Rachel Does Rome by Nicola Doherty

I never would have thought it was possible to be this happy in February.
    Normally I dread this time of year. Everyone’s broke and grumpy from detoxing, Christmas
     is a distant memory, and the weather is bleakety bleak. Plus, it contains Valentine’s
     Day, which hasn’t always been my favourite occasion. But this year, I’m actually looking
     forward to it. It’s a Friday night in early February, and Oliver and I are having
     dinner in a little Italian restaurant near his flat in Queen’s Park. Outside it’s
     dark, sleety and miserable; inside, it’s candlelit, warm and rosy – which is just
     how I feel.
    ‘Now,’ Oliver says, pouring me a glass of red wine. ‘Aren’t you glad we’re not queuing
     in the cold with a load of bearded wankers?’
    ‘I suppose,’ I reply, laughing. I had suggested trying a new gin bar in Dalston this
     evening, but Oliver was too knackered. As an orthopaedic surgeon, he works as hard
     as I do in my law firm. Anyway, it’s not as if we never do anything exciting. Our
     fourth date was a weekend away, skiing in the French Alps over New Year. My older
     sisters both thought I was crazy; from their reactions you would have thought I was
     hopping off to Vegas to marry him. But five weeks later, we’re still going strong.
    As I catch sight of myself in the mirror opposite, I realise I even look different.
     I’m still tall with the classic Irish combination of long black hair (that I secretly
     dye because it’s been going grey for years), blue eyes and paper-white skin. But right
     now I’m actually glowing, and it’s not only from the red wine. We’ve just finished
     a lively argument about the age of consent – the kind of nerdy debate we both enjoy
     – when Oliver picks up a folded card from the table.
    ‘Book now for Valentine’s Day. Fifty-five pounds for three courses including a complimentary
     glass of Prosecco’. He shakes his head. ‘Can you imagine? Paying three times the normal
     price to sit in a restaurant full of whispering couples. No thanks.’ He pauses, looking
     at me doubtfully. ‘You think so too, don’t you?’ he asks.
    ‘Totally,’ I say, truthfully.
    Oliver looks relieved. ‘Oh good. You think the whole Valentine’s thing is naff as
     well?’
    I’m about to say ‘Sure’. But I’m not completely sure. I’m just as allergic to the
     whole pink-napkin, single-carnation thing as Oliver seems to be. But that doesn’t
     mean that I don’t want us to do
something
.
    So I say, ‘I totally agree with you on the naff front. I definitely wouldn’t want
     a roomful of teddies and heart-shaped chocolate boxes. But I think it’s nice to do
     something. A little token acknowledgment.’
    Oliver smiles, and nods. ‘That sounds exactly right.’
    I return to my ravioli, happy that we’re on the same page. I don’t have to worry that
     he’s going to deliver a singing telegram to my work. But we will be doing something.
     Maybe he’ll make dinner at his place; maybe we’ll go to see a late-night showing of
     a classic film, or have a drink in a nice bar. The main thing is, we’ll be together.
    So I’m disappointed when, a few days later, the plan changes. It’s around nine p.m.
     and I’m coming home from work in a taxi; one of the ‘perks’ we get when working late.
     This is often my only chance to make personal phone calls so I’ve got into the habit
     of calling people, especially Oliver, at this time. The Addison Lee drivers are now
     totally clued up on all the doings of my social circle. We’ve had a quick chat and
     I’m about to suggest a double bill of black-and-white films at the Curzon as our Valentine’s
     Day celebration, when Oliver says, ‘I’m afraid I have to go to Bristol on the weekend
     of the thirteenth and fourteenth.’
    ‘Oh. Really?’
    ‘Yeah. I’ve been asked to give a paper at a conference.’ He pauses and continues,
     ‘I know it’s Valentine’s weekend . . . I hope you don’t