The next day was Valentine’s Day. Two years since I had shared Valentine’s Day with a man. I wasn’t maudlin but I did feel a bit lonely. I imagined Jane and Simon having a romantic dinner for two and then indulging in something equally romantic but much more energetic. But I was wrong.
Simon’s shifts had been changed when a colleague of his caught shingles. Simon had to work the evening/night shift and Jane would be on her own. A phone call later and I was in a taxi to share a bottle of wine.
After I’d sympathised with Jane, we enjoyed the romantic dinner she had cooked. There was some news I wanted to share with her but I knew it needed our full concentration, so it was best left until after we’d eaten. We started with deep fried brie and cranberry sauce, followed by a boeuf bourguignon (bought, Jane admitted) and we had heart shaped pears in red wine to finish. “So, what’s the news you’re dying to tell me?” Jane asked as soon as we’d finished and taken our places in the living room.
“I had two Valentine’s cards,” I said, uncertainly. Jane was pleased but surprised. I showed her the first card. It was expensive, with red hearts with what looked like diamonds round the edges. Of course, they weren’t real diamonds, but they sparkled in the light. Jane read the comment inside.
“Please forgive me. I really miss you. All my love, Crispin.”
“Bloody cheek,” Jane said, disgusted he had even contacted me.
“It hurt me, I can tell you,” I replied quietly, “and yet I felt pleased, for a while, at least. There is no way I’d ever go back to him, but it made me feel better to know that he did actually care about me. To think that he was hurt too. Does that make me bad?”
“Bad? I think you’re a saint. He was cheating on you while you were together; he wanted you to prostitute yourself to save himself some money. How could he have done that if he really did care about you?” Jane replied vehemently. “The best thing you can do is cut it up and throw it in the bin. Shall I do it for you?” I agreed and Jane fetched the scissors and performed the agreed action. “Now, what about the other card?”
“This is more puzzling. It isn’t an expensive card; quite ordinary really. There is no name, no comment just a question mark inside. The words look like they’ve been printed on a blank card. They don’t seem like a normal Valentine’s verse.” I showed it to Jane who read the words:
‘Roses are red but I feel so blue,
I lie in bed and think about you.
Think of the things that I’d like to do,
With someone who’s gorgeous, as gorgeous as you.
Each night and each morning, down on my knees
I pray for the chance, the chance I may please
The muse who entraps me; the one I adore
With kisses, caresses and much, so much more.
“Well, whoever sent it has the hots for you. And he fancies himself as a bit of a poet. Any ideas who could have sent it?” Jane laughed. I had no idea. We considered several men at work; none seemed likely. We even considered possible women, but there were none who had shown any lesbian tendencies. We were stumped. “I guess you’ll never know. I think it’s nice to have a secret admirer, though.”
“It’s unnerving. Every man I see, I’ll be wondering if it’s him.”
“Oh, come off it Rusty. Put it at the back of your mind, just like the other card. Whoever it is doesn’t feel they can show their feelings openly. Maybe he’s married. Or too old or too young for you. Or is ugly as sin. What was the writing on the envelope like?” There wasn’t any writing. The address had been printed on a sticky label. It was just addressed to ‘Rusty’. No surname. It gave no clue as to who might have sent it.
I decided Jane was right. I put further consideration as to who might have sent it out of my mind. We finished the bottle I’d brought and started on another. We spent the rest of the evening putting the world to rights. Eventually I decided it was time to leave. We both had work the next day. I would need to get some sleep if I was to do my job properly.
But sleep didn’t come easily. Although I had agreed with Jane to forget who might have sent the second card, my mind refused to accept my decision. Could it be someone’s idea of a joke? There was no one I could think of who would have written something like that, even as a joke. Then I remembered something. There had been a rep who had called about three weeks ago and who had asked me out. He wasn’t at all good looking, but he did keep making comments and saying ‘nudge, nudge, wink, wink.’ But if it was him, how did he have my home address. No, he couldn’t be the one.
What about the car salesman? I asked myself. I was embarrassed to remember the suggestions he’d made if I wanted to get a really good deal on my car. He would have my address on the purchase agreement. But that would have my proper name, not Rusty. It was possible that Jane had referred to me as Rusty but I couldn’t remember. I hadn’t been back to the garage since and that was almost twelve months ago. It was ridiculous to think he was the one.
I went over again all the men at work. It was unlikely any of them would know my home address. As when discussing it with Jane, I rejected them all as possibilities. Eventually, tiredness triumphed and I fell asleep.
I woke the next morning feeling groggy and with a crashing headache. I swallowed two paracetamol with my coffee and prayed the headache would go by the time I got to work.
I received another Valentine card the following year. It was an expensive card to ‘The One I Love’. This time it had been posted in Brighton. My name and address had been printed on a label that had been stuck on the envelope. Inside was another verse, again printed on a label and stuck inside. This time it was more intriguing and plaintive:
Another year without you; another year of pain
Another year of wishing you were here again.
Another year regretting the things I did so wrong
Another year? Forever! For you I’d wait that long.
From the words inside, it could only have come from two people: Jake or Crispin. Neither seemed likely at first, but who else could be regretting their actions? Both, certainly, had reason. I had no idea where Jake was now – he could well have been in Brighton – and I didn’t want to know. I soon dismissed him, though, on the basis he had never bought me an expensive card in his life and he had never shown any tendency to writing poetry. But Crispin?
Crispin travelled all over the place. He could even have told McTavish to drive to Brighton to post the card there to disguise the sender’s whereabouts. But then that seemed stupid. Whoever it was expected me to know who had sent it. They obviously wouldn’t employ subterfuge. But could Crispin really feel that way? The thought made me shudder. What he did was something I could never forgive. He had humiliated me, leaving me naked and alone with George. And his refusal to deny what George proposed was unforgiveable.
The style of the poetry was different to the previous year’s card but I started to wonder if it had also been written by Crispin. I could still remember most of the words. That they could have been written by Crispin now became a distinct possibility. The words could easily refer to our time together. The only puzzle was why had he sent two cards? Was the first one last year, unmistakably from Crispin, been a deliberate decoy to stop me suspecting the second was from him too?
I showed the card to Jane when next we met. She agreed Crispin was the most likely author. I was indignant about the cheek of him sending me the card.
“Doesn’t it boost your ego just a little, to know the effect you had on him?” Jane asked cocking her head to one side. I tried to deny it. “Come on, Rusty,” she continued. “No man has ever written a poem just for me. I’d be thrilled if someone did, no matter what the reason. And you’ve had two. You must have made a massive impression on him. Reluctantly I admitted that I did like having such an effect.