Snow on Valentine’s Day: A Love…Maybe Valentine eShort. Ella Harper

       Snow on Valentine’s Day

      ‘Roses!’ squeals Tina. ‘Look, Clara! Look what my boyfriend sent me!’

      I look up from my computer and give the flowers my full attention. ‘Lovely,’ I say. I wasn’t lying; they are indeed lovely. They are what my mother might call the ‘queens of roses’. Deep red with velvety petals unfurling lushly against dark green foliage and a froth of ribbon and cellophane. The kind a non-receiver might wax cynical about, but for the girl who is clutching an armful of them, there might not be a better present in the world on Valentine’s Day.

      Well. I must correct myself there. I know of one present I would rather have, but it’s a little late for that.

      ‘No, but really … look at them!’ Tina thrusts the flowers right under my nose until I am forced to inhale their gorgeous fragrance. ‘Two. Dozen. Red. Roses. Not one dozen – two. Imagine how much they cost!’

      ‘Well, quite,’ I agree. ‘An arm and a leg. And far better than a teddy bear.’

      ‘Oh I wanted a teddy as well,’ Tina pouted. ‘I’m a bit gutted, if I’m honest. Not to worry. I bought him one instead!’ Putting the enormous arrangement of roses down, she tugged the shoulder of her top down to reveal a bright red silky strap.

      ‘Very cheeky,’ I smile, my eyes flitting back to my computer screen.

      ‘Aah, I suppose you don’t really do Valentine’s Day anymore, do you?’ Tina says sympathetically.

      My fingers pause on my keyboard as I consider this. I suppose by normal standards, I probably don’t do Valentine’s Day. I no longer buy cards with slushy messages and a hint of sarcasm. I don’t book dinner in an expensive restaurant two months in advance to ensure a romantic, private table in the corner. And I certainly don’t prance around in Ann Summers’ best satin for one day in chilly February. But in my own way, I do ‘do’ Valentine’s Day. I have a date in Piccadilly Circus later on, as a matter of fact. I just don’t choose to talk about it. I’m not sure anyone would actually understand and, to be fair, it probably is slightly bonkers. But it’s a tradition. Of sorts.

      The rest of the day in the office passes uneventfully enough. Shrieks of delight as more flowers, champagne and the odd teddy bear arrive at various times. Tina is properly beaming by 4 p.m., bless her; and rather uncharacteristically, her joy almost reduces me to tears. The day is even getting to jaded old me.

      I watch women clutching their romantic prizes self-consciously like great big love badges as they dash off to the toilets to do their hair and make-up before leaving early for whatever they have scheduled for the evening. I’m not bitter about that; I’m sure I used to do the same. Well. I’m not convinced anyone ever witnessed me leaving the office with a cuddly toy tucked in my handbag, but I certainly used to rush through my work as quickly as possible on this day. And I definitely used to throw in a pit-stop in the Ladies’ pre-finish time to tart myself up.

      I start packing up my things. Valentine’s Day. In most cases, wonderful for the attached. And in some cases, tragic for the single. A timely and sweet reminder to those who are part of a couple that love is something worth celebrating. A poignant and sometimes heart-breaking reminder to those who are single that love is a bit beautiful and sought after and what most of us really want.

      I read once that in some parts of Europe, Saint Valentine’s keys are given to lovers as a romantic symbol. An invitation to unlock the giver’s heart. I always thought that was quite splendid. What could be more achingly romantic than unlocking someone’s heart, or more to the point, having one’s heart unlocked?

      Oh dear. A tear splashes down onto my keyboard. That will never do. I fervently hope it doesn’t cause a short circuit situation. It’s bad enough that the ‘t’ key has been missing for a month. I pull myself together. It’s just one day. Or more accurately, one day when all of the feelings I deal with every other day come more sharply into focus.

      The clock on the wall clicks onto 5.30 p.m. and there is a final flurry of activity as the remaining women gather up their teddy bears, their gorgeous flowers and their beribboned bottles of champagne, and skip off to meet their beaus, happy to be part of the Valentine’s gang. Never more grateful than on this one day to be part of a couple, however (in some cases), dysfunctional behind closed doors.

      Only one girl holds back, the newest girl in the office. A girl whose boyfriend dumped her just a week earlier. A week before Valentine’s Day. Harsh, that, in my opinion. Inconsiderate, for sure. Tight-fisted, perhaps? Either way, we’ve all told her repeatedly that he’s a heartless tool who doesn’t deserve her and that she could do far, far better than an idiot who opted out before the padded cards and cuddly toy moment. None of us really know if the