I think under the circumstances, this year I’m going to ignore it. Pretend it’s not even happening. Which can only mean one thing:
TOTAL SOCIAL MEDIA BLACKOUT.
Thankfully, I’ve never been that into Valentine’s Day. At school I was a bit of a late developer so I didn’t have too many admirers, secret or otherwise. But what I did have was my dad, who every year would send me a card signed S.W.A.L.K in his handwriting, and every year I would pretend not to know who it was from.
As I’ve got older, I’ve had my fair share of cards and bouquets but I’ve always felt it’s all too contrived. Surely romance isn’t about overpriced flowers and an expensive restaurant?
Luckily The American Fiancé was of the same mindset, so one year we made a pact to ignore it. We loved each other. We didn’t need to prove it on a specific day. But then he really did ignore it.
‘Why are you upset? You said it was commercial nonsense.’
‘It is, but I can’t believe you didn’t even get me a card.’
‘But you told me to ignore it.’
‘Yes, but you weren’t really supposed to ignore it.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me that?’
‘Because I thought you knew!’
‘Knew what? That my girlfriend talks in riddles!’
‘Stop shouting!’
‘I’m not shouting. You’re the one that’s shouting!’
Honestly, no wonder men and women have difficulty communicating. Just because a woman says something, it doesn’t mean she actually means it. If that were the case, when a man asks a woman what’s wrong and she says ‘nothing’, she would actually mean nothing, and not, in fact, that she is furious with him for a variety of reasons and he’d better work out quickly what they are, otherwise there’s going to be trouble and lots of banging of pots in the kitchen.
Anyway, like I said, this year I’m on Valentine’s Day lockdown. Which is relatively easy, considering I work from home and not in an office. But it’s queuing at the bank that proves to be my downfall. Have you ever tried to do a Total Social Media Blackout while waiting in line? I try practising mindfulness for, like, two minutes, then cave in and scroll through endless photos of gorgeous bouquets, ‘cryptic’ celeb tweets and love messages scrawled in the sand.
In the end I feel thoroughly depressed. But I’m being silly. So what if I have no one to send me flowers; I am a strong independent woman! So in the spirit of Sod This I decide to go to the pub. No doubt it will be full of romantic couples and I will be on my own, but I refuse to hide away like some character in a Victorian novel. I’ll take Arthur with me.
And a book. Things are always better with a book.
The pub is relatively quiet. It turns out most couples have gone to the overpriced restaurants, and there are just a few scattered here and there. Apart from a couple of heart-shaped balloons behind the bar and a special Valentine’s Day champagne cocktail, I’m in pretty safe territory. Emboldened, I even order the cocktail in a defiant spirit, then go to find a seat.
I’m just sitting down when I spot a familiar face in the corner. It’s the Hot Dad I saw here before. I feel both a frisson of excitement and relief that I’ve actually put on some make-up and dragged a comb through my hair for once. Obviously he’s taken, but I still have a certain pride. Old feelings of embarrassment that I’m on my own on Valentine’s Day surface, but I push them down determinedly. There is nothing to be ashamed of.
I focus on my book and start reading, but it’s hard to concentrate when Hot Dad is only feet away. He’s sitting at a table, but his companion is hidden. It must be his wife. I try surreptitiously to crane my neck to get a look. I’m curious to see what she looks like. I’m sure she’s completely lovely. He looks like he’d have a lovely wife, and their little boy is gorgeous. He glances over – oh shit – and I turn quickly away.
‘Here’s your Valentine’s Day cocktail,’ says the barman, bringing it over.
‘Thanks,’ I smile. It has a cocktail stick with a big strawberry cut into the shape of a love heart.
Only now I feel like a total loon and not a single, empowered woman. I quickly eat the strawberry and lean forwards to try and move out of view. A text beeps: S.W.A.L.K. I smile. It’s my dad wishing me a happy Valentine’s Day like always.
I think about last year’s Valentine’s Day. After the ignoring debacle, The American Fiancé made me a puttanesca. Which might not sound like much, unless you’ve tasted a really good puttanesca, and his was the best. His Italian grandmother gave him the recipe and it was as salty as it was sweet, with the kind of al dente pasta that walls are made for. I smile at the memory.
God, I miss him. It hits me, hard and fast in the pit of my stomach. I wonder if he’s thinking about me. If I come into his head randomly throughout the day, like he does in mine. Or has he moved on already, and I’m just a distant memory?
But let’s not be gloomy.
Cricket’s voice sounds in my ear and I wonder if she’s finding today difficult too. Since the interview we’ve begun emailing, and I resolve to send her a quick note when I get home. Speaking of. I quickly glug back my Valentine’s Day cocktail. Time to go. I don’t need to prove anything to anyone. Least of all to myself. I get up and tug on Arthur’s lead, then turn towards the door—
‘Excuse me—’
And bump straight into the Hot Dad.
‘Oh, sorry.’
Or did he bump into me?
‘Sorry, did I get you?’
He’s carrying a pint and a glass of wine. I notice he’s spilled some.
‘No, not at all, it’s fine, totally, it’s just this old thing . . .’ I’m gabbling. I’m actually gabbling.
‘It’s King Arthur, right?’
‘No, Nell.’
Oh crap, that cocktail was really strong. It’s gone straight to my head. ‘Sorry, I thought you meant—’ I stop talking. It’s safest.
‘Well, pleased to meet you, Nell. I’d better go . . .’ He gestures towards his table in the corner.
‘Yes, me too.’
‘Maybe see you around.’
‘Yes, maybe.’
‘Bye, King Arthur,’ he smiles, and the corners of his eyes crinkle up. He really does have the most gorgeous eyes.
I smile back, and it’s as I turn to leave that I notice his hand around the pint glass. He’s not wearing gloves.
He’s also not wearing a wedding ring.
I’m grateful for: