Valentine’s Day 2015, I was set up on a blind date with a man named Bertie – well as blind as things can be with social media.
Bertie looked just like his Facebook profile photo; baby curls and shiny cheeks. He wore, like his name suggested he would, a Ralph Lauren jumper. We ironically started at ‘The Famous Cock’ in Highbury and Islington, and from there crawled around from bar to bar, only to end up in an Italian restaurant surrounded by established couples.
I can’t remember much about Bertie, apart from that he had older sisters and worked in the TV industry. At one point he interrupted me mid-sentence and it bothered me greatly because when you’re 23 you have the luxury of being bothered by such minor things.
The date ended just before 1 am. He waited for my Uber to arrive before leaving, which I thought was a nice touch. He leaned in for a kiss, but I did my ninja dive and made it into a hug. I liked him, but he wasn’t the chap for me. We never spoke again.
Fast forward two years later and I had a real-life boyfriend. To celebrate our love on Valentine’s, he gifted me a packet of flour and a Snickers bar and gave me a card with Happy Birthday scribbled out and ‘Happy Valentine’s Day’ written over it.
To be fair to him, our relationship was built on the foundations of humour, however, he failed to realise in the early days of his manhood that Valentine’s Day is no laughing matter.
The next day I went into the office and slumped down at my desk. It had been partly invaded by a vase of roses that my smug colleague Rachel received the day before. The caffeine of my Starbucks hadn’t hit my bloodstream before Rachel asked the dreaded question over her huge bouquet.
“Sooooo, what did he do for Valentine’s?”
“Mmmm…What did Steven do for you?” I asked, knowing it was going to be excruciating to hear.
Rachel flicked her ponytail. ‘Oh, nothing big. These roses, of course, some diamond earrings, and then he took me to the top of The Shard, where we drank a bottle of Moet and shared a tasting menu. Like I said, nothing big.”
“I think I saw that Valentine’s Shard tasting menu on Groupon,” I said. I hadn’t.
Rachel shook her head violently. “No, it wasn’t Groupon.”
“Okay.” I smiled.
“What about you then? How did The Boy treat you?”
“Well, he knows me so well, that he got me a packet of flour and a Snickers bar. Flowers and chocolate, get it? HAHHAHAHAHAAAA.”
Rachel went red.
“If Steven dared to do something like that, I would make a fluffy cushion out of his leg hair WHILST HE’S STILL ALIVE!” She caught her breath, and then asked, “….What did you do??”
I responded in the same way that every disappointed woman does on the 15th of February… with a lie.
“It’s cool. The Boy and I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day.”
I’m not the only woman to have fibbed about the strength of her relationship in February. My mum for one had been in a similar predicament when dating my dad.
It was Valentine’s Day 1986; Julia was 23 working at Punch Magazine in West London. She had been dating Eric for a few months and had high expectations for their first Valentine’s together. He rang her desk phone that morning, saying he was going to pick her up in his new car. For the rest of the day, a besotted Julia boasted to her co-workers, about how her new boyfriend was going to whisk her away in his new car on a surprise date.
As soon as work ended, Julia reapplied her heavy purple eyeshadow and combed her Princess Diana pixie cut, then stood on the corner of Tudor Steet. Her colleagues past her on the way to The Punch Tavern pub.
“Julia, I’m sooooo jealous!”
“Can’t wait to hear about it tomorrow!”
Mum waved them off with a huge grin and then waited for Eric’s arrival. She waited….and waited… and waited. Twenty minutes went by. If only she could make her corded phone into a wireless one, then she would know where the hell her Valentine’s was.
Just as she was creating a break-up monologue in her head, a red Audi 80 Sport turned the corner, and Eric is in the driver’s seat, feeling like Roger Moore.
“Get in,” he said, then whipped off his Ray Bans. (Probably).
Julia jumped into the passenger seat. Eric revved the engine and drove away from Tudor Street. They drove around East London, and then to North and then to West…they seemed to be driving forever. After an hour the car had lost its novelty for Julia, and her stomach was beginning to rumble.
“So, are we going to a restaurant for Valentine’s Day?” she asked.
Eric glanced at his new girlfriend, and back at the road ahead.
“Valentine’s. Is that today?”
“…Mmhmm.”
“….”
“….”
“Well, that’s why I picked you up in a red car.” He laughed. “Happy Valentine’s Day.”
The next day Julia went back into the office and was instantly surrounded by her shoulder-padded colleagues, all eager to find out how Eric had romanced her.
Julia adjusted her pile of fax papers.
“The Boy and I don’t believe in Valentine’s Day…”
THE QUACK 