Truly, Madly, Deeply. Romantic Novelist's Association

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СКАЧАТЬ how many computer literacy or yoga classes she fitted in, committees she sat on or hours she spent in the office, she could not fill that day. She found herself dwelling on the fact that every other woman in the United Kingdom was wearing silky lingerie under her new, fabulous dress, eating a delicious meal by candlelight and drinking vintage champagne while her husband or boyfriend serenaded her and threw red rose petals in her path. Jane told herself that it was actually, simply a materialistic, manufactured, almost grotesque commercial enterprise but the image of a more beautiful and romantic version of Valentine’s Day, largely manufactured by glossy, glorious magazines, always chewed its way into her consciousness and, secretly, she longed for it.

      Not that she’d ever admit such a thing. If there was one thing a single girl understood the importance of, it was saving face.

      ‘Well, count me out,’ declared Jane.

      ‘Have plans do you?’ asked Katie.

      Jane glared at her. ‘No one will come anyway. Don’t couples want time by themselves on Valentine’s Day? Isn’t that the point?’

      ‘I don’t just know couples.’ Actually, Katie’s friends were mostly couples but she thought they would rally when they heard her plan; all her friends were aware of Jane’s singledom.

      ‘Why would you want a bunch of drunks staggering around your house and throwing up in the cloakroom?’

      Katie laughed at Jane, obviously unwilling to be put off. ‘It won’t be like that. I’m going to have a romantic theme and ask everyone to wear pink.’

      ‘Even the men?’

      ‘I’ll serve salmon canapés and rosé cava.’

      ‘You’ll find it spilt on your new cream sofa.’

      Katie ignored her. ‘I’ll have a chocolate fountain.’

      ‘Chocolate is not pink, it’s not theme appropriate,’ pointed out Jane churlishly.

      ‘Don’t be such a spoilsport, Aunt Jane. A party is a marvelous idea. You might meet someone and find luuurvvve?’ Isobel, Katie’s eldest, interrupted the conversation. She had a habit of sneaking up on her aunt and mother when they were chatting. She’d found eavesdropping a tremendous source of information since she was an infant.

      ‘No, I won’t,’ said Jane. ‘I believe in “luuurvvve” less than I believe in Santa Claus or the Easter Bunny.’

      ‘Don’t let George hear you. He wavered in his belief this year.’

      ‘At least George is eight. Your mother told me Santa didn’t exist when I was three!’ The outrage in Jane’s voice was as crystal clear now as it had been back in 1979 when the truth was first revealed.

      Katie cringed inwardly. She’d only been seven when she blurted out her discovery that the man who filled the stockings was their dad and that the elves that produced the gifts didn’t exist, it was their mum who spent from November trailing the stores for treats. Katie had spent her life trying to make up for the faux pas that robbed her sister of her innocence. Sometimes, Katie worried that the early disillusionment was the reason behind Jane growing up to be such a pragmatist. She was so sensible, rational and logical which was, in Katie’s opinion, the real reason she’d never fallen in love. To do so, you had to give a little. In fact you had to give a lot. You had to trust, hope and lose control.

      Katie didn’t think that being married was the only way to find happiness, but it was the way she’d found happiness. She, Graham and their three children already had ‘it’. They were healthy, loved and loving. Between them they formed that enigmatic and enviable thing –a happy family. Of course, they squabbled, snapped and snipped at one another from time to time. There had been that very worrying period when Isobel became secretive and dated unsuitable boys. George was dyslexic, which had its challenges, and Sarah, the middle child, had started to cuss this year, repeatedly and ferociously, just to see if she got a reaction. But most of the time they were one another’s heart ease. Magic dust. Happiness. Call ‘it’ what you will.

      Katie wanted more of the same for her sister. Jane had the bigger home in the smarter part of town, a career, foreign holidays, a wardrobe to die for and Katie had a demanding family whose needs had long since drowned out her own desires. Unfashionably, she had no problem with that. She believed it to be the natural order of things. Her own mother had always made Katie and Jane a priority. Katie had suggested that her sister try blind dating once.

      ‘I don’t know anyone who knows anyone who’s single anymore! Who could fix me up?’

      ‘Well then, internet dating.’

      ‘I’m not in the market to meet psychos.’

      ‘Speed dating?’

      ‘I have to enter into enough high-pressure pitches at work, thank you. I don’t want that sort of nonsense intruding into my private life.’

      So Katie had decided to go back to basics. The good old-fashioned method of meeting people at parties.

      Katie made a huge effort with the party. She blew a silly amount of cash on rosé cava and she baked and cleaned for hours. She nearly passed out blowing up pink balloons and she decked the kitchen, living room and hall with enormous red crêpe paper hearts. She was very strict about the entrance policy. Not only did she insist that her guests wear red or pink, she also explained that, instead of having to bring a bottle, every couple had to bring a spare man.

      Her friends were surprised but after a little cajoling, they agreed to the stipulation. After all, it was Valentine’s Day, generally, most women are secret matchmakers and delighted in the possibility of being responsible for new love blossoming even if it did mean they had to sacrifice a romantic meal in the local restaurant.

      Finally, the big day arrived; Katie could not have been more excited. It was, as she’d expected, lovely to see her friends discard their coats, hats, scarves and gloves and melt in the warmth that her home oozed. But it was especially exciting to see the number of single men that had been brought along. She quickly assessed them, as though it was a beauty contest. At least two were especially handsome men, four had friendly smiles, the rest were passable. They probably had lovely personalities. Only one chap stuck out like a sore thumb. He was sitting on his own, drinking tap water instead of the frothy cava, he wasn’t wearing so much as a red tie or pair of socks, he was dressed in jeans and a grey jumper; he was not even faking an interest in the conversations around him, the only person he deigned to speak with was Isobel.

      Jane was late.

      ‘The invite said 7.30 p.m.,’ scolded Katie as she took her sister’s coat. She noticed that Jane had ignored the dress code too. She was wearing black as though she was at a funeral. Katie shoved her towards the kitchen, where the party –like all parties –was thriving. ‘Ta-dah.’

      ‘What?’

      ‘What’s different about this party?’ prompted Katie.

      Jane looked around the kitchen. It was heaving. There were a lot of men, which was a bit odd; normally at parties the women stayed in the kitchen and the men hung around the iPlayer.

      She hazarded a guess. ‘Decent food?’

      ‘Men!’

      ‘What?’

      ‘These СКАЧАТЬ