The Valentine's Card (13 page)

The movie was famously complex. When Orla slid the disc into the DVD player she’d thought she was in the mood for time shifts and dystopian futures but half an hour in and she wished she’d opted for something starring Jennifer Aniston and an animal.

On the adjacent armchair, Maude had given up all pretence of following the plot and was emitting dainty snores, her eye-lids shut and fluttering slightly as she dreamed old lady dreams.

Turning off the television, Orla fast-forwarded to Reece’s party. She’d agreed to go, she was going, but the scene playing out in her head
was terrifying: a glittering do worthy of Jay Gatsby, every bejewelled guest beautiful, coiffed and sneering at the newcomer with no conversation and a high-street frock.

With Sim, parties had been easy. That lighthouse charm of his drew people to him, while she’d stayed slightly behind, clasping his hand, feeling cool and safe in his shadow.

Mundane girliness of the sort that manifests as yabbering about hair and nails and Brazilians bored Orla, yet she was presently hostage to a shrill voice that squealed at her daily. It said,
What’ll I wear?
She missed Juno keenly: her friend had an eye for what worked, and could gently steer Orla away from the sudden enthusiasms that assailed her in Top Shop.

She thought that if she knew Anthea better, she could call her up and ask her advice. It would give the actress an opportunity to overcome her awkwardness about Sim’s death. Orla glanced at the curtains that shut out Sim’s coquettish smile. She stood and pulled them apart, unable to wreak even this petty disloyalty. ‘Why can’t you be my plus one?’ she asked him, and promptly tumbled down a rabbit hole of memory.

He would always pick up on the third ring.

Orla’s own voice, sugary with sleep. ‘Ah, sweetie, there you are at last!’ After several unanswered calls, this one from deep beneath her duvet would have been her last attempt before giving in to sleep.

‘Yup.’ Sim was tired, and taut. ‘Here I am.’ There’d been an abrupt noise, like a door banging shut.

‘You just getting in?’

‘Yup.’

Laughably wide of the mark, she’d imagined his London flat all teal and taupe, with lacquered surfaces and the purr of central heating. ‘Are you worn out, poor thing?’

‘Very.’ A strained grunt told Orla he was tugging off his shoes. Trainers, probably.

‘Put your dressing gown on. That’s why I bought it. So you’d be cosy when you were tired and far from home.’

A loud yawn, like a lion after a three-course meal, had forced Orla to hold the mobile away from
her ear. ‘You
are
tired!’

‘Sorry, Fairy. You calling to say goodnight? Too knackered for cybersex tonight, naughty knickers.’

‘Darn it. Never mind.’

‘Nothing to eat in this bloody kitchen,’ grumbled Sim over the thud thud thud of cupboard doors opening and slamming.

‘It’s too late to get in,’ sympathised Orla, switching off her bedside light, relishing his voice in the dark. ‘How come they kept you so late?’

‘Oh no you don’t. No no no.’

Confused, Orla assumed Sim was talking to somebody else. But no, he was addressing her and his voice didn’t sound tired any more.

‘Don’t start, Orla.’

‘Eh?’ She laughed uncertainly. She could tell he was serious. ‘Start what?’ She wasn’t riled. She was too puzzled to be riled.

‘I know that tone.
How come they kept you so late?’
His impersonation was high pitched.

‘I don’t sound like that.’ Orla clung on to her good humour. ‘Look, sweetheart, you’re worn out. Let’s say goodnight and—’

‘No way.’ Sim was fired up, as if they were already deep in a bitter altercation. ‘We sort this out here and now.’

‘Sort
what
out?’ All ambrosial snooziness
dissolved, Orla sat up.

‘You know how long I’ve worked for this, waited for it. This is my big break.’

‘Yes. Absolutely. We agree. So far so good. Now could you tell me what the feck we’re arguing about?’

‘We’re arguing about the fact that I do
not
need to hear that bloody tone in your voice.’

They were getting somewhere. Kind of.

‘What tone?’ Orla switched the lamp back on; this was shaping up to be a long one.

‘You know.’ Sim was rudely impatient. ‘The sarcastic one. Suspicious. Like you’re laying traps to catch me out.’

‘There was no tone. I asked why you were late. I was being
sympathetic
.’ Orla slapped the bedclothes for emphasis.

‘I know you better than that. I haven’t forgotten the face you pulled when I told you who was playing the female lead.’

Opening her mouth to protest, Orla clamped it shut again. He was right about that. She turned her horse and trotted down from the moral high ground. ‘Well, in my defence, Anthea whatsername has a bit of a reputation. And it was just a face. It was a joke, really. Remember jokes?’

‘I bet you skimmed the script to see if I had a sex scene with her.’

Orla’s conscience – diligent, puritanical little pest that it was – wouldn’t let her say
Ha! That’s where you’re wrong!

‘Most women would do that.’

‘I don’t go out with most women.’

There was a pause. Orla willed herself to hold back, not to share with him how hard it was to read stage directions for her boyfriend and a famous
femme fatale
to lie naked together on a fur rug.

The heat had burned itself out when
Sim spoke again. ‘I’m pining, Orla,’ he said. ‘I’m far from home. And I miss my fairy.’ He sighed. There was a squeak as he sank on to the bed. ‘Plus I’m a prat, which doesn’t help.’

‘I’m pining too.’ Orla welcomed the ceasefire. ‘So much. But while we’re on the subject …’ Time to risk a joke? ‘Why
were
you so late, you filthy philanderer?’

Sim laughed wearily.

‘Seriously, though, O, I
have
picked up on something when you ask about Ant. As if you suspect something’s going on.’

‘Rubbish.’ Orla was vehement: this was not a fair cop. ‘I know how bad you are, and I know how bad you aren’t. I have nothing to fear from Anthea.’

‘We have to nip this in the bud.’

He wasn’t listening. ‘But I told you—’

‘No. Hear me out. When I make the leap to movies, and that’s soon now, I’ll be acting alongside world-famous sexy women. It comes with the territory. We can’t have this kind of row every time I get my kecks off on camera.’

Useless now to point out that ‘this kind of row’ was entirely of his own making.

‘Orla, you’re either with me or against me.’

‘Can you hear yourself? You’re an actor, not a rebel leader rallying the troops.’ The silence scared her. ‘Say something!’ she bleated eventually.

‘Are we cool? Can I get on with my job without worrying about you?’

This was, apparently, all about her. Orla swallowed. This dish could be served later, cold.

‘We’re cool, darling.’

The dish was never served
.

Some west London wag had drawn a moustache under Sim’s nose.

Chapter Eleven

Orla took in Bogna’s laddered black tights and denim short-shorts.

‘Aren’t you cold?’

‘Yes.’ Bogna looked down at her legs, turned an ankle. ‘But is worth it to be gorgeous.’

Bogna
was
gorgeous, in a hard-edged, flick-knife way that found expression in her Doc
Martens and her eyeliner. ‘We need women like you,’ Orla told the sullen teen, ‘to balance out the WAGs.’

‘What’s a WAG?’ Maude looked up from where she knelt by the cookery corner.

Bogna explained. ‘Silicone boobies, hair extensions, stripper shoes and rich boyfriend.’

‘I believe my learned friend has covered the basics,’ said Orla.

‘Sounds ghastly,’ said Maude with feeling, pressing a hand on one wobbling knee to raise herself.

Putting down her book, Orla rushed to Maude’s side but was beaten to it by Bogna, who helped her to her feet.

‘Thank you, dear.’ Maude smiled sweetly at her newest, most unlikely slave. ‘Gather up that pile of food titles, will you? Arrange them in the window. You’re so good at that. Try and tempt all the huddled masses hurrying by in this horrid rainstorm to come in and plan a hearty meal for their poor little selves.’ She turned to Orla. ‘How’s Abena? Any progress with her visa woes?’

Typical of her to remember the name. ‘Not really. The UK Border Agency is slow, and the process is very complicated. She’s working so hard in my class, not knowing if she’ll still be here at Christmas. I’ll keep you posted.’

‘Do.’ Maude put a hand on Orla’s arm for a moment, then was off
again, rearranging, titivating, stroking a book here and there as if they were pets.

‘Bogna,’ asked Orla tentatively as Bogna slammed down a Delia. ‘Is bright blue still “in”?’

‘In?’ Bogna sounded contemptuous.

Oh Jaysus, I don’t even know the trendy word for ‘trendy’.

‘I mean, um, fashionable?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Now Bogna sounded amused, which was far worse than contemptuous.

‘I’m going to a party and I need a new dress and that electric blue colour was all over the place a while ago and so …’

‘Black,’ said Bogna emphatically. ‘Black. Short. Big hair.’ She shrugged. ‘Always.’

‘Hmm.’ There would no doubt be plenty of black at the party, much of it Armani. ‘Maude …’

‘Yes?’ Maude gave her her full attention, face angled like a flower leaning towards the sun.

‘Would you pop round the corner with me later?’

‘Why?’ Maude looked suspicious; the flower drooped a little.

‘To check out a blue dress in a shop that I pass on the way to the tube. It’s sort of like this,’ Orla drew a line across her pectorals, ‘and down to here.’ She tapped her thigh above her knee. ‘I want to try it on, but there’s nobody I can trust for an opinion.’

‘I’m ancient, dear. My opinion is no use to you.’ Maude pressed a button on the till and a drawer shot out. She peered into it, and sighed.

‘You’re not ancient, you’re ageless. And you have style.’

The elders in Tobercree favoured manmade fabrics and elasticated waists but there was something poetic about Maude’s outfits.

‘I’m not the right person to
ask. Bogna will help.’

‘I don’t have time,’ said Bogna hurriedly, positioning a wooden spoon in the window display.

‘I don’t have anybody else to ask,’ said Orla. In a world where even the village idiot has a hundred Facebook friends, this felt a shameful thing to admit. ‘It’s two minutes’ walk, tops.’ She shadowed Maude as she crossed the shop. ‘Please?’

‘No!’ Maude wheeled and they almost bumped noses. ‘If you like the dress, buy it. If you don’t, don’t.’ Speeding towards the back room, she threw a belated ‘dear’ over her shoulder, too late to soften the impact of her tone.

‘Who blew raspberry up her fanny?’ asked Bogna.

‘Bogna, that’s not a real expression.’

‘Is now,’ said Bogna.

‘
It
is now.’

‘Exactly.’

Today should be
my
turn to have raspberry up
my
fanny,
thought Orla, borrowing Bogna’s sulkiness. Nobody had grasped the significance of the date.

When Maude returned, her habitual good humour had been restored. She made tea for everybody and read aloud from T. S. Eliot and Tina Fey, one of her ‘Keep Out’ signs hammered firmly over the incident.

Upstairs, alone, Orla lay on the sofa, her mind a blank, curtains drawn against the giant Sim. A knock on her door brought her upright, as if hinged
at the waist.

‘Come in!’ she shouted, then jumped to her feet as Marek entered.

‘Oh,’ she said, curling her stockinged toes. ‘I assumed it was … I didn’t hear the front door.’

‘I came to the shop,’ explained Marek. He stood at the threshold, unsure of his welcome. ‘Maude said to come up, but if you are …’

‘Nope. I’m not.’ Orla shrugged, aware that she was being a bit bristly and rude but unable to help it. He was so tall and his clothes were so dark. Marek was a big male slab in her chintzy bower.

‘I want you to come to dinner tonight,’ said Marek, adding, ‘with me.’

‘Really?’ Orla wondered why the poor man bothered. She was dull. She was heartbroken. All her manners had atrophied. Couldn’t he see she was of no earthly use to him?

‘Really.’ When Marek was amused, two flat dimples puckered his cheeks.

‘Well then. Yes.’ Dragging up some grace from somewhere, Orla threw him a ‘Thanks, that’ll be nice.’

It would get her through the evening, jostle her past the dread hour.

‘Good.’ Marek backed out of the door.

‘On one condition,’ Orla hastened.

He looked at her questioningly, patiently, like a dutiful father visiting a child in a Wendy house.

‘This isn’t … romantic, OK? It can’t be a date. Because I’m not dateable, Marek. I know what you said, and it was lovely, and I’m flattered, but I’m not the real deal. I’m not all there any more. I’m not worth the effort. This isn’t, by the way, a plea for a compliment. I really am not worth
the effort.’

‘It’s dinner. Two people. A table. Some food. Dates, anyway, are what Bogna has with those spotty sods who turn up for her. But we’ll be just a man taking a woman to dinner.’ He bowed his head, double-checking. ‘That’s acceptable to you?’

‘Absolutely.’

‘I’ll come back at eight, in a cab.’

‘You’re picking me up?’

‘Of course.’ Marek was surprised by her surprise. ‘That’s too early?’

‘That’s perfect.’ By 9 p.m., when people all over the country were settling down to watch the first episode of
The Courtesan
, Orla would be eating restaurant food and negotiating silences with Marek.

There were no silences. Little about the evening panned out the way Orla expected.

The restaurant was sleek, hushed, with heavy cutlery and unimpeachably white linens. A contrast to the café, and a contrast to Orla’s comfortable cords.

In black again, Marek fitted in nicely. His looks were democratic, altering to his surroundings. Tonight the dark swoop of hair was glamorous, the long slender nose reminiscent of Nureyev. Orla noticed for the first time how full his lower lip was, how it pouted in repose. Perhaps he caught her staring; he smiled, and was an eleven-year-old. ‘Wine?’