Only one item of mail this morning. It appears to be a card. In February? It is a card, a Valentine’s card. Who’d be sending her a Valentine’s card? Married, on the cusp of middle-age, though that threshold has of course not yet been crossed, no indeed.
She opened it and read its one word: Mmm! Who on earth had written that? Had she a secret admirer? Her husband, Steve, was away in London with senior management. Did somebody know that and was taking advantage of his absence to send her a little cheer-up? Perhaps it was more serious? Could there really be somebody out there who’d noticed her? On the lip of middle-age? Sometimes, if she were really honest, she felt a bit of a frump, she felt she was past her sell-by-date, and sliding down a long bannister to oblivion.
She studied the handwriting. Just three letters, all ‘m’s, and an exclamation mark. It could be anybody’s writing. She found herself thinking of the new vicar, Father Toby. Late thirties and single, but the word was he wasn’t gay. He seemed the serious sort, sincere, in need perhaps of a little lightening up. Could he really have noticed her, taken a fancy to her, decided she would be the one to ‘lighten’ him? Last Sunday he’d smiled at her at the church door. A sincere, bachelor’s smile? Or was there just a little hint of forbidden knowledge there, a ‘you are an interesting woman, Jackie’ suggestion?
For one crazy minute she thought of ringing the vicarage to thank him. Husband away for three more nights, why there might be a chance of something happening between them immediately, a combustion, a lightning strike, a detonation. Would she be interested? She was surprised to discover she would. Forty-nine and ready to throw herself into the arms of a man she hardly knew. She must be longing for a thrill, an adventure, another’s touch? Was she? You know something, she thought, I really am. I need some passion. Steve and I are just drifting, have been for quite a while. The discovery was a shock to her.
She was fingering the card tenderly, when her mobile made a noise. A text. For a head-spinning moment she believed Father Toby had discovered her number, and they were about to embark on a life-changing affair. But it was from Steve. It simply said: Mmm!
She sat down at the kitchen table, staring at the card. Steve had sent her a Valentine’s? He’d only once sent her one previously, when they were courting. Why had he sent it now? Had he seen her eyeing the new vicar? Did he have a lady friend in London, and he was covering himself?
She presumed she ought to put the card on the mantelpiece, so he’d see it when he returned, so he would think she was grateful to have been remembered. Was she grateful? She was disappointed, actually. Yes, that would about describe it. Disappointed? Mmm.
