Part Two

I don’t like Valentine’s Day. Why should I? Even my kid brother thinks it’s commercial, sappy and designed for the people who buy cards that say ‘My One and Only’ for three different girlfriends. Cynical? Maybe. Stupid? No. Just like a guy? Probably, but I’ll say this: I haven’t bought a single Valentine’s Day card for three years. Why should I, exactly? I have no one to give it to, no one to care. Except Cynthia, and if she thinks I’m buying her a Valentine’s Day card, she’s sadly mistaken. Just because I’ve bailed her out of jail a couple of times does not make us soulmates. Actually it makes me in debt.

Candy is good, but you get more at Halloween that Valentine’s. The roses, the diamonds, the rings, the kisses, and, by Venus, those stupid little conversation hearts you can get - the kind that can dissolve your heart - they all belong to my least favourite day of the year.

February 14^th is the day for Saint Valentine. Why is he a saint? Because there were two martyrs to the Christian faith. Valentine’s Day doesn’t even date back to then. It’s a fourteenth century day for lovers that probably just coincided with Saint Valentine’s Day. I hate Valentine’s Day. It’s cheap, crass, commercial and, above all, it’s for all the people in the world who believe love is for always. Self deluded idiots. I loved Belle, and she swore she loved me, and what do I find out? She leaves me on Valentine’s Day.

Oh, she turned up soon enough - no explanations, no nothing. I saw her at college, every single day, until the summer when she left. She was beautiful that year, her hair a gleaming gold that seemed to shine like the sun even when it was raining, but she said I was her friend, and that she wanted nothing more. She said, I swear to Venus herself she said this, accursed goddess that she is, that she wasn’t in love, and I’m not talking 10cc ‘I’m Not In Love’, I’m talking serious, ‘let’s just be friends’ not in love. She even dated Kevin for a while. She dumped him too, right before she moved away. I don’t know where she went. I don’t care. I’m glad she’s gone, because while she’s here, all I can think of is the message I wrote in her year book, the one I swore would be true to our dying day (stupid but true, I thought if she died first, I wouldn’t be able to live without her and would die the same day, and she’d be the same for me - since she’s been gone I’ve proved I can live without her). It was this silly little thing I’d heard in an old song, Neil Sedaka I think, that started with the rhyme ‘Roses Are Red, My Love’. Belle used to love it when I was romantic, so I went and wrote by my name:

‘Roses are red, my Love,

And violets are blue;

Sugar is sweet, my Love,

But not as sweet as you.’

Stupid but true. I used to be that sappy. I used to believe. Now all I believe in is cold, hard facts like ice cream is good on hot days, and fruit cakes are better with plenty of spice. I know what I believe now is by comparison a cynic’s view, but everything is different and nothing is as I thought it would be. Like Cynthia is the best friend I have anymore. Like Mimi and Kevin are expecting their next kid, but no one ever expected their marriage to last more than five years, and they’ve had three kids already. Like Chloe and Philip have fought their way apart and then back together so many times that they decided to get married to do it without inconveniencing everyone else. Like Brady’s moved away to be with Belle. Like my little brother is actually Isaac, and JT is no blood relation of mine at all, but my love for them is the one enduring thing in my life. Like Glen is dead, and Barb’s a stripper in Las Vegas working under the name of ‘Fifi Avenue’. Like I will be lonely to my dying day.

Now there’s a cheerful thought.

Oh, Venus, there goes Cynthia again. She’s trying to buy me a present to make me feel happier, without realising the one thing that would really make me happy about now would be to go home from this accursed mall and sit staring at the wall until this day is over and I can go back to thinking about Belle only once every thirty two minutes and not every thirty two seconds.

Cyn’s disappeared into this clothes store, Mme Camellia’s or something, and I keep hoping that she’s not about to buy lingerie to seduce me in, because it’s going to hurt her credit card only a little less than it’s going to hurt her pride when I say no to her.

I follow her in, shaking my head at the soppy music playing on the stereo system in the school. It changes then. Apparently someone has the same feelings about Valentine’s Day I have myself. Martha and the Vandellas are singing ‘Come and Get These Memories’ now, and though the tune is rather unfamiliar, I like the sentiment.

At least someone has the right idea on Valentine’s Day. This time of year is about heartbreak, getting your feelings killed by cruelty and crying moment secretly in your bedroom because you don’t understand what’s happened, but never letting her see you cry… Getting a little too personal, I think. The music’s cool anyway.

What am I doing in here again? Oh yeah, Cynthia’s shopping for, well, for those with minds more innocent than hers, very little material at a very high price. She had to spoil me for every other woman, didn’t she? (Thirty one that time. I nearly beat my record. I have the rest of my life to perfect this game. I might actually spend a whole day without thinking about her if I make it to ninety three. Now there’s something to look forward to - seventy one more years of misery.)

Cynthia gives out a little cry of surprise on the other side of the store, and I see her running from the lingerie section - I know that girl too well - to the children’s side. I can’t imagine who she’s seen, but stroll slowly over there to find out. Curiosity has got the better of me.

Venus. It’s her. I don’t believe it, but I am forced to concede the possibility that it is in fact the forever beauteous Isabella Black standing with Cynthia. She’s changed. Her hair’s shorter, her figure’s a little fuller and less girlish, her nails are neater too, less sharp and long, her clothes are very different to those she wore in college, but her hands are as full of shopping bags as they ever were after a trip to Ballistix.

Oh, yes, there’s also a two year old girl standing shyly gripping the fair Isabella’s hand, a perfect copy of her mother, down to the blonde curls, blue eyes and heartbreaking smile. Just kill me now. I don’t think I want to know. Venus save me…

"Are my wings straight?"

Sighing, the other stared at his companion’s back. "Perfectly, I assure you."

"Really? Cause they don’t feel too straight to me," the cupid reached backwards and fiddled with the white feathered wings.

"Bart, shut up and watch this," snapped the also winged Rolf. "They’re about to see each other."

"So is it spatula time yet?" Bart was grinning, reaching behind his back to the quiver of plastic spatulas, before Rolf’s hand stopped him.

"No, you idiot, it’s not. They haven’t even said ‘hello’ yet." Rolf was staring intently at the two of them, paying no heed to either the little blonde girl or the bouncing Cynthia.

"Come on, Rolfie, just let me hit her at least." Bart was pleading with his partner, desperate to throw just one kitchen utensil at Belle’s blonde head.

Rolf shook his head despondently, "No, I keep telling you Bart, we must first arrange for Shawn to forgive her, and then you can start throwing spatulas."

Bart was desperate, swatting the air with his favourite pink spatula. He had quite a good aim, if not perfect judgement when it came to whom he was supposed to be hitting. "Not even one? I think Cynthia might like Brady, and he’s standing right over there. We are meant to be spreading peace and love…"

"Fine," Rolf gave in, "you get him, and I’ll get her."

"Yay!" Bart shouted, and instantly threw his spatula straight at Brady’s heart, scoring a bull’s eye.

Exasperated with the other cupid, Rolf did the same to Cynthia, however deliberately not doing the happy dance Bart did afterwards.

"I can’t believe the Big Guy teamed me up with you," Rolf groaned as his companion wiggled his butt around the store and did the funky chicken as Brady and Cynthia caught each other’s eye, and started flirting.

"Aww, quit whinging."

"Stop the kid," Rolf pointed at the little blonde girl, "she’s about to screw everything up."

Their powers didn’t extend that far, though, and the new cupids were forced to watch as the child let go of her mother’s hand and walked slowly towards Shawn, a solemn look upon her face.

"Mary-Jade," Belle said in a warning voice, trying to snatch her daughter back, but it was too late, and little Mary-Jade took a firm hold on Shawn Douglas’s hand, dragging him down to her level.

"You very sweet," she lisped.

"That kid ain’t no screw up," Bart crowed gleefully. "She can do this job for us."

It had to be a kid, and not just any kid, a little blonde haired, blue eyed girl the spitting image of my Isabella at the age of two and a half. Hey, I’ve still got the sandbox photos from back then. Mom brings them out periodically to embarrass me, usually in front of Cyn, who just coos, or one of my many relations. Anyway, so this kid says to me, "You very sweet," and - get this - she lisps. If I had a heart anymore, it would have melted.

As it is, I say, "And you’re as pretty as your mother."

There’s a double edged compliment if I ever gave one. I glance up at Belle, and if I had a heart, it would be pounding loudly right about now.

It only gets worse. Then my old friend announces, cool as you like, "Nice to see you, Shawn. Mary-Jade, we have to be going." As if there is nothing else to say.

I stand up slowly, holding Belle’s gaze for as long as possible. "What, no kiss?"

Cynthia would have normally hit me for such a sentence, but I think she’s a little preoccupied with Brady. He hasn’t changed, I don’t think. A girl would probably notice a lot of subtle differences though. I know I see them in Belle. Not just the way she looks, but the way she holds herself, talks, moves. Oh, and of course, there’s the kid that’s gripping my fingers like a vice. I never knew a two year old could hold like that. Maybe I’ll get her to teach JT to wrestle. The kid’s got no arm.

"Shawn," she’s not even pleading or reproving. Cold, like I’m the one who screwed up all those years ago and the kid’s mine, not hers. I wish she was mine, that this was my life, for one brief instant, and then I remember that I don’t believe in love, so desiring this is like desiring a hole in your head.

"Belle." I can be cold too. I haven’t spent three years alone without being able to shut down my emotional responses to other people.

An eternity passes between us, and suddenly I realise that no matter what happens to me after this, nothing will mean anything unless I know why she disappeared that day three years ago, and why she came back, and why she left again, and came back again, and most of all, why she now has a little girl and no father in sight. I know my Belle would never have a one night stand, or go with a guy who was useless, unless you count me, apparently, and I suddenly wonder who the dad of the kid is after all.

Perhaps it’s a dumb idea - correction, it is a dumb idea - but I come straight out and ask her. "So, Belle, did you find your heart in some other sucker’s chest out there alongside your dignity, or was it just the kid that turned up since you left me?"

Oops, did I say that?