Be My Valentine

Blooming Flowers - Author May Clarke

The shop bell chimes, and the smell of acrylic and nail polish remover welcomes me like an old friend.

“Goodness me, Mandy. I’ve not seen you in ages. You’re looking well!” Sue, the nail technician, calls from the back of the salon. I can feel everyone’s eyes turn to look at me.

This is a lie. I look terrible as I have only recently emerged from my three months of solitude. I only left the house on rare occasions for bread and milk. Making the not so healthy choice of surviving on takeaways and copious amounts of ice-cream, hence why I am wearing a baggy hoody and joggers.

Desperate to end her fanfare of insincere welcomes, I literally sprint to the free chair at her table. She begins to file and buff my nails as if she’s trying to get the world record for being the fastest beautician in the Western Hemisphere.

“So, how’s Vic?” She asks, momentarily pausing her wild ministrations, so she can fully appreciate my facial expressions and intonation, while I add another layer of information to what many have recently referred to as the ‘gossip of the year’.

“He’s good I think, last I heard he was getting married in the Maldives,” I reply, with a casual tone.

Even though my insides are twisting and I’m wishing I had left my ring at home, or at least put it on my other hand, I smile as if I am talking about someone else. A friend we all once knew. She applies the first layer of polish, and the soft pink does make me feel a little better than I did before. Like the old me, before Vic.

“I’m going on a date tonight!” I abruptly volunteer, instantly regretting it. “I mean…it’s a blind date that my sister set up…but I think it will good fun… ” I lie again. In truth I’m dreading it, and the only reason I said yes was so that my younger sister and her children would stop nagging me. “Apparently he’s taking me to the golf course, he must have a membership.” This I am less nervous about, Vic always ensured we dined at the best venues, so I’m confident in formal settings.

Finally, Sue finishes. I leave the payment and tip on the counter, mortified by the chorus of ‘good luck’ and ‘go get him girl’ that broadcasts my business from behind me, as if I have a cheerleading squad following me.

Despite my reluctance to put too much effort into this evening’s date, I come out of the cosmetic store with a considerable deficit in my bank account having been fully seduced by the promises of eternal youth and claims of Botox in a bottle. Throwing my bag of wonders onto the passenger seat and hoping that if I use a trowel for my foundation, and cash in all my good deeds, a miracle might occur before the date arrives tonight. I check my mirrors and double check my blind spot before pulling out of the space. Easy does it. Straightening up, I’m about to pull away when…THUD. I look in the rear view mirror and see the man holding his hands up, accepting his mistake. I open my door. This is the last thing I need.

“I’m so sorry, I was in a rush and completely misjudged it.” He says bashfully, I can’t help but notice he is cute. Cute, but clumsy.

“It’s OK. I’ve got somewhere to be too. Let’s just swap details, although I don’t know how you thought your car was fitting through that space.” I slightly admonish.

“I just couldn’t resist bumping into you,” He laughs awkwardly, while handing me his details.

Rolling my eyes, I get back into my car and drive home. Surely, six hours would be enough time to get ready?

In answer to my early question, six hours isn’t enough time to get ready. The only slight success in the preparations has been my hair, which was finally tamed by the curling irons around an hour ago. Worryingly, there is nearly half a can of hair spray imprisoning each and every strand so there is a genuine possibility that it could snap off if faced with any vigorous movement or a brisk breeze. After a mini melt down and various pillows being thrown, I am attempting my make up one last time. It never used to be this difficult. I used to be able to channel a young Elizabeth Taylor, and with the help of a YouTube make-up tutorial I’d have that Hollywood glamour in the first attempt. In tonight’s previous two attempts, the closest celebrity look alike I achieved was Coco the clown, ironically while using my Coco Dior. Eyelashes gripped in the tweezers and glue primed in the other hand I painstakingly apply each one. How do other women wear these each day? They are incredibly uncomfortable. I can only be slightly comforted that my eyelids will be the most toned area of my physic tomorrow after bench pressing theses weighty bumblebees all night. Maybe I should take them off.

Was that a knock?

Good Lord, please don’t let me have gotten the time wrong. I’m not even dressed yet.

Running down stairs, I look through the door viewer and see a gargantuan bouquet of flowers, all in different shades of pink. It’s so big it’s really verging on the obscene. I wonder if my little sister told my date that pink roses were my favourite so he could send them. That’s really thoughtful. He must be trying to impress me. I’ll definitely keep the eyelashes on now. I’m not even sure if I have a table big enough to put them on. The flowers I mean, not the eyelashes.

“Hello, I was wondering if you could take these flowers in for your neighbour across the road. They are out for a meal at the minute they said they will be back in an hour. It’s a Valentine’s day surprise for his wife.” The delivery driver pushes the arrangement in my arms, before quickly leaving. It must be a busy night for him after all.

“Blooming flowers” I grumble aloud, while wrestling them on to the kitchen counter.

“Well, I’ll pretend you’re mine until Mr Billings comes to pick you up later.” I’m talking to flowers now, if they answer back I know I am in trouble.

With only an hour left to go, I lay my little black swing dress that has a daring bardot cut onto the bed, carefully ironing out any creases in the fabric. Rummaging through my lingerie draw I locate my black tights and diligently find the toe before rolling them up my legs. The denier isn’t thick, and I’m pleased with the way they give me enough coverage to feel comfortable, but are risqué enough to be date worthy. That is until I feel the sensation change and to my horror I look down at my tights that seem to have gotten into a fight with a cheese grater, and clearly lost. Just to hone the point further my finger slips through the ladder causing a huge hole to form.

There’s only an hour to go, and I have no tights.

I’ll have to cancel, there’s no way I can go bare legged.

I don’t actually have his number. My sister probably kept it from me for this exact reason.

The knock at the door interrupts my anxiety, I look out of the window to see old Mr Billings standing there. Throwing on my dressing gown, that does nothing to hide the punk rocker tights I’m now wearing, I rush down the stairs to greet him.

“Hello dear, do you have my Betty’s flowers here?” He asks.

“I do, they are beautiful Mr Billings.” I answer, handing them over.

They are so big I can no longer see his head.

“All beautiful women deserve beautiful flowers, yourself included. I don’t know why you go to the trouble of putting all that make-up on, you are lovely just as you are.” I smile, even though he can’t see me, despite the fact that this is the last thing a woman who has spent two hours on her make-up wants to hear.

“Brian leave the poor girl alone, can’t you see she’s trying to get ready for her Valentine!” Shouts Betty, while waving at me.

Fabulous now the entire street knows, and I’m sure I just heard next door but one drop a vase on to the floor in shock. The idea that I wouldn’t be wrapped in my duvet watching Rom Coms while yelling about the unrealistic expectations of relationships must have their community chat group bleating with blather. I guess I can’t cancel now, I’ll disappoint the curtain twitchers at seven O’clock.

The dress is snug. If I’m going to be honest there was a lot of panting and wiggling to get it on and the entire debacle felt more like I’d attended a gym class by the end. It fits, but only just. Can’t say I’m surprised after driving past the gym to use the quickest route to McDonald’s for the past three months. From certain angles, I think it looks better on me now that I am filling it properly. In saying that, I suppose I’ll look odd if I walk sideways next to him all night like a deranged crab in order for him to only see my best angle. I slide my feet into my stilettos, and try to ignore the pinching. I’ll be sitting down most of the time, so I’m sure it will be OK. To be on the safe side I pack some plasters in my bag. In a last ditch attempt to accept that there was no other option than to go bare legged, I had applied some moisturiser and discovered it made a world of difference. I actually feel confident. Until I look at my hand. I twist the solitaire around my finger. I had always done that when I was nervous, from the moment I put it on all those years ago. Surprisingly, there was little resistance as I pulled it past my knuckle. I picked up a cocktail ring and put it on my middle finger, it suited the outfit even if it felt strange on my hand.

After rearranging my clutch bag, and ensuring I had everything I needed, I heard his first steps crunch on the gravel outside my house. Three timid knocks landed on the door, but the person standing there wasn’t the person I expected. Smiling and shaking his head from side to side, he looked just as shocked as I was. It was the man who had bumped into my car from earlier. His hair had been cut and he looked smarter in his shirt and jeans. JEANS! I looked down at myself realising I have overdressed, or has he underdressed. Shamefully, I can’t remember his name, and the only thing that comes to mind is ‘cute but clumsy’. My sister didn’t tell me, purposefully not allowing me to search him on all social media platforms. Seeing my distress, he reaches out to shake my hand.

“Hi Amanda, nice to meet you again. I’m Jake.”

“Hi, sorry I was just shocked. Everyone calls me Mandy, are you ready to go?”

He nods, and pays me compliments, but looks completely perplexed, and he frowns when we get into his car with the dinted front bumper. Nevertheless, he drives off and we make small talk on the way. How long I’ve lived in the area? How he knows my sister? By the time we make it to our destination the generic questions have eased a lot of my nerves. Looking up, I read the sign. I read it twice in the hope that the letters will reform and say something different. Jake opens my car door and reaches out his hand, I note how much of a gentleman he is. I then try to marry that fact up to the realisation that the golf course that had been proposed by my sister has somehow been miscommunicated. I am actually at mini golf in stilettos, a clutch bag and a little black dress. I wish there was a golf hole big enough to swallow me whole. I’m so embarrassed. I can’t even look Jake in the eye. I’d have looked more appropriate in the sweats and hoodie he saw me in this morning.

“Is everything alright?” He asks, concerned.

“My sister told me we were going to a golf course, and I’m in the wrong outfit.” I explain blushing.

“Oh! Sorry that’s my fault, she told me to plan something fun. I might have been a bit unclear in my excitement and-“

“You were excited for our date?” I ask, shocked by his openness and unguarded honesty.

“Yes of course, and now I’m even more excited because I get to take the most beautiful woman I have ever seen around the crazy golf course.”

“Everyone will look at me.” I mutter shyly.

“Let them look. Everyone was looking at you this morning, but you didn’t notice it. Why do you think I crashed into your car?” He reassures me.

I laugh. A true belly aching, rib hurting, face splitting laugh.

“OK. Lead the way!” I say enthusiastically.

Staggering back to the car, my heels are dangling off my fingertips. My hand interlinking with Jake’s, my head is leaning on his arm, and it feels like the most natural thing in the world. We had been in hysterics about Mr Billing’s make-up advice, and we both agreed that the love he had for his wife after being together for forty years was inspiring. He opens the door for me, and we begin the drive back to my house.

“I cannot believe how many holes in one you managed to score before you even took your shoes off!” He declared, still staggered by my secret skill.

“I can’t remember the last time I had so much fun. I don’t think I stopped laughing for more than a second.” I truthfully reply.

“I’m sorry it wasn’t the date you were expecting.” He blushes, clearly embarrassed by the mix up.

“Don’t be, this was better!”

He pulls up on the curb, and as he walks me to my door I see him glance at the dent on my back bumper. I can’t help but notice how handsome he is. Cute was the wrong word before. He is beautiful. There’s a noticeable height difference between us now that I have my shoes off. I’m beginning to regret it now, because with them on it would have been far easier to kiss him. As if he can read my mind he leans down and presses his lips against mine. If the neighbours are watching I hope they get a picture for me to frame later on. I wonder if I’ve ever really been kissed before. It has never felt like this: tender, meaningful and too brief.

“I have to go, but what time do you leave for work in the morning?”

“Usually, I leave at 9am.”

“I’ll text you tomorrow, and Mandy…happy Valentine’s Day.”

With no further explanation he kisses my cheek, and I give him a final hug. Waving as he drives off. Please if there is anyone looking out for me anywhere, let him call or text me tomorrow. Locking the doors I don’t want to spoil my night with television, or a book. The last thing I need is an escape. Upstairs I replay every moment, every nervous contact right up to very confident good night kiss. Then I see it on the night stand: the ring. Strangely, for the first time I don’t feel pain when I look at it, instead I just acknowledge a heavy feeling of disappointment. I’d been more valued on one date than I had during ten years of an engagement. I place the ring back in the box it came in and put it in the back of my wardrobe. Tucking myself in bed, the last thing I notice is the smile that remains on my face.

Hardly surprising that I was going to be late for work today. Tying my hair in a bobble and throwing on trousers and a blouse that some could have described as mismatched, I have two big gulps of coffee to set me up for the day. Unfortunately, I have determined in my thirty-eighth year that breakfast is for people who have their act together, and don’t wake up hoping time will slow down for them. It’s now five to nine and I’m only just putting my shoes on, this is what happens if I’m going to check my phone every other minute to see if Jake has left a message. I’m shuffling my coat on when I hear a surprising knock on the door. My door has seen more action in these past two days than it usually gets in an entire month. A delivery man stands there with a bouquet of blooming flowers, he passes them into my hands and wishes me a good day. Plucking the card from the centre of the display, I read the words twice just to confirm I’m not making them up.

“For the most beautiful woman who deserves flowers. Sorry they’re late. Jake x”

TITLE: Blooming Flowers

PEN NAME: Author May Clarke

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