NGG Valentine '99 Essay Competition entry

Andy McClelland

Tread softly ...

It is night ...

A sudden draught from nowhere makes you shiver, as you curl up on the sofa, trying to forget that you're alone, tonight of all nights. The one whom you love is away, and not even reachable by telephone. You hear a sound, a click, and you realise that the door to the room has opened. It must have been that draught. You get up and go over to close it. When you get there, you think that you can smell something. Cooking, maybe.

"Don't' be silly," you tell yourself, and close the door properly.

Still, that draught of air has given the fire a boost, it's looking much more cheerful now. In fact the whole room seems warmer somehow. As you settle back down on the sofa, you realise that there is a drink on the table next to it.

"That's funny," you think to yourself, "I don't remember getting that drink. I must be losing the plot, here on my own."

Now, you were thinking of getting yourself a drink, but you are quite sure that you didn't actually get around to doing it. Well, it's there, and you aren't the type of girl to let it go to waste. So you settle back on the sofa with it.

"Cheers, Mr. Ghost!" you say, raising the glass in a toast. You notice the rhyme. "Hey, I'm toasting a ghost!" you chuckle to yourself.

Mmm, it's good, really good. With each sip you feel more relaxed, and things seem less bleak. Yet it isn't because it's making you drunk. No, there's something else at work here.

You finish your drink, by which time you are feeling a whole lot more relaxed. This is just as well, because, as you put your empty glass down on the table, you hear the door, which you are sure that you closed properly, click open again. There's that smell again; it is cooking. The delicious aroma takes you suddenly back to your first meal together in that funny little, but oh so friendly, restaurant. You always enjoyed it, but since then it has been your favourite.

Your reverie is interrupted by a voice, a man's voice:
"I thought that you might like something to eat."

You look up to see that in the open doorway is a man carrying a tray with several dishes, a glass, and a bottle of wine. He steps into the room and puts it down on the table. He pours a glass of the wine and hands it to you. You aren't scared, but for once you are lost for words.

"I, I, you. Who? How? Why?" you manage to splutter.
"You 'Nastie Gurlie', me Valentine," he says with a smile.

You gather your composure and appraise your companion, as you take the proffered glass of wine: Nice smile, nice eyes too, gentle and kind.

"So, Valentine," you ask, "why me?"
"Luck?" he suggests.
"Good or bad? Yours or mine?" you wonder.

He grins, "Why not wait and see before deciding. And, while you are waiting, why not enjoy your meal before it gets cold?"

You tuck in. It tastes as good as it smells.
"This is great," you say, as he heads for the door.
"No talking with your mouthful," he says in a mock-patronising tone. "I'll be back in a bit for the debris."
You nod, and try the wine. Excellent, just right.

It doesn't take long for you to eat all the food, and you are just pouring another glass of wine, when he comes back in to clear the dishes.
"That was delicious," you say. "I really enjoyed the food. Did you cook it all yourself, and how did you know that it was my favourite?"

He smiles. "Yes, it was all my own work. I'm so glad that it was appreciated. As for how I knew ... Well, let's just say that it's my duty to know."
Strangely, you feel satisfied by this somewhat elusive answer, and leave it at that, for now. After all, it might be just a dream, but it is rather a good one, and you don't want to spoil it.

"What I think that I would like now ..." you start to say,
"... is a nice hot bath to relax in," he finishes for you.
"How on earth ...?" you start to ask, but stop yourself.
He doesn't react, except to say: "It is already run for you."
"And my robe?" you ask.
"Is on the radiator warming up," he tells you.

You start off towards the bathroom, but a moment of suspicion crosses your mind.
"You are reading my mind, aren't you?" you inquire.
"Oh no, I'm not that good," he reassures you. "Your thoughts are quite safe from me."
You turn back for the door.
"Even that one!" he calls out after you, with a laugh.

When you get there you find everything as promised: There's your robe warming on the radiator, as promised, and the bath is full of hot, foaming, steaming, scented water. You slip into its warm, welcoming wetness and relax.

After a while you feel that the bath has done its work. You get out and grab the towel from the rail. As you start to dry yourself off, you think of calling for 'help', but decide that that wouldn't be right somehow, so you finish the job yourself, and slip on the lovely, warm robe. You feel ready for bed right now, but curiosity draws you back to your living room.

When you come back in, still in your robe, you find your living room is lit by about a dozen candles and the glow from the fire, in front of which the cushions have been ranged. As you are pondering why, your Valentine returns with a fresh bottle of wine. Once again a moment of doubt occurs to you.

"You aren't trying to seduce me, are you?" you ask uncertainly.
"Oh no, I wouldn't do that. That would be very bad of me and I don't do bad things," he tells you earnestly.
You are reassured enough by this to say with mock disappointment: "What, no bad things ever."
"Never."
"So," you ask, "if I were to lie down on these cushions and ask you to rub my back, you wouldn't try anything on?"
"Nope, I wouldn't even try on your underwear," he jokes. "Why don't you lie down and put my promise to the test?"

You settle down on the cushions, shrugging your robe part-way off your shoulders. As you do so, he opens a small bottle, and pours some of its contents onto the palms his hands, releasing a flowery scent that you recognise from your bath.

"That's the same smell as was in my bath, what is it?" you inquire.
"Jasmine scented oil," he tells you.
"You are well prepared, aren't you?"
"An NGG Valentine must be prepared for anything," he replies.
"Anything?"
"Yes, anything," he reiterates.
"So, if I wanted some ice-cream while you rub my back ...?" you challenge.
"It would be in this cool-bag," he answers, "and here's a spoon."

"Now, do you want this back-rub or not?" he chides you gently.
"Of course I do. Aren't you supposed to know that?" you say to get your own back.
"Um, yes, but it's nice to have confirmation," he recovers quickly. "Oh, and if you are going to eat that ice-cream, it would be easier for both of us if you sit up."
"I guess so," you agree through a mouthful of delicious, slinky ice-cream.

As you sit back up, your robe slips a bit further down your back, and, while you are dimly aware, you are too relaxed to care. He makes no comment either, but places his hands on your shoulders, and starts to gently rub your neck with his thumbs.

"Ooh yes, that's good," you say, and, as he works his circling thumbs further down your back, you lean back into the massage. At first you wriggle your shoulders as all residual tension is drawn from your body. This causes your robe to slip completely off your shoulders, but it doesn't matter. You have even stopped eating the ice-cream as you close your eyes and lose yourself in the pleasure of the moment.

"This is just a dream, isn't it?" you ask sleepily, not wanting it to be.
"Well, if it is, then I shall tread softly," he replies.
"'Tread softly'?"
"Yes," he says, then:

"That was beautiful, it gave me goose-pimples," you say.
"Yes, I noticed," he says, drawing a finger lightly across your shoulders, before continuing to massage your neck, warm, firm hands dispelling the goose-bumps.

You close your eyes again. "Did you write that?"
"No," he says softly, "it was William Butler Yeats."
"Mmmmmm," is all you manage to say as sleep overcomes you and you drift off.

It is morning ...

Yes, you feel good: You slept well in the end, and the one you love will be back today. But hold on a moment, you don't remember coming to bed. In fact the last thing that you can recall is trying to relax on the sofa in front of the living room fire.

You try to remember more ... There was the drink, the meal, the strange man. Well, the rather charming man, actually. And then the bath, the back-rub (oooh, the back-rub), ... No, none of this happened, you must have fallen asleep and dreamed it all, then half woken and made your way here without really waking up, that's why you don't remember. Yes, that must be it.

Hmmm, but your clothes are rather neatly folded for a sleep-walker. You get up and slip on your robe. A scent catches your nostrils. It's familiar, what is it? Jasmine, that's it, but where's it coming from? An olfactory investigation reveals the twin sources to be your robe and, your own body. As you breathe in the aroma, a memory is evoked. Lying on cushions, in front of a fire, hands, a soft voice, relaxing, totally relaxing ...

"What did I have on?" you ask yourself, suddenly worried about the propriety of the situation which you recall. "My robe, of course," you reassure yourself.

Anyway, that was a dream; the scent must be from something else, maybe the new brand of soap powder. You shrug, and tell yourself that this is the explanation, and make your way to the kitchen to get a drink.

When you get there you find it far tidier that you normally manage to keep it. You do remember having a grand plan to sort out the clutter as something to do, a distraction from being alone last night, but you don't actually remember getting around to it. Perhaps, however, you did.

"How much did have to drink, last night?" you ask yourself. "How come I did all this and yet don't remember?"

Having made your drink, you go through into the living room. Same story here, nothing out of place. Nothing, that is, except a vase of flowers, red roses, on the coffee table. You notice an envelope leaning against the vase. You pick it up and open it. Inside, you find a card with a message:

You smile. So, perhaps it wasn't a dream after all.

"Same time, next year, eh? Will I be lucky again?" you ponder.

It is over ...