The Valentine's Card (7 page)

‘Is this just, you know, a random collision in a bedroom at a party? Or is this something more,’ asked Orla, bold with the urgency of lust.

Beneath their unwieldy lashes, the cat eyes blinked. ‘You get heavy awfully quick, Fairy.’

‘If I write my number on your arm, will you use it?’

‘Yes,’ said Sim, not skipping a beat.

Orla grabbed a pen from her chest of drawers. She wrote, in large and legible numbers, the magic formula of her mobile phone. ‘Right.’ She bit her lip, enjoying this new non-ladylike self. ‘Come on then.’

Sim’s face split into a smile. It was not quite so handsome as the previous ones
and therefore, Orla suspected, rather more genuine.

‘You’re a funny little onion,’ he said approvingly, before enfolding her again and impressing that autocratic, expert mouth of his on hers.

They toppled down onto the bed. Sim seemed surprised by the passion of Orla’s response. ‘Oh
yes!
’ he murmured against her neck as she bit at his ear. Surprise registered once again when she resisted all attempts to rearrange her clothes too fundamentally. Rolling about, dislodging pillows and snarling up the duvet, their clinch was as much quarrel as embrace.

‘Please, oh
please
,’ begged Sim, his voice hoarse.

‘No. Get off. Come here.’ Orla was in charge, holding him back, giving him some slack then reining him in. A lusty terrier, she pawed him and played with him, but retained enough of her Polaroid self to refuse to give in to either his pleading or her own. There were kisses, there were touches, there were gasps and mews – but there were limits. She anticipated a next time with this man, this big strong stallion of a specimen who was as fired up as she, who was as stricken, who would, she sensed, loom large in her life.

Finally they dozed, entwined. The room solidified in the cold light of early day. Sim yawned, a big leonine roar that drew cords in his neck and was at odds with the remains of his diva make-up.

‘Sounds like the party’s still going.’

Music drifted from the sitting room. A handful of people debated drunkenly in the kitchen. Somebody somewhere was crying uninhibitedly.

‘They’re maniacs,’ said Orla fondly. She was
fond of everybody this morning.

‘Look. I’d better shoot off.’ Sim leaned on one elbow and looked down at her. Even sleepy and hungover, his eyes were like laser beams. Orla felt naked. ‘I’ve got this,’ he said, pointing at the scribble on his arm.

‘Bye then.’ Orla felt shy.

Sim didn’t. He kissed her a last time, hard and fast. ‘Bye, Fairy.’

Orla knew he’d ring. She promised herself that when he did, she wouldn’t be coy. This was big, and she must embrace it honestly. She fell asleep to the lullaby of house music and that insistent sobbing.

‘I said, is that it?’

‘Oh. Sorry. Yes. There you go. Oh, hang on. That’s a euro.’

Tears welled in her eyes, the coin bounced to the floor.

‘I, sorry, I’ll leave it.’ Orla pushed past the resentful queue, out onto a road she didn’t know.

‘Oh Sim,’ she said.

Sim’s journal

14 February 2009

Fluffed my first line. Stage manager cocked up Act II props. Again. Frosty audience, had to work double hard to seduce them.

Speaking of seduction – party afterwards at some beardy guy’s place and met the most gorgeous creature. I mean, really fucking off the scale fabulous. Mane of hair like a cavewoman.

Elusive, though, led me a right merry dance through the party.

Got bored of pursuit, went off-piste, and found myself in a clinch with a little sweetie. Lovely kisser. Fell asleep together in her titchy bedroom.

And whaddyaknow? Cavewoman was still there in the morning. Boohooing over some cad. I drove her home, showered, and we had a private party à deux.

Chapter Six

4 July 2012

17.14

From: [email protected]

To: [email protected]

Subject: Two things

1. Himself has
been promoted. Cue cheers, cannons firing, glitter confetti etc etc. This means more money, bigger car, second baby (so he thinks – good luck with that one, boyo) and EVEN LONGER HOURS. So, my bestie is in London and my other half is in the office. Honest to God, some days the most intelligent conversation I have is an earnest discussion with Jack about whether Superman has a willy.

2. What are your summer school students like? Any hot eighteen-year-old Latin studs you can have a little rebound fun with while you teach them English? Ooh, I can hear the storm of tutting from here.

3. (Yes, I lied, sue me, there are three things not two.) HAVE YOU TORN UP THAT SPOOKY VALENTINE YET? You’ll be guessing I’m after a ‘yes’ on that one.

Right. I’m off. To the park. Or the fucking park, as I like to call it. AGAIN.

Miss you.

But don’t you dare come home.

J xxxxx

Orla felt the heat
on her bare arms, clingy as a new lover. Propelled by snatches of music from the cars stalled nose to tail along her route, she strode jauntily like a catwalk model.

‘I love you!’

Orla wheeled at the shout and rewarded the grinning black teenager in a Renault Clio with a look that was all shock but probably translated as toughness.

‘Sorry babes! Don’t shoot!’ He held his hands up.

Orla walked on, strut cancelled, mortified.

‘Evening Sheraz.’ The familiar flat bang of the bell over the mini-mart door brought the shopkeeper up from beneath his counter. ‘Just a bottle of milk tonight.’ With one hip Orla slammed the chiller shut, mentally pixellating the sell by dates on the scotch eggs.

‘Why semi-skimmed, silly girl?’ For Sheraz it was all one word,
silligirl
. ‘Buy the full fat. Put some meat on your bones.’

‘Pay you Friday?’

‘Pay me Friday. Here, missy.’ Sheraz was peremptory. Months of selling Orla her semi-skimmed milk gives a man certain rights. ‘Take this for Maude.’ He held out a pair of pop socks in cellophane, bright purple and covered in dust. ‘Last packet. Nobody will bloody buy. And they will suit Maude.’

‘Ooh, thank you. They’re just her thing.’ Orla took the pop socks. ‘Is her order ready?’ Maude
eschewed the BOGOF bait of the supermarkets to give Sheraz her custom.

‘Yes. I’ll drop it in later.’

‘I can take it.’ Orla held out her hands.

‘No.’ Sheraz looked injured. ‘I deliver.
He
can watch shop.’ He flicked a thumb in the direction of his son, an elongated male of indeterminate age who never spoke, never smiled and loped up and down the aisles of his father’s fiefdom day in, day out. ‘New hair?’ Sheraz queried.

‘Yes. D’you like it?’

‘No.’

‘Thanks.
You
look stunning, by the way.’

‘Get out, silligirl.’

The phone hopped up and down inside her bag. Orla paused on the pavement to scrabble for it.

‘Orla Cassidy? Please hold. I have Reece Dodds for you.’

‘Orla? Hi sweetheart.’

‘Reece, howaya?’

‘Are you in the street? Or are there roadworks in your bedroom?’

‘I’m just outside my flat. The delightful music of London is what you hear.’

‘Come on, Orla. There’s something about this town you like. You’re still here.’

‘True.’

Time had still not recovered its equilibrium. It dragged its heels, only to break into a sudden sprint, or appear to loop back on itself, but its most impressive trick by far was to turn Orla’s ‘couple of days’ in London into a staggering five months.

She’d never been a foreigner
before and to Orla’s surprise she relished it. London – flawed, grubby, relentless, just as she’d prophesied – had turned out to be an easy date. She owned the street just the same as the next incomer.

It brought her closer to Sim, walking the same route to the tube he’d walked, waking up in his bed, hearing the ping of his microwave. Like him, she had fallen hook line and sinker for London and at some point – though she couldn’t pinpoint when – she had decided to stay.

‘How, you know, how
are
you, Orla? Really?’

‘I’m doing better, Reece. And you’re very kind to ask.’

‘No. I’m a git. I owe you a dinner. I’m neglecting you.’

‘
Whisht
. You spoil me! How are
you
? I know you feel it too.’

‘I’m busy. Which is good. Weirdly, though, at the moment I’m busy with our boy. You know
Courtesan
starts in October, don’t you?’

‘Yup.’

‘Listen. Dinner must happen. What are you to up to a week from today?’

‘Hold on while I consult my PA.’

‘Very funny.’

‘
Hey Emma Posh-Totty! Am I free to dine with a top London agent next Thursday?
She reckons we’re good to go, although she’s not the sharpest knife in the box. Inbred, doncha know.’

‘I think I know her.’

‘By which you mean you think you slept with her.’

‘By which I mean I think I slept with her. Will my club do?’

‘Reece, your club will do
.
’

Snapping her phone shut, Orla squinted at her reflection in the plate glass of Maude’s Books. Sheraz was a peerless mini-mart proprietor but
he was no stylist: the fringe was a triumph. Sim had been right when he’d nagged her to cut one in all those times.

Beyond the glass, Maude stood on a decaying tapestry footstool, reaching for a book on a high shelf. Her cotton wool bun wobbled in its customary half-collapse.

Not a customer in sight. The sums didn’t add up. Maude’s Books’ clientele, although devoted, was tiny. It ran on enthusiasm and its proprietor’s deep pockets. Catching Maude’s eye, Orla executed a quick mime she hoped would translate as
see you upstairs later
.

Even with all the windows open, the flat was torpid. With the velvet curtains, the fringed sofa and the conga line of ornaments, Orla could fancy herself madam of a New Orleans brothel were it not for the incessant squawk of the crossing signal and the wheeze of slowing buses.

She switched the radio on. Sim’s death had made silence intolerable; Orla’s life had a constant soundtrack now, be it radio or television or iPod. Unwelcome thoughts barged nearer in the quiet.

‘Hello sweetheart.’ Orla picked up the valentine on her way to the fridge to deposit the milk. ‘Miss me?’

The valentine was showing its age. It had lived a little since February. It had been cried over, stuffed in handbags, taken out again, screamed at in the darkest dip of the night. Now it was resting by a vase of roses the colour of dried blood, sent by Reece.

‘Work was so-so, thanks for asking,’ Orla called over her shoulder as she fixed herself a baguette of leftovers. ‘Gan disrupted the class
again but I dealt with him.’ Orla recoiled from the mouldy polka dots in her mayonnaise. ‘We were so worried about taking this summer school job, weren’t we? Remember me saying I couldn’t handle adult students? Well,’ she paused, knife in mid-air, ‘I
say
adult, but they’re late teens which is still a kid in my book. Anyhoo, they’re no different really to Year Two back home. Bigger, granted, but all the same gripes and excuses and tics.’

Banging the fridge’s tiny door, she muttered, ‘Remind me to get that seal fixed,’ before collapsing onto the sofa with a grateful sigh to wind down from the sweaty tube journey home. Orla had baulked at the tube when she’d first arrived. It had seemed incredible that anybody would choose to stand on a crowded, reeking platform waiting for a train that screamed in like a dragon. Now she barely noticed the smell or the noise or the fact that she was pressed hard against five people she hadn’t been introduced to. The tube was simply the most efficient way of travelling to the repurposed Victorian primary school in Hammersmith where she taught overseas adults to speak English like a native – better than a native, in a few cases.

Orla had allowed Maude to bully her into taking the job.

‘I am starting to disbelieve your
one more day then I’m off
routine,’ Maude had said, handing Orla the small ads. ‘Your students would be immigrants too. You’ll have plenty in common.’

Orla had prevaricated.

Maude had made noises about rent.

Orla had capitulated.

It turned out that helping privileged teens from China, Russia and Europe vault the
language barrier was satisfying, but Orla wasn’t just a stranger in town, she was a stranger to contentment, to the everyday fulfilment of ordinary life.

There had been progress. Her emotions were warming up. She could laugh at jokes. She rediscovered a pleasure in small things – the softness of a new towel, the green smell of chopped chives. Maude noted each trifling improvement and celebrated them as ‘another step on the road to recovery’. Orla couldn’t see it. Only the valentine truly understood.

‘It’s like a funky United Nations in my classroom. All chinos and great hair.’ Orla swivelled round to get a better view of the pink envelope. ‘That Italian fella is doing his level best to flirt with me. You’d laugh. I give him the full-on Cassidy freeze. Fair play to him, he doesn’t give up. Oh, and listen to this. The deputy head – you know, the one with the perm – at least, Jayzus, I
hope
it’s a perm – asked would I be interested in applying for a full-time post in September. I said I’d get back to her.’ She put her sandwich down. ‘What do
you
think?’

Sim’s journal

18 April 2009

Another terrible party. Halfway out of the door a girl caught my eye. Coal-black hair. She half turned and I thought HOLY SHIT (yup – capitals). It was the fairy. I tiptoed away backwards but she turned and looked straight at me.

Nothing.

Nada.

Not a flicker.

The old ego took a moment to reboot. I mean, we
kissed
. I’m good at that stuff. She turned away, calm, a little bored. She wasn’t half as cute as I remembered. I’d exaggerated the tilt of her nose, the Snow White-ness of her skin. And where was the mischievous half smile? I approached her, asked if she forgets all the men she snogs at parties.