A St. Valentine’s Day Unravelling
The flatmate, an amiable butter-churn, peered through the gap in the door from her cushiony quarters. “You don’t get many love letters, do you?”
“They’re all trying to make me worry. Confident men think they know female psychology. Oh look, a fish bone for the cat… and another one for me. Munchy.”
“You should eat the meat sometimes. You’re supposed to eat the meat.”
“I’m not over-stepping my ethical boundaries.”
There she goes, the big eyes and nose are swivelling and she’s looking out of the window now, at someone standing at the curb, stiffening their resolve and about to step off toward our house, if a lorry doesn’t squash him. A bit of a lame duck, that one.
“He’s coming over. I’ll pretend I haven’t seen him. Quick! The loft. Help me with the ladder.”
“He’ll want to look in the loft. They usually do, when they start to learn your hiding places. It’s like opossums.”
“Are you comparing me to an opossum or them?” trying not to take the stairs on all fours here.
“There is that fish bone thing and there’s also something around the pinch of your face. I’m not suggesting they don’t think you’re cute but, be honest, do you ever kiss someone and they start bleeding? Maybe you should consider one of those gum shields they use for the rugby? It’s only the stiletto gob that holds you back. Compared to you I’m not claiming to be an oil painting.”
“I don’t know. After you’ve scraped off a century of grease and grime there might be something unfashionable worth looking at underneath.”
“I’m ignoring you now because we’ll just get into an argument and I’ll win again, which gets boring after a while. Look! Is that Taffy? Don’t you like that one?”
“He’s a great man. He told me so himself. Help me get the ladder down. This is so dangerous now it slides out at a hundred miles an hour. Can you see any skylight that isn’t painted shut? I think I can make it out on the tiles — hey, who put all this insulation up here?”
“The landlord, I think. What if Taffy sees you up there?”
“Ideally, distract him. If he sees me, tell him the cat’s neurotic and I have to talk it down. I’m not the maladjusted one, Nelson is. Got it?”
“Hmm. That doesn’t sound that likely.”
“Elaborate then. Make something up. Explain that our cat Nelson has to be made to think that I’m in charge of Her Majesty’s Dockyards, Portsmouth or he won’t give himself up into custody. He can’t be left up on the roof because of his eye — it’s super dangerous and he might fall off. Taffy wouldn’t want a damaged cat on his conscience.”
“Your plan relies on the cat being up there with you. The doorbell’s ringing, by the way.”
“True. It does that. Should have taken the batteries out. Be a hero and pass him up. Get the laundry bag rope around those legs to stop them wriggling. Can you turn the bag inside out and grab the little beast?”
“No, he’s got other ideas. Here liddle-witty-kitty. Gonna pass you to the nasty lady. Why are you hiding on Valentine’s Day anyway?”
“More than one.”
“Valentine’s Days?”
“No, you idiot. More than one, you know.”
“Bloke?”
“Blokes. Definitely added the extra s this year, what with the internet.”
“I haven’t had a boyfriend all year!”
“Do you have a secret, like a shadowy technique for getting rid of them that gets passed from mother to daughter down through the generations? That wouldn’t work though, logically.”
“No I haven’t. Are you still seeing that one who works at Fortnum’s?” Through the trap door now, a nod. “Is he turning up? He has your address.”
“Yep.”
“Presents? What about that Matthew with the stretch trousers who can’t get out of his car?”
“Probably.”
“For Pete’s sake. So you juggle them around online all year and then panic when they all want to see you at once on St. Valentine’s Day?”
“It’s a first world problem.” A slight pause “and hopefully Pete’s still in Stockholm.” The trap door of the loft closes and clicks. There’s an audible scrabble as bang, bang, paint cracks and the skylight opens. Slam, gone.
“A problem for you maybe, sat on the freezing cold roof all night. Better get comfortable is all I can say.” The butter churn practised her smile in the mirror, switched her nervous excitement on, off and on again for luck, then went to the door and hooked the first one in over the coconut matting.
