle boots. She could easily have put these ones in her bag to change into at the restaurant. It’s quite big enough to hold them – more like a sack than a bag. She loves this bag with its bright, swirling patterns. It reminds her of the holiday she’d taken in Morocco with her old art college friends a few years back. They’d persuaded her to haggle for the bag in the market in Marrakesh… or was it Fez?
Being reminded of her friends makes her wonder whether having another soul to consider is really such a good idea. Gone would be her freedom to take last minute trips away with them – all single women either by choice, widowhood or divorce. She couldn’t possibly take him along. Admittedly, on their shopping jaunts around England, Clemmy often brought Winston with her, with his mournful eyes, heavy jowls and bow legs. But then Winston was a bulldog – a different matter altogether.
She particularly loves these shopping trips – rummaging around on market stalls, in charity shops and jumble sales. They were all into recycling, sharing the delight of creating something new from what others considered to be old tat. Clemmy would delve for things like old buttons and broken strings of beads from which she’d make flamboyant pieces of jewelry. Fran was adept at spotting expensive pieces of silk from what appeared to be just a pile of useless rags, turning them in to scarves, ties and waistcoats. And she would rescue anything ephemeral to use in her mixed media collages.
As she steps onto the salt-gritted pavement, she turns to look back at the four story Victorian house, now divided into flats. The only garden is the communal strip overlooking the road. The back plot has long been concreted over to provide resident parking. Even if she managed to create a studio area in her first floor flat, it would still not provide a suitable home. Valentino took his new hobby very seriously, and he would consider a private garden to be essential. She remembers the conversations they had had over the last few months. She had started making it a weekly treat to visit the little bistro in the high street. It was half-empty on Monday evenings – quieter, more to her taste. And, living on her own, she didn’t have the remains of a compulsory Sunday joint to finish.
She had been sitting by herself at her favourite corner table one evening, drinking her after-dinner coffee, when he had asked if he could join her. He appeared to be a gentleman and, feeling the need for conversation, she had willingly agreed. This had become a regular thing and, over time, he’d started sharing intimate details of his life – of the untimely death of his long-term partner, and of how he had moved back home to live with his parents. ‘Only temporarily, of course,’ he’d said. ‘But I’m no good on my own. And their large garden is very handy.’ He’d then told her of his new passion. Although not of initial interest to her, she had sat patiently with what she’d hoped was a look of absorption, listening to stories of some old monk called Mendel, and his experiments with peas. Or was it sweet peas? Valentino had waxed lyrical on dominant and recessive genes, allenes and other terms that she barely understood. But her initial lack of interest had all changed after visiting him at his parents’ home. Suddenly, his new venture, in spite of all its strange terminology, had begun to fascinate her.
She imagines the two of them in their new garden. There he’ll be, turning over a newly dug bed, already prepared to take some annuals… sweet peas perhaps? Whilst she will be planting some sensible, hardy shrubs, preferably dense and evergreen.
As she turns into the high street, the bistro comes into view, invitingly hugging the corner, its intimate lighting glowing above the strip of blue-and-white check curtaining. She hopes Valentino has been able to secure her favourite table – the one in the corner furthest from the door. She feels more at ease with her back to the wall. And she enjoys looking out at the scene from relative obscurity. In fact, she has been known, on occasion, to bring her sketch book. But this Monday, being Valentine’s Day, will be quite different from other Mondays. Without a reservation, there will be no choice of table. In fact, there could be no table at all. The place will be packed with married couples chatting about their children, newly engaged ones discussing their future, and those on their very first date saying very little. She imagines them all leaning in towards each other – whispering, laughing. It will be much noisier than usual. Not necessarily a good time to make her proposal to Valentino.
There’s no sign of him as she enters the restaurant. What if he’s had a change of plan and he’s not coming?
‘I’m afraid I may be a little early,’ she says to a new – and very young – waiter as he takes her coat. She sits in the reception area for a while, peering into her bag in an attempt to look busy. Finally, there he is approaching her, looking very dapper in his dark suit – his head of thick white hair even more beautifully-groomed than usual. He apologizes for keeping her waiting. Heads turn as they enter the restaurant. All eyes are upon him as he helps her to her favourite seat.
When should she ask him – now, or at the end of the meal, over coffee? And is it what she really wants? Has she sufficiently thought it through? What if he says no? Her face burns at the prospect. He’s obviously aware of her agitation – being particularly attentive, making suggestions as to what she might like to eat. In her haste to get here she’d forgotten her glasses. Although she knows the standard menu by heart, she can’t make out what’s on the Specials Board. But Valentino is used to this. It happens nearly every week.
She almost says something as the starter is served, but Valentino’s attentions are elsewhere. Then the plates are removed and the main course is served.
‘A little more wine?’ he says, leaning over, about to replenish her glass.
‘Thank you,’ she says. Perhaps another glass will give her Dutch courage. But Valentino is more preoccupied than usual this evening. And the clamour of other people’s conversation bouncing off the hard surfaces has begun to bring on one of her migraines. She has already scraped up the last specks of a delicious, but rather rich, tiramisu, and is draining the last drop from her coffee cup, and they have still only managed a few pleasantries.
Valentino has left the room, but is on his way back carrying a single red rose. Shall she ask him now, or leave it until next week? He places the silver tray down in front of her, on which sits the red rose – and her bill.
It will have to be now, she decides, burrowing through her bag in search of her credit card. Next week might be too late. She can’t help smiling at the way he’s fussing with the crumpled tablecloth as he waits – so meticulous and patient. He’ll make someone a wonderful partner, once he has fully recovered from the loss of his last partner, Bruce.
‘Valentino?’ she says, finally handing him her card. ‘It’s a pity we weren’t able to have our usual chat this evening, but with all your extra customers…’ She straightens up before continuing. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I was wondering if I could have first pick from your litter of kittens. I’ve always fancied a Maine Coon, and I fell in love with them last week, when you let me see them. Is he still available… the pure white one?’
*
If you understood this on first reading, well done! If not, please read it again. I have planted several clues.
BACK
She’ll ask Valentino this evening. It won’t come as a complete surprise to him – she’d hinted as much last week. She won’t leave it to him to broach the subject. She chuckles. Tonight will be the perfect occasion. It’s Valentine’s Day, after all!
Grabbing her coat from the hall stand, she catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror – rosy-faced and decidedly menopausal. Has she overdone the rouge, or whatever it’s called these days? Blusher…? Flusher, more like. She runs her finger along the newest wrinkle that had manifested itself between her eyebrows on her fiftieth birthday – wishing it away.
Now, where has she left her bag? It certainly hadn’t been visible in the living room, amongst the usual chaos of unwashed mugs and half-finished pieces of artwork. Her boots are peeking out from beneath the hall stand, but there’s no sign of her bag. Ignoring the boots, she goes for her fancy high heels. As she puts them on, she peers through the living room door – at the scraps of old rag sprawled across the dining table, together with the well-squeezed tubes of oil paint, glue and brushes soaking in methylated spirit. If Valentino agrees to her proposal, she’ll have to give this place up. Her comfortable haven of several years will no longer do. She’ll need an extra room to call her studio – somewhere to hide all her necessary detritus.
Her bag… it’ll be on her bed. Rushing into her bedroom, she imagines the two of them curled up together. He would probably leave white hairs on the pillow case. Oh well, she’s due some new bedlinen – she’s bored with dark colours. She’ll go for something bright and patterned.
Once outside, her smart leather-soled shoes slip on the frosty path, and she only just manages to keep upright. What’s wrong with her? She should have come out in her sensible, fur-lined ankle boots. She could easily have put these ones in her bag to change into at the restaurant. It’s quite big enough to hold them – more like a sack than a bag. She loves this bag with its bright, swirling patterns. It reminds her of the holiday she’d taken in Morocco with her old art college friends a few years back. They’d persuaded her to haggle for the bag in the market in Marrakesh… or was it Fez?
Being reminded of her friends makes her wonder whether having another soul to consider is really such a good idea. Gone would be her freedom to take last minute trips away with them – all single women either by choice, widowhood or divorce. She couldn’t possibly take him along. Admittedly, on their shopping jaunts around England, Clemmy often brought Winston with her, with his mournful eyes, heavy jowls and bow legs. But then Winston was a bulldog – a different matter altogether.
She particularly loves these shopping trips – rummaging around on market stalls, in charity shops and jumble sales. They were all into recycling, sharing the delight of creating something new from what others considered to be old tat. Clemmy would delve for things like old buttons and broken strings of beads from which she’d make flamboyant pieces of jewelry. Fran was adept at spotting expensive pieces of silk from what appeared to be just a pile of useless rags, turning them in to scarves, ties and waistcoats. And she would rescue anything ephemeral to use in her mixed media collages.
As she steps onto the salt-gritted pavement, she turns to look back at the four story Victorian house, now divided into flats. The only garden is the communal strip overlooking the road. The back plot has long been concreted over to provide resident parking. Even if she managed to create a studio area in her first floor flat, it would still not provide a suitable home. Valentino took his new hobby very seriously, and he would consider a private garden to be essential. She remembers the conversations they had had over the last few months. She had started making it a weekly treat to visit the little bistro in the high street. It was half-empty on Monday evenings – quieter, more to her taste. And, living on her own, she didn’t have the remains of a compulsory Sunday joint to finish.
She had been sitting by herself at her favourite corner table one evening, drinking her after-dinner coffee, when he had asked if he could join her. He appeared to be a gentleman and, feeling the need for conversation, she had willingly agreed. This had become a regular thing and, over time, he’d started sharing intimate details of his life – of the untimely death of his long-term partner, and of how he had moved back home to live with his parents. ‘Only temporarily, of course,’ he’d said. ‘But I’m no good on my own. And their large garden is very handy.’ He’d then told her of his new passion. Although not of initial interest to her, she had sat patiently with what she’d hoped was a look of absorption, listening to stories of some old monk called Mendel, and his experiments with peas. Or was it sweet peas? Valentino had waxed lyrical on dominant and recessive genes, allenes and other terms that she barely understood. But her initial lack of interest had all changed after visiting him at his parents’ home. Suddenly, his new venture, in spite of all its strange terminology, had begun to fascinate her.
She imagines the two of them in their new garden. There he’ll be, turning over a newly dug bed, already prepared to take some annuals… sweet peas perhaps? Whilst she will be planting some sensible, hardy shrubs, preferably dense and evergreen.
As she turns into the high street, the bistro comes into view, invitingly hugging the corner, its intimate lighting glowing above the strip of blue-and-white check curtaining. She hopes Valentino has been able to secure her favourite table – the one in the corner furthest from the door. She feels more at ease with her back to the wall. And she enjoys looking out at the scene from relative obscurity. In fact, she has been known, on occasion, to bring her sketch book. But this Monday, being Valentine’s Day, will be quite different from other Mondays. Without a reservation, there will be no choice of table. In fact, there could be no table at all. The place will be packed with married couples chatting about their children, newly engaged ones discussing their future, and those on their very first date saying very little. She imagines them all leaning in towards each other – whispering, laughing. It will be much noisier than usual. Not necessarily a good time to make her proposal to Valentino.
There’s no sign of him as she enters the restaurant. What if he’s had a change of plan and he’s not coming?
‘I’m afraid I may be a little early,’ she says to a new – and very young – waiter as he takes her coat. She sits in the reception area for a while, peering into her bag in an attempt to look busy. Finally, there he is approaching her, looking very dapper in his dark suit – his head of thick white hair even more beautifully-groomed than usual. He apologizes for keeping her waiting. Heads turn as they enter the restaurant. All eyes are upon him as he helps her to her favourite seat.
When should she ask him – now, or at the end of the meal, over coffee? And is it what she really wants? Has she sufficiently thought it through? What if he says no? Her face burns at the prospect. He’s obviously aware of her agitation – being particularly attentive, making suggestions as to what she might like to eat. In her haste to get here she’d forgotten her glasses. Although she knows the standard menu by heart, she can’t make out what’s on the Specials Board. But Valentino is used to this. It happens nearly every week.
She almost says something as the starter is served, but Valentino’s attentions are elsewhere. Then the plates are removed and the main course is served.
‘A little more wine?’ he says, leaning over, about to replenish her glass.
‘Thank you,’ she says. Perhaps another glass will give her Dutch courage. But Valentino is more preoccupied than usual this evening. And the clamour of other people’s conversation bouncing off the hard surfaces has begun to bring on one of her migraines. She has already scraped up the last specks of a delicious, but rather rich, tiramisu, and is draining the last drop from her coffee cup, and they have still only managed a few pleasantries.
Valentino has left the room, but is on his way back carrying a single red rose. Shall she ask him now, or leave it until next week? He places the silver tray down in front of her, on which sits the red rose – and her bill.
It will have to be now, she decides, burrowing through her bag in search of her credit card. Next week might be too late. She can’t help smiling at the way he’s fussing with the crumpled tablecloth as he waits – so meticulous and patient. He’ll make someone a wonderful partner, once he has fully recovered from the loss of his last partner, Bruce.
‘Valentino?’ she says, finally handing him her card. ‘It’s a pity we weren’t able to have our usual chat this evening, but with all your extra customers…’ She straightens up before continuing. ‘There’s something I’ve been meaning to ask you. I was wondering if I could have first pick from your litter of kittens. I’ve always fancied a Maine Coon, and I fell in love with them last week, when you let me see them. Is he still available… the pure white one?’
*
If you understood this on first reading, well done! If not, please read it again. I have planted several clues.
BACK