The Valentine's Card
Read The Valentine's Card Online
Authors: Juliet Ashton
Juliet Ashton is a bright new voice in commercial women’s fiction. She lives in London. Visit her website at:
www.julietashton.com
Published by Hachette Digital
ISBN: 978-0-7481-1949-3
All characters and events in this publication, other than those clearly in the public domain, are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.
Copyright © Just Grand Partnership 2013
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, without the prior permission in writing of the publisher.
Hachette Digital
Little, Brown Book Group
100 Victoria Embankment
London, EC4Y 0DY
Uncle Sam
This book is for you!
I have so much to thank people for. I want to thank Matthew and Niamh for not minding when I locked myself in my study. I want to thank Deirdre and Louise and Sara Jade and Penny and Jan and Andie and Kates both H and F for cheerleading/handholding. I want to thank Bogna Rasmussen for translating the Polish sections of the book. I want to thank Jen for babysitting the little one while I got on with my work. I want to thank Emma Beswetherick, Lucy Icke, Tamsyn Berryman and David Shelley of Little, Brown for guiding me safe home to port. And I want to thank YOU for buying this book, because, truly, without you there would be no point to all of this!
Contents
Sim’s journal
13 February 2012
I need a ‘Yes’ from you, darling! Gimme a loud heartfelt YES!
County Dublin
14 February 2012
7.18 a.m.
Thanks to her eerie
superpower for knowing the time the moment she awoke, Orla knew she only had a couple of minutes before the alarm clock let rip. She shut her eyes tight again, mutinously clinging to the night. The bedroom was dark, the world outside still moodily silent except for birds gossiping in the big bare tree outside her window.
Today was, what, a Tuesday? Orla groaned, eyes still closed. Tuesday meant P.E. Thirty-one seven-year-olds, hopping from foot to foot on arctic tarmac, red of nose and knee, whining,
Can we go back in yet, Miss Cassidy?
Orla wound herself tighter in the duvet, deep in denial. From the field at the back of the house a tractor burped and she smiled to herself.
Irish road rage
. She’d mention that to Sim later, when they Skyped. He’d laugh.
Decorative, easy-going, happy to flirt with the plain girls and fuss over the geriatric ladies, Sim laughed easily but Orla felt proud when she made him giggle. She knew the real thing when she heard it, meatier than the polite, diplomatic laugh he employed in his relentless one-man mission to charm the world. Orla loved Sim’s giggle. She missed it.
After years of scraping
by in Dublin’s theatrical circles, her boyfriend’s elusive ‘big break’ had finally materialised when he was cast as the dashing male lead in the BBC’s latest costume drama. Not only did the part fit Sim like a glove – he got to wear satin breeches and ride horses, breaking hearts with just his smile – but it also made him the envy of his peers. Orla had been overjoyed when she heard the news. With the Beeb’s mighty PR muscle behind it, it was a career-making role. She had jumped up and down, clapped and cheered and kissed him over and over – until she’d learned he would be moving to London for five months.
‘Come!’ It had seemed obvious to Sim. He never read the fine print of life.
‘My job,’ Orla had said. ‘My home. My family. And, oh yes, my
sanity
.’
She refused to be a spare part and, despite his histrionic pleading, she stood by her decision. Even a woman in love has to be pragmatic and Orla couldn’t deny there were advantages to Sim’s sabbatical. She didn’t miss the schlep to Dublin twice or thrice a week, and she certainly didn’t miss Sim’s grumbles about the M50 when he drove out to see her in Tobercree. With Sim in London, Orla could plan her evenings to please herself, watch reality TV without standing trial for it, wear the shapeless pyjamas he declared passion killers, and eat toast for dinner.
They were measly, though, these advantages, compared to all the things she missed. The rasp of his stubbly cheek. The beautiful crook of his long brown back in her crumpled sheets. The thwack of his hand on her bottom as he passed by. This last she always scowled at but secretly enjoyed, and enjoyed the faux lovers’ tiff that followed even more.
The alarm danced
on its bedside tower of books. Orla reached out a hand and hushed it, eyes still obstinately shut. A Canute in floral winceyette, Orla concentrated on holding back the day, stopping it from flooding in and ruining her nest. She wouldn’t shower, a saving of ten minutes or so. Coco Pops instead of a boiled egg scored her another five. That was fifteen embezzled minutes to spend dreaming of her upcoming trip.
Three whole days in London with Sim. She would ride a big red bus, visit Buckingham Palace and have a great deal of sex. It would be good, and it would be about time. Orla had underestimated the effects of separation on their relationship. They hadn’t seen each other since New Year … Orla hurriedly shooed away memories of that reunion, turning over onto her other side, only to encounter the cold sheets where, by rights, Sim should be.
She recoiled.
The doorbell rang, with the distinctive sing-song of the postman.
The phone rang.
Apparently the world was conspiring to drag Orla out of bed.
A thought, muddy and indistinct, took shape. There was something about today, wasn’t there? She lay still, lashes glued together, trusting her waking brain to sniff it out.
It was Saint Valentine’s Day. That cancelled out PE altogether.
Orla opened her eyes.
London
14 February 2012
6.05 a.m.
Never a morning
person, Sim had resented being wrenched from his warm, wide bed. The hard edges of the early morning street seemed specifically designed to assault his senses and he longed to rewind, shrug off his clothes and fold himself back in between the covers.
This promised to be a busy day but not the sort of busy day he relished – rehearsing or filming or being measured up for poncey costumes by pretty little things from wardrobe – but the sort of busy day he detested. A meeting with his accountant, a briefing from the PR guy and then a long important lunch with … oh, someone, Sim couldn’t recall who.
Was it normal, the way his thoughts slid away from him like this?
One thought, though, held fast. It was Valentine’s Day. Hence his early start. Today’s post would seal his fate, one way or another.
He put the confused, flu-like feeling down to his sleepless night, and yawned.
‘Ooh.’ Sim staggered. He felt nauseous.
Had he drunk more than he’d realised last night? No. It had been a restrained, civilised sort of evening. He even recalled writing his journal. Orla always rolled her eyes at him for keeping a journal. She claimed it was pretentious (a ‘self-aggrandising, luvvie cliché,’ as he recalled) but she was just peeved that he wouldn’t let her read it and she would eat her words when Hollywood wanted to use it for his memoirs. Anyway, Reece wouldn’t let him overindulge the night before a big day, that was practically part of an agent’s remit. There had been dinner at Reece’s club, just the one post-meal brandy, then home alone. He shouldn’t feel this rough, this … queer. The quaint Irish word fitted the bill perfectly. Sim was an imperfect fit for his own skin.
Limbs shaking, Sim
reminded himself of the long professional drought of his Dublin life, his fantasies of landing a high profile television role. Now that his dream had come true (trite but accurate) he mustn’t gripe. But giving himself a good talking to wasn’t the same as having Orla there to do it for him, with her particular, sexy tone of voice somewhere between disappointed and taking the mick.
This was no time to think of Orla. Today would pan out in one of two ways, and he had resolved to let it take its course without fretting.
Easier said than done.
The nausea passed, giving way to light-headedness. Stopping to lean against a lamp post, Sim blinked rapidly, ran a hand over his face and waited for the sensation to pass.
Tea. Orla always prescribed tea and she was right. It had magical properties that only the Irish appreciated. He’d ask for tea the second he arrived.
It was only when Sim tried to walk on that he realised he couldn’t. The bones in his legs had been replaced with jam. He hugged the lamp post. His scalp was drenched with sweat, yet he felt brutally cold. This was beyond just queer.
A busybody dustcart
trundled past and receded into the distance, its lonely roar ringing in Sim’s ears. He knew he couldn’t shout for help so didn’t try. With an almighty effort he took a step, then regretted it as his body rebelled and crumpled.
Reaching out his hands, Sim felt only air, nothing to break his fall. The last, strange noise he heard was the unique gargle startled out of him by the pain in his chest.
His cheek pressed into the pavement.
Sim closed his eyes.
Orla’s morning had
turned into a
horror movie. In slow motion she opened the front door, phone clamped to her ear. Orla stared at the postman the way a Victorian explorer might regard a rhino: he made no sense to her whatsoever. He had been delivering mail to her door ever since she was a child but today it was as if she didn’t recognise him. The world had shrunk to obliterate everything except the voice in her ear.
The postman held out a large, very pink, rectangular envelope. ‘Give you three guesses who this is from!’ God he was cheerful. She’d often envied his
joie de vivre
in the face of early morning starts and Celtic weather.
Orla took the card and read her name and address as if it were Sanskrit. ‘I’m sorry, Reece,’ she said into the receiver. ‘Could you repeat that?’
‘I said,’ the postman said, misunderstanding, ‘no doubt that’s a valentine’s card from your Sim!’
‘Sim,’ said the genteel voice from London, ‘died fifty-five minutes ago. There was nothing anyone could do. I’m so sorry.’
‘Open it!’ The postman’s voice was all twinkle. ‘Open it up and count the kisses! Ah! Young love!’
Orla slammed the door and backed down the hall to vomit on the kitchen lino. From the windowsill, next door’s cat glared down at her and walked away; no second breakfast from Orla this morning.
The pink
envelope fluttered to the ground.
You can’t sit on the floor forever
. The thought eventually impelled Orla up off the lino.
Orla looked around her. The world was lit differently. The mugs idling on the draining board, her ‘To Do’ list on the fridge, the chequered hillock of the tea towel discarded on the table, all dulled. It was as if some celestial being had flicked a switch and plunged Orla into a grey new reality.
She was at a complete loss.
Sim
. She said his name out loud, over and over, like an incantation. She picked up her phone to call him, then dashed it to the floor. She walked from room to room, rubbing one hand up and down the other arm as if seeking to erase herself altogether. Orla wheeled, changed direction, sat down, stood up. Her head shook with the effort of making it true.
So, if I call him he won’t answer? If I fly to London right this second there’ll be no Sim there? He’s gone?
Her Sim couldn’t be gone. He just couldn’t be.
She wanted to tear off her clothes, gouge holes in her chest. Surely this was a dream.
With relief, Orla realised that the bed still needed to be made. The bathroom still needed to be put right. Orla dragged the duvet off the floor, fussed with it, neatened it. She wiped the tiles in the shower carefully, chasing every last smear clean away.