Valentiming

“Never in a month of honest Sunday mornings would I marry you!”

Desmond Whittiker balanced precariously on one knee with both arms outstretched, his hands cradling the engagement ring box open for inspection.

This moment was the culmination of several months in the planning, and a secret their shared circle of friends kept amongst themselves until the surprise was hatched. Not only significant because of the date, it was also the birthday of the proposal recipient, Amanda.

“Desi” and “Mandi” had been introduced to each other through mutual friends, and their immediate attraction was understandably palpable. In the first eighteen months of their relationship, they toured Europe, toasted the setting sun in Kenya, champagned in Monaco, and celebrated the crowning of a new British king atop the shard – London’s iconic pointy high-rise.

From polar ends of society’s circles, their relationship held a mutual convenience. Amanda hoped Desmond’s parvenu would be helpful in bailing out her father’s floundering empire, while Desmond wished for an acceptance of New Money legitimacy within the Old Boys network of Amanda’s father. Although the relationship could be loosely termed business with intimacy, Desmond was a hopeless romantic. So, the decision to ask for Amanda’s hand in marriage on her birthday on Valentine’s Day, seemed perfect timing. Little did he realise how wrong his inner cadence was off.

“You’re embarrassing me,” Amanda shrieked. “Get up, get up, get up!”

Amanda had a history of putting people in their place. No-one escaped the venom she could verbally spew when disturbed. Not even her own parents sought disharmony with her. A privately schooled, spoiled product of privilege, she was great at inviting new friends to cross the bridge to her castle, and equally capable of burning that bridge with them still on it. So, it came as no surprise to many in the audience when Mandi cruelly rejected Desi.

Attempting to pull Desmond to his feet, Amanda succeeded only in causing him to fall backwards, and in that moment of reverse motion, Desmond’s mind went into overdrive - wondering where he went wrong. It was like unanticipated rejection had slowed his tumble backwards, creating a sense of freefalling, while analysing every rewinding significant moment leading to the refutation.

“Was it the mishap while stepping onto the stage at the comedy club?” He pondered.

“No,” he replied inwardly. “That was the culmination of a comedy of errors.”

The culmination Desmond referred to was the losing of balance after tripping over the microphone cable, looped around his ankle.

“Surely, Mandi couldn’t be angry over that?” he questioned, as he continued to fall backwards. “I was just trying to stop myself from falling, when I grabbed her skirt.”

Tugging at any skirt is always going to have the same result, and Desmond’s grab accidently released it from Amanda’s waist, revealing to the audience what Ali G coined as a Shaven Haven. A forgivable offense at the best of times. But in hindsight, perhaps sacrificing his face to the wooden stage would have been less dramatic.

Desmond knew the club intimately. After a successful stint as a regular guest comedian, he had decided to invest in it to diversify his portfolio. Comedy had always been a positive influence in his life. So, the day finally arrived when he stepped out of his comfort zone and made the decision to redefine himself. He had reached a post-greed stage, entering what he called his reinventive-creative stage. Financially solvent, performing comedy was his passion. So, he resigned his hedge fund manager position to pursue comedy full-time. A decision that Mandi never understood.

“Was it the fact that as I was admiring the diamond ring, I dropped it down the backstage toilet?” He briefly queried – recalling his quick fix by replacing it with a cheap substitute rubber faucet washer he found in the maintenance closet.

“I’ll make a joke about it and explain what happened,” he had convinced himself, before heading onstage to do his planned pre-proposal comedy routine. “It’s the sentiment that matters, right? I can always buy another ring.”

As the fibres on the seat of his pants started to make grazing contact with the stage floor, Desmond’s thoughts shifted further back in the evening, before leaving to go to the club. Convinced that she was going to a surprise combination of Valentine’s dinner and birthday drinks, Amanda’s frustration heated to a boiling point that poured molten metal into the cracks already forming in their once-idyllic lifestyle.

“What do you mean, we’re going to the Comedy Club?” She vehemently protested. “You’re there nearly every other night!”

“I have a special routine I want to try out,” he pleadingly explained – without revealing the real reason. “My parents and all of our friends will be there.”

“But not mine,” she angrily pointed out. It was a deliberate snub by Desmond, knowing Amanda’s parents looked upon him as just a wealthy “Gift Horse.”

Desmond’s convincing tone of persuasive patter gently extinguished all fervent protestations. What else could Amanda do but go along with the pre-planned evening of rehearsed verbal flippancy. Her own strategy of publicly seducing him on Valentine’s Day would have to be temporarily shelved. Daddy was desperate for a bail out, and she had planned a subtle seductive persuasion tactic for Desi to part with his hard-earned money. She had already gone “Commando” on the cool evening to tease him at the most inopportune moments over a glass or two of bubbles. She hadn’t planned on a breezy evening out of the house surrounded by drunken hecklers. She had intended for Cupid’s arrow to strike Desmond where he couldn’t contain himself, nor his finances. Her intention was to convince him to give up comedy, and with the backing of Daddy’s cronies, return to making the big money that their future lifestyle lavishly demanded. Having grown extremely possessive of the finer things in life, tiny fissures of marital doubt had begun to leak the happiness out of her flimsy bubble - resulting in her aim to bring a halt to Desmond’s nonsense and reel him back into the world of her advantaged and comfortable society.

His fall cushioned by padded gluteal muscles, Desmond’s attention was drawn to the faucet washer as it came bouncing into view - eclipsing the theatre’s circular spotlight that devotedly followed his descent to the floor. The brief diamond-shaped crescent it created - as it passed between him and the light, reminded him not only of a recent lunar eclipse that he and Amanda had witnessed in the Kalahari Desert, but the reality that his expensive gift of proposed marriage was most likely being gnawed on by sewer rats several meters below his resting position.

“If only I hadn’t flushed the toilet so soon,” he momentarily stated out loud, bringing a chorus of laughter from the audience of familiar faces.

The joke was lost on most, but its delivery was top notch. That’s why Desmond believed in his comedy. It made people laugh whether it was truly funny or not. It was all about the delivery, but his proposal delivery had been off tonight. Or so he surmised.

Coming to a rest on his back, the room returned to normal speed. Laughter had seceded and was replaced with anticipated silence – even though Amanda was still struggling to clumsily reposition her skirt, dropping it enough to reveal more skin than she was comfortable showing.

A flippant shout yearning for attention, rang out from the back of the room.

“Amanda, Darling! Have you taken up Astronomy?” The inebriated male voice shouted before answering his own question. “Coz, we can see Uranus!”

The resulting silence-breaking laughter agitated Amanda into action. Grabbing the microphone with one hand while gripping her skirt in the other, she took on the aura of a rock star about to open a song; screaming into it, causing the soundman to throw his headphones to the floor in deafening pain.

“Do you want to know the secret of a great comedian, peoples?” She rhetorically spat through the microphone. “TIMING!” She screamed at full-lung capacity.

“Timing! That was it!” Desmond quietly recalled. “It wasn’t my delivery. It was my timing, yes!”

“You knew my parents were out of town,” she elucidated. “And you chose to do this without consulting them.”

“They don’t like me!” Desmond loudly retorted. “Why would I want to ask them first?”

A collective chorus of vocable audience members sucked in wide-eyed oohs, as they listened in. Something was amiss in Desi and Mandi’s Camelot existence, and like droughted wildflowers absorbing an early autumn morning dew, a few envious onlookers to their lifestyle, soaked up the sudden appearance of a Lancelot-type moment getting between them.

“Daddy will not be pleased,” Amanda angrily shouted in a condescending tone.

“When is he ever?” Desmond fought back. “I worked hard for my money. Unlike your father’s advantaged lifestyle. Born into position because of in-breeding!”

Desmond’s clipped ending to that remonstration, loudly exhibited his self-acknowledged step too far. It was common knowledge that Amanda’s immediate family were a little too close in bloodline, but until now, no-one had thrown dirt so succinct in its aim. The gauntlet had indeed been thrown and unsurprisingly, Amanda was combatively up for the challenge. Gripping the microphone tightly, she decided to air any and all skeletons from Desmond’s extensive walk-in closet.

“A funny thing happened on my way to the theatre tonight,” she began to a handful of cheers. “I realised I’d forgotten something.”

“Yes, your knickers!” A voice rang out from the back row, causing Amanda to shield her eyes, while visually searching for the interrupter.

“I forgot the advantages of affluent life - is what I meant. But hold that thought, everyone.”

Spotting the guilty heckler, she decided a second battle frontline needed to be drawn.

“Is that you, Richard? It is! A big hand for funny Richard, ladies and gentlemen! However, Richard is more commonly known to you ladies, as Spotted Dick – on account of his progressive sexual preferences.”

Suitably embarrassed, the known troublemaker slumped back into his seat, berated with laudatory arm punches from those seated either side of him.

“I hate to break it to some of your buddies there,” Amanda stabbed deeper. “But the fact is that their loved ones know a lot more about you than they let on. At some point in their lives, most of the women I see in here have been on intimate terms with your itchy malaise. Don’t worry, peoples. It’s not catching. Not like the STD Richard carried on his person two years ago. What’s that, Dickie? Syphilis got your tongue… again?”

Her sharp words seemed to have a dramatic effect on an elderly woman in the front row swooning in her seat – as her outraged companion of similar-looking age, stood towering above her yelling for all to hear, “You told me it was a yeast infection!”

The ensuing laughter mocking the outburst, prompted the two embarrassed senior citizens to swiftly – while argumentatively - extradite themselves from the club.

“Now, that’s funny!” Amanda laughed.

Observing the swift evacuation of offended spectators, Desmond rose to his feet and signalled for the sound man to bring him another microphone. Taking receipt of it, he immediately tried to calm the situation.

“My Valentine, ladies and gentlemen,” soliciting applause, like Amanda’s act had gone beyond her allotted time and allowable tolerances.

“Like the countless pairs of expensive shoes oozing from her entitled closet, Amanda once again can’t help but uninvitingly put her foot in one.”

“Speaking of feet,” Amanda quickly fired back. “How are those cheesy plates? No, ladies and germs out there, please don’t cringe. Desmond always manages to put on a good spread with oily skin, balsamic wee, and garlic breath to compliment the condiment of repellent kisses.”

“Oh, don’t get me started, darling,” Desmond replied to the emptying room. “Yeast infections are so rampant in your family that you could start a family-run brewery.”

Pandemonium gripped the remaining onlookers. Not able to contain themselves, a mass hysteria of laughter filled the small space. Some even tossed appreciative Valentine’s roses onto the stage, prompting Desmond to take several bows of welcomed applause.

“Secrets,” Amanda whispered into her microphone – grabbing the room’s attention. “We all have them. Take for instance, Alison – down here to my left, staying to enjoy a good laugh at my expense. There you are looking gorgeous as ever. Slightly overfilled the lips tonight, precious. But that’s okay. Normally, that kind of personal admission would raise an eyebrow or two, but not your frozen ridge. Your overuse of Botox and filler makes your smile look like you’re having a sneering stroke…”

Standing to leave, the insulted bubble-lipped woman in front of Stage-Left tried subtly signalling to her date to defend her, but her attempt at signalling him through sedated eyebrows, failed miserably, leaving her wide-eyed and vulnerable.

“And so thin!” Amanda went in for the kill. “My God, what most women would do for your figure. Not sure they’d go so far as to tickle their tonsils with their fingers after every meal, though.”

Bursting out in expressionless tears, the mortally wounded woman brushed past her date, and ran for the exit.

“Bitch!” Came the date’s response, as he followed suit.

“What’s that, Jarred?” Amanda addressed him. “No slapping my ass after that outburst? I suppose not having a mirror in front of you is a turnoff when you can’t see yourself acting the charade of a cowboy on a bucking bronco.”

Exiting without further retort, Jarred was followed by several other couples attempting to avoid the incessant shelling that Amanda was firing in her unending salvos of bottled-up disdain and retaliation.

“You’re absolutely right, Desi,” Amanda continued – turning her attention back to Desmond. “Mummy and Daddy thought you lacked our level of social class. I tried to explain that you were self-made, but let’s face it; teaching you the graces of formal dinners was far too much for an ex-Barrow Boy from the East End to grasp. To a commoner, pie and mash can never be replaced by caviar and blinis, can it.”

“Too true,” Desmond calculatingly agreed. “But never let the Port leave the table when passing it around.”

“What on Earth do you mean?”

“I mean, Princess, that when you were passed around your family’s table, your rear end never left its surface. But your ankles! Woohoo! Reach for the sky, Daddy!”

Realising the comedy being rapidly replaced with fallen-lovebird derision, the few remaining witnesses began to quietly file out – leaving Desmond and Amanda to their own bitter barrages of tipping point personal fusillades, that ended in a cacophony of outright verbal insults being thrown at each other.

Running out of quips, Desmond resorted to calling her the “C” word, prompting Amanda to drop her microphone to the floor, step from the stage, and head for the exit. True to the end of a tragicomedy, the lighting operator illuminated her every step toward the door.

Thinking she would have the final word, Amanda halted at the exit, then turned to face the stage to fire off one final parting volley. But just as she opened her mouth to speak, the lighting person turned off the spotlight. It seemed that they too, had had enough. Unable to focus in the dark, Amanda petulantly swivelled and disappeared below the theatre’s green-lit exit sign.

Standing on the darkened stage in undisturbed and embraceable silence, Desmond’s eyes attempted to adjust to the darker shadows of the abandoned room, before being almost blinded, by a refreshed, blue-gelled floodlight firing up - illuminating his head and shoulders.

“Yes, Specsavers thanks you, Phil…”

A distant cry of “Sorry!” from an elevated platform positioned at the rear of the stage, rang through the empty space.  

“…Valentine’s Day, ladies and gentlemen,” Desmond concluded through the microphone. “Another Hallmark Card marketing campaign to guilt us all into subscribing to the nonsense that love is in the air… Here’s to spotted dick, everyone! Long may it be remembered as a dishy pudding with custard, and not poor Richard’s legacy… I’m here five nights a week, folks, so let me leave you with this thought:

We are all born equal, and we all die equal. It’s only somewhere between that we deviate from that idea…

Now, please put your thoughts together and give a warm welcome for silence and despair…”

On cue, the lighting operator, slowly dimmed his spotlight until total darkness enveloped the stage, leaving only the sound of footsteps making their way offstage - followed instantly by a big crash of chairs, the sound of glass being broken, and one solitary, “FUCK!” being loudly and bluntly exclaimed.

“Phil?” Desmond called out through the darkness to the lighting person.

“Yep?” Phil replied.

“House lights, please…”

Picking himself off the floor, the reinstated house lights silhouetted two figures – one tall, one short - standing just inside the exit door. Squinting, Desmond smiled as he recognised the familiar outlines.

“Mum!” Desmond addressed the taller of the two.

“Och, sorry we’re late, son,” the shorter silhouette apologised. “Yer ma took ages to get ready.”

“That’s mum for you, Dad. She’d be late to her own funeral.”

“So, where ye at people?” Mum’s Scottish tone demanded.

“Gone home, Mum.”

“Och, punching above your weight agin, son.”

His mother’s forthrightness caused a smile to stretch across Desmond’s lips.

“Plenty more wee fish in the sea,” she continued. “Many more that have been caught less times than that one has. Och, she’s had more hooks in her than Moby’s dick!”

“That’s funny, Mum. Mind if I use that?”

“Ye can have tha’ one for free, ma wee boy.”

“Need a lift home, Des?” His father interrupted.

“Nah, my driver can take me. Thanks anyway.”

“So, what now?” Mum interestedly asked.

“It’s like the old cliché, Mum. The show must go on.”

“Just keep us laughing, Desmond.”

“It’ll be like a doctor treating a stab victim, Mum.”

“In what way?”

“I’ll have ‘em in stitches in no time…!”