Copyright Oggbashan January 2015
The author asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
This is a work of fiction. The events described here are imaginary; the settings and characters are fictitious and are not intended to represent specific places or living persons.
*************************************************
I stood in front of the rack of Valentine's Day cards ignoring the giggling women either side of me. They were reading the comic ones. Their usual reaction seemed to be 'Yeuck!'. I could understand that. Each year the Valentine cards seemed to get more expensive, more over the top, and too many of them were aimed at existing partners. There were dozens for 'Boyfriend', 'Fiancée', 'Wife' etc.
How long was it since I bought a Valentine Card? I used to buy one every year for my wife Sarah. She sent one to me too. Sent. That was our problem. We both had demanding jobs that meant frequent travelling. I'd send one from New York or Tokyo and get one from Moscow or Berlin. If we had started a family? Our lives might have been different. We couldn't. Both of us had fertility problems and investigating the medical procedures had deterred us.
We had agreed to remain childless but after making that decision our marriage started to falter. Our house wasn't a home. It was the place we came back to from our travels, often alone because the other one was elsewhere. It was too large and too expensive for our infrequent stays.
Seven years ago Sarah and I had decided to separate, temporarily at first. It recognised what had already happened. We sold the house and bought two apartments. They were easier and cheaper to run. We still saw each other from time to time, as friends, not as the husband and wife we were in name only.
Four years ago we had divorced. We were still friends. There was still something between us that might be called love but the spark had gone. We hadn't made 'love' for a decade. We would hug, kiss, but no more than we would with other friends of the opposite sex.
I had worked it out. The last Valentine card I had bought was eight years ago. I had posted it to Sarah from Rio. When I arrived back in the UK her Valentine to me was waiting, posted from Rome. We didn't meet until early March.
Remembering the last time I had bought a Valentine's card didn't help me choose one from the rack in front of me. I walked out of the shop, wondering whether another shop could produce a better selection. I stopped for a coffee at an outlet with Wi-Fi. I checked my emails and deleted most, replying to a couple.
I switched off, leant back in the chair and tried to analyse why I hadn't chosen a card from the dozens on display. Was it that I was repelled by the cloying sentimentality, the cost, or the presentation?
As I sat down with a second coffee the answer was obvious. I was buying a Valentine card to send to Deborah. Yet I didn't know what she would like, what her tastes were, nor even whether she would like a Valentine card at all.
***
Sarah and I had been friends with Deborah and her husband Sam for years. We used to meet at local events such as Dinner dances and Wine and Wisdom evenings, often sharing a table. Whenever Sarah and I were both in our town we still went as a couple, despite our separation and divorce. Some people hadn't worked out that we were no longer husband and wife.
About three years ago we were at the Chamber of Commerce's annual Dinner Dance. Deborah had come with her brother Adam who was visiting from his home in the States. We knew that Deborah had finally divorced Sam a couple of months previously but not the details. This was the first time the three of us were at an event since the divorce.
Towards the end of the evening Adam was catching up with his old acquaintances from his home town. We were in a group of half a dozen at the other side of the room. Sarah noticed Deborah sitting alone.
"Terry," Sarah said, "go and ask Deb to join us. She looks sad."
"OK."
I walked across to Deborah. She smiled weakly as I approached.
"Hello, Deb," I said. "Like to join Sarah and me?"
Deborah pulled out a chair beside her table.
"I'd like to talk to you first, Terry. If you don't mind?"
"Of course not. Want a drink?"
"No thanks. Just a chat, please?"
I sat down.
"How do you do it?" Deborah asked.
"Do what?"
"Come with Sarah. You're divorced, and have been separated for years."
"We may be divorced," I said heavily, "and separated, but we are still friends. If either of us needs a partner for an evening like this, we are each other's first choice."
"But you're not in love, Terry?"
"No, Deborah. We have known and liked each other for years. We were in love when we married but our lives grew apart. We were living separate lives even before we split formally. I still like Sarah. She still likes me."
"And neither of you have found anyone else? What if Sarah did?"
"I'd be delighted for her. Perhaps a little protective, wanting to make sure he was right for her, but I'd wish her well."
"And she'd do the same for you?"
"I hope so. No. I'm sure she would."
Deborah sighed.
She launched into her familiar account of how Sam had deceived her. I knew the basics but Deborah hadn't told me personally. I was shocked that he had been cheating for years with not just one younger woman but three at the same time. One of them had found out about another and had telephoned Deborah to rant. While Deborah had suspected that Sam was playing around, she hadn't known that it was with two at once.
She employed a private detective. Within forty-eight hours the detective reported back that Sam had three mistresses and had their names and addresses. Did Deborah want the investigation to continue?
Deborah decided that she didn't want more. Three rivals were enough for her to start divorce proceedings that Sam didn't contest. She had won custody and maintenance for their twin boys now in their late teens, and the house. She was still hurting and talking about it to me was helping her to come to terms with Sam's betrayal.
She had some consolation. The divorce case had exposed Sam's infidelity not just to Deborah but to his three mistresses, all of whom had rejected him.
I thought that Sam had been a fool and said so. Deborah might be the mother of teenage boys but she was still very attractive, and when not hurting was pleasant company. Except that she had been married, I could have invited Deborah out for an evening instead of Sarah, knowing that we would have enjoyed ourselves.
She appreciated my words but dismissed them as sympathy from a friend's ex-husband. I retorted.
"Deborah. I mean it. I like and have always liked you. To prove I mean it, we are going to dance together. Now!
I took her hand and pulled her to her feet. I held her during the slow dance. As we passed Sarah, Deborah's head was looking the other way. Sarah smiled and gave me a thumbs up.
That slow dance was followed by another. Deborah began to relax in my arms. Her head was nearly touching mine.
"Thank you, Terry," she whispered in my ear.
"For what, Deb?" I asked.
