The Girl Who's Never Had a Valentine

All Beth's ever had on Valentine's Day is unwanted junk mail and unpaid bills! But this year, when the post lands on her doormat, one item in particular catches her eye…

Could this be Beth first ever genuine Valentine's Day card?! The handwritten card might be a cheesy cliché….but who cares! The big question is – who is it from?

 

Unfortunately, the only possibilities racing through her head are people she sincerely hopes
didn't
send it, including all of her
definitely-not-Mr-Perfect
exes. (Oh, or the guy in Accounts with the comb-over!)

 

Sadly, Beth's pretty sure it's not from Luke – her dishy new neighbour with the super-glamorous model girlfriend, and dreamy eyes that have never once noticed her… Or have they?

 

For a girl who's never received so much as a Valentine's e-
mail
before, this February 14
^th
Beth finds herself with a secret admirer…who could just turn out to be The One!

 

ELIZABETH PLAYER

In 2007 Elizabeth jumped on her husband's early retirement opportunity, quit the rat race and moved to the glorious county of Cornwall. The first thing she did was join a local writing group to pursue what had always been her passion. She became involved with her local theatre and to see her first piece of work performed was quite a buzz. Over the past few years she's been writing everything and anything from poetry to stage plays to her first romance novel, hopefully to find ‘her voice.' From her teenage years reading Catherine Cookson and Georgette Heyer to present day chick lit, she's always been drawn to the romantic genre, whether novels, films or plays, and she enjoy them all the more with a bit of mystery and intrigue thrown in. Having said that she's a complete fan of John Grisham.

 

Four years ago she retrained as a Dog Groomer and now has a workshop in her garden, overlooking Mount's Bay in Penzance ‘A Groom With A View.' When she's not grooming dogs she's writing and when she is grooming dogs she's plotting in her head, the dogs don't mind. Elizabeth takes full advantage of living in Cornwall and goes walking as often as possible winter and summer. She gets great inspiration from the dramatic scenery and coastline that she has on hand as soon as she steps through her back door.

To Ray

The Girl Who's Never Had a
Valentine

Elizabeth Player

www.CarinaUK.com

Contents

Cover

Blurb

Author Bio

Dedication

Title Page

Chapter One

Endpages

Copyright

Chapter One

Thank God for Saturday mornings. No work and a lie-in, what could be better? As I sat in my small kitchen, sipping tea and flicking through missed calls on my mobile, I heard the letterbox rattle and the post dropping to the mat with a thud. In amongst the unwanted junk mail and brown envelopes one item in particular caught my eye; pale lilac and the fancy handwriting was not one I recognised. They'd used proper jet-black ink too, not Biro. Intrigued, I fought the urge to rip open the envelope. Instead, I carefully examined the smudged postmark and noted it was local and the stamp was first class. Eventually the penny dropped. Valentine's Day! Of course, today was fourteenth February. Now I was wide awake, my stomach clenching in anticipation. This could be my first, genuine Valentine's Day card – ever. How silly to forget! Extracting the sharpest knife I owned from the kitchen drawer, I sliced open the envelope, making sure not to damage the contents. Decent-quality paper, no scrimping on cost, surely that was a good sign? Smaller than A4 but bigger than A5. Slowly, I pulled the card from its lilac sheath. Talk about gaudy! A kaleidoscope of purple and cerise leapt out at me. Dead centre, a fluffy kitten climbed into a champagne glass and the gold italic writing swirling about the stem read:

 

     Be my Valentine

 

Gingerly, I opened the card, hoping against hope that there might be more, and there was. Again, in the same distinctive gold script:

You set my heart on fire,

     You are the object of my desire

Good God! It was so cheesy I thought I'd have to hide it from the cat. So smarmy! Such a cliché! But it was wonderful. The handwritten part read:

 

I'll love you for ever

 

It was in the same distinctive handwriting as on the envelope. I moved into the lounge and flopped onto the sofa, reading the card over again and again. Who on earth was my secret admirer? Did I know anyone that sentimental, so utterly love-struck? It was shocking and I felt responsible, well, just a bit. With my mind racing I thought, I hope it's not that creepy guy from Accounts with the comb-over. I'd never given him any encouragement. Who could it be? I considered phoning my best friend Lucy and together we could chew over all the possibilities. The guy from the garage with the Alfred Hitchcock silhouette? He'd seemed overly attentive when I'd had my car serviced recently. I noted that my secret admirer had addressed the envelope: ‘To the ocupant'. Oh dear, he couldn't spell. Perhaps he was dyslexic? That wasn't a problem. What if someone had sent it for a joke? That would be cruel beyond words.

     I'd often wondered why I'd never had a Valentine's Day card and now here I was, worrying why I'd actually received one. My initial feeling had been one of enormous flattery and it was thrilling. But, at the same time, I felt a tad nervous not knowing the identity of said sender and he didn't seem to know my name. What if this person was a stalker? At twenty-eight years old, I was beyond wishing for Valentine's Day cards. My teenage years had come and gone and I'd never had one, not even from geeky Will, my brother's best mate and my one and only long-time admirer. I'd asked him once why he'd never sent me a card and he'd shrugged saying, ‘I didn't think you were “that type”.' Of course I was ‘that type'. I was a girl. Every girl wishes for that one card at some point in her life, the one that says ‘you' are desirable, alluring, sexy, wanted. What girl didn't want that confirmation? The card my mother sent to me when I was seventeen didn't count, such badly disguised handwriting! If truth be told, it was worse than not getting a card at all. Back in the day, one of my good friends always received a card from her dad! That was seriously wrong on so many levels. At school I was always the sensible one. Leader of the debating club, not afraid to speak up. At uni, I was the one solving other people's problems. Did I put men off? I could never play the weak little woman, it just wasn't in my DNA.

     Saturday held a fairly steady routine for me. Shopping, cleaning the flat, popping round to my mum's for lunch. Friends round in the evening or going out to the theatre or clubbing. My best friend Lucy was now engaged to ‘steady Eddy' – that's what I called him (in secret). They were a great couple and I couldn't be more delighted for my friend, but the inevitable had happened and we'd started to drift apart. Lucy was moving on.

     In buoyant mood I jumped into the shower, determined to put all negative thoughts out of my head. I needed to tell someone, otherwise what's the point of having a card at all? If I'd been the recipient of great bundles of cards over the years then no, it wouldn't matter. I could casually toss that hideous card to one side and not give a damn about the poor, tortured soul out there yearning for my attention and affection. I felt embarrassed and delighted. What a dilemma. Drying my hair, I stopped for a moment and stared at myself in the dressing-table mirror. Staring back was a tall woman with strong features, wide brown eyes, a good mouth and decent teeth. Definitely no raving beauty, but with a little care and attention I knew I could be attractive. My figure was athletic; well, that's what my Mum always said. My last boyfriend, Ricky, was a snowboarder and skier and spent more time up one mountain or another than he did in my bed. He flitted in and out of my life and I knew he wasn't ‘the one'. To actually admit to someone, let alone myself, that I was looking for a long-term relationship somehow didn't seem cool though. My boyfriend throughout university, Andy, was the serious scientist type who left England to do research work in the Arctic or Antarctic, I couldn't remember which and I didn't really care, which said everything about our relationship. When he left, I was relieved. Initially, his brooding good looks bowled me over and lulled me into believing he'd do for me. Unfortunately, handsome doesn't compensate for a deadly dull personality. Glancing at the card for the umpteenth time, I knew it wasn't from my mum, the handwriting was genuine. I propped the card up in pride of place on the mantle, above the fireplace.

     Hearing raised voices in the compact car park outside my block of flats, I looked down from the lounge window. I saw the girl who lived in the flat directly beneath me and she appeared to be in the middle of a right humdinger of a row with a young man. They were standing beside the girl's little pink Ka with daisies painted on the door. Cute! I quietly opened the window a tad and strained but couldn't quite hear what they were saying. The girl was doing a good deal of arm flailing, head bobbing and chin thrusting. The young man had adopted a defensive stance, palms upwards, shoulders hunched … Looked like he was in the dog-house. I'd spoken to her, briefly, on a few occasions when we'd passed in the corridor and she'd introduced herself as Karen from number sixteen. Karen was beautiful, with white-blonde hair, long legs and a girly laugh. I bet Karen got more than one Valentine's Day card this morning. Since she'd moved into our apartment block I'd seen her with a few different men. This one didn't look any different to her usual. Tall, well-built, long brown hair, casually dressed and not bad-looking from where I was standing. It was difficult to know if they were just leaving or just arriving. Eventually the girl got into her car, a pinched, spiteful look on her pretty face, eyes staring dead ahead as she drove off. The young man kicked at the ground and walked over to his own car, got in and drove away. Sideshow over. I wondered what the argument was about. Lovers' tiff on Valentine's Day. The telephone rang, it was Mum.

     ‘Hello, Beth, can't do lunch today, love, I've got to collect jumble for the WI… Completely forgot about that. Sunday dinner tomorrow?'

     ‘Yes, lovely. I'll look forward to it … the only decent meal I get all week.'

     ‘You know you can come and live here … Don't know why you want to live in that flat all on your own.'

     ‘See you tomorrow, Mum … Love you.'

     My mum is the kindest, most decent human being on the planet and of course I love her, but live with her? No thanks! A girl needs her own space, it's essential. And even though the flat cost most of what I was earning, it was worth it for my sanity. Anyway, if I lived at home I'd be back up to a size sixteen before you could say homemade scones with a dollop of clotted cream. One more glance at the card and another peek inside. I had to admit, it was a tad juvenile. Or, possibly, the hand of an educated, arty type. It could be that of a nutter. Whatever, I was now the proud owner of my very first Valentine's card and it was quite a thrill. However, my secret admirer did appear to have a few flaws. He couldn't spell and his taste in cards was awful. But that didn't matter, he was a romantic, with poetic leanings and he was obviously besotted with me!

     A trip to the supermarket, forty minutes in the gym, then home to put my feet up for the afternoon. Heaven! Turning into the car park, I drove to my usual spot and saw the young man from the fracas that morning leaning on the bonnet of his car, texting away. As I wrestled with the shopping from the boot of my car he glanced up and smiled. I reciprocated and as I yanked at the nearest flimsy plastic bag, it ripped and a large jar of mayonnaise clattered to the Tarmac, cracking and splattering into a big gooey mess. So much for the half-price offer.