wouldn’t rest till it was done. Not that it’s started, of course.
She plucks the tasteful Monet water lilies from my hand and thrusts another card at me.
‘You’re not the only one with a card,’ she says, grinning her head off. ‘Look, I’m sure it’s from Richard. You’ve got to let me invite him now. It’s really sweet!’
It’s a picture of a wizened old woman riding a penny farthing bicycle. Great start. Inside it says, ‘I’m speeding towards you. Fancy a drink some time?’
‘See: a drink. The clue’s in the question. I’m going to drop an invitation through the letter box on the way to work.’
‘What if it isn’t him?’ I ask hopefully, remembering his tirade. ‘It’s quite normal to ask someone out for a drink in a Valentine’s card. It could be anyone.’
‘It’s definitely him. Oh, don’t start up again, just be pleased for me!’
With that, she jumps off my bed and races to the shower. I know better than to argue with her. When Alice is channelling her inner Tigger, there’s no room for reason. She’s too self-assured and bouncy. She bounds back into the room ten minutes later, dripping water all over my carpet.
‘Are you not going to work today?’
‘No, I am, I’m just –’
‘Because I think we should get those plastic champagne flutes, even though obviously it’s Cava. Although maybe Richard’ll give us an upgrade. And we need snackage. How do you feel about sausage rolls? Maybe we could do pigs in blankets…’
On and on she goes, instructions pouring forth. I stop listening somewhere around the sausage rolls, rolling my own sausagey form out of bed and into the shower. Alice carries on regardless through the door, not even stopping when my hairdryer blatantly drowns her out.
‘Oh my God, look at the time!’ she finally shrieks. ‘Are you OK with all of that? I’ll get home as early as I can, I promise.’ She gives me a tight squeeze. ‘I wish there was someone coming for you,’ she adds, with the manic glint of a woman sensing the end of a sex drought. ‘Steve’s so old news! Maybe someone will bring a mystery guest. Should I tell Richard he can bring a mate, as long as he’s male?’
I dread to think what depths of awfulness his friends might plumb. Who knows – maybe General Pinochet will make an appearance or that nice Robert Mugabe. I grunt non-committally and let her whirl out of the door, revelling in the sudden peace. The tranquillity lasts for all of ten minutes before I start getting twitchy. That’s the problem with being a twin: you’re not built to fly solo. I’ve been one half of a whole ever since the moment of conception, which renders the supposed delights of solitude a total mystery. Besides, there’s no time to waste: I’ve got a maximum of two hours’ grace and a list of instructions as long as my arm.
Venturing out, I’m immediately bombarded by smug girls brandishing bouquets and endless romantic window displays. Lucky old Alice, getting a card – even if it is from a psychopath. I can’t help speculating about how romantic Charles’s morning might have been. He’s not due in today, so he’ll have had all the time in the world to make Mrs Charles feel adored.
I stamp down on the rolling tide of melancholia, determined not to wallow in self-pity. I should treat Valentine’s Day as a useful reminder that he’s not available, case closed. I push him from my mind, concentrating fiercely on the reams of tasks that Lance Corporal Alice Godwin has set me. I buy a case of pink Cava to offer people on arrival, even though the price suggests it’s most likely revolting (hopefully it’ll offend Richard’s refined palate so much he’ll retreat to the off-licence to shower himself in Dom Pérignon). I find twinkly red fairy lights to string around the door, and even risk snapping some twigs off a neighbour’s box hedge to stand in for mistletoe. I’m officially the patron saint of love, even though two months without sex has left me suspecting a blow job requires the cunning use of a pair of bellows.
The heavens open as I climb into the car, the driving rain making light work of my feeble windscreen wipers. The journey takes way longer as a result, and I arrive on-set damp and flustered.
‘Thank God you’re here!’ hisses Gareth. ‘They’ve had to junk the courtyard exteriors because of the rain so we’re back in the library.’
‘Are we?’