Cast
Sophie Wong: a neurotic woman in her mid-thirties.

Scene
Today’s the thirteenth of February and it’s looking like I’ll be getting flowers from no one but my mother for the sixteenth consecutive Valentine’s Day. Not that I care. The day’s nothing but pure commercialism. All the taken men out there are guilt-tripped into buying long-stemmed bloody roses and taking their ladies to expensive restaurants. The kind of restaurants where you don’t have bookings, you make reservations.

Hang on, does this sound bitter? I don’t want to sound bitter. I’ll be the first to admit I want a special day tomorrow. My girlfriends are always getting diamond-studded watches and white gold necklaces while I’m sitting at home alone eating three bowls of ice cream and watching Sex In The City. Every year since I turned twenty-five I’ve been so lonely on Valentine’s Day I’ve gone out and bought a cat. I have ten cats.

Did you ever notice how Valentine’s Day shares the same initials as venereal disease? V.D. I feel like that’s not a coincidence, like there’s a close relationship between letting someone near your vagina without a medical certificate and having to put out to thank him for the diamonds.

A voice distracts me from my fourteenth game of Spider Solitaire. “Sophie Wong? These are for you.”

The “these” this person is referring to is the most exquisite bouquet of flowers ever wrapped in green and pink cellophane and courier-delivered to an Executive Assistant in her cubicle. I thank her then shake her hand then decide to up the ante and give her a hug. She backs carefully into the elevator.

My boss gives me an appraising nod as he walks into his office and for a sinking second I realise they’re from him. But no. He’s married, and gay, and it’s not his handwriting.

So who sent them? I look closer at the card and there’s a message. “Pick you up. Your place. 6pm tomorrow.” Okay, that’s a little scary. Who are these damned things from?

Maybe it’s a co-worker. One of these bastards is playing with my feelings, or, well, maybe they genuinely like me? I get up and go to Rod’s desk. I look him in the eye. It’s not him. I watch Lie To Me; I can read any face. I stop by every male’s desk in the office, one by one. Damn it. None of these nerds are responsible. Who sent me these goddamned flowers?

When I get home I feel the greatest ambivalence. I’m hopeful and excited about my date but the whole thing is so suspicious. Is it some bastard ex-boyfriend playing a cruel prank. Will anyone even turn up?

I pour myself half a dozen gins and sort out a microwave dinner. You probably won’t believe this, but I’ve had boyfriends every year for the last six years. Thing is, they always dump me before Christmas. My birthday’s in January so they’re probably sitting there thinking, “Christmas, birthday, Valentine’s Day. I can’t commit to three gifts in three months!”

I finish my gins and pour myself another two. How many’s that? Four? I get up to do a wee and pass out in the bathroom with my knickers around my ankles.

For the sixteenth Valentine’s Day in a row I wake up with a monumental hangover. My landline is ringing. This will be my mother. “Hi mum. Guess what? I have a dinner date! I met a guy at… well, I won’t confuse you with the details!”

“It’s Michael Lee,” says my boss. “You planning on coming to work or are you getting those Botox injections you’ve been googling all year?”...

END OF EXCERPT​​​​​​​