Valentine’s Day |

As part of the “Chick Lit Love” Valentine’s event, your favorite chick lit writers are celebrating “Galentine’s Day” all day long. We’ll post about our main character and how she might celebrate “Galentine’s Day” with her best gal pals.

Just follow the #ChickLitLove hastag for romance and plenty of fun!

Natalie (Prada and Prejudice) is meeting up with Gemma (Mansfield Lark) and Holly (Love and Liability) tonight, Valentine’s Eve, at the local pub…

It’s seven PM on Thursday night and the pub is crowded and noisy as I arrive, out of breath and out of sorts. London traffic has got to be the worst in the world…

“Gemma!” I call out over the din, and wave as I spot her. I make my way to a table in the back, threading dexterously through the knots of people drinking and laughing and chatting each other up. “Happy almost-Valentine’s day.”

“Natalie! You look fab!” Gemma, looking glamorous in a minidress and mile-high platform heels, shoots out of her seat and wraps me in a Flowerbomb-scented hug. “It’s been yonks.”

“Only three months,” I point out as I sit across from her. “So, tell me – how does it feel to be engaged?” I demand. “Have you and Dominic set a date yet?”

She snorts. “As if! You know Dom – ‘don’t put off until tomorrow what you can put off today’. I want to have a big Christmas wedding in Scotland, with masses of snow, and white roses, and tartan bridesmaids’ dresses. But God knows if that’ll ever happen.”

“Why shouldn’t it?”

“Because Dominic’s on bloody tour again, that’s why,” Gemma says crossly. “He never stops! At this rate, we’ll be so old when we get married, we’ll come down the aisle on walkers.”

“That’s romantic, though, isn’t it? Geriatric love?” I grin as I stand up and turn towards the bar. “I need a drink.“ I glance down at her half-empty glass of Pinot. “Fancy another?”

“I wouldn’t say no. Holly should be here soon. And Phillip said he’d try and make it.”

“Holly’s coming?” I’m surprised. She usually runs with a younger crowd. “Doesn’t she spend Friday nights with Alex at the club?”

“Not anymore, evidently.” Gemma raised a brow. “Didn’t you hear? She and Alex broke up.”

“What? What happened? No,” I add quickly, “don’t tell me. Wait until I get back with our drinks.”

But by the time I return – there’s an unbelievable crush at the bar, you’d think it was Valentine’s Day already – Holly’s arrived, and my sister, Caro, too, so there’s quite a crowd at our table.

“Why aren’t you with Alex tonight?” I ask quietly as Holly settles in next to me. “Please tell me you didn’t break up with that gorgeous man.”

“I did.” Holly’s lips are set in a grim line.

“Oh, sweetie – why? He’s lovely!” I say, dismayed.

“Camilla certainly thinks so.”

Before I can ask who Camilla is, Phillip Pryce breezes in. “Hello, everyone. Happy almost-V-Day! Sorry I’m late, but I had a last-minute fitting with the most unreasonable woman.” He glances at Holly. “What’s with the long face, cupcake? Bad day at BritTEEN?”

“Every day’s a bad day at BritTEEN,” Holly moans. “No, I broke up with Alex.”

“Get out.” Shocked, Phillip drops into the other empty seat next to Holly’s. “I don’t believe it!” He casts her a hopeful glance. “Do you think I’d be in with a chance? He’s quite dishy.”

She manages a wan smile. “Oh, please! Jacques would have your arse. So to speak.”

“So who was this difficult customer, Phillip?” I ask, curious. “Can you tell us?”

“Well, I shouldn’t,” he says doubtfully, “but what the hell. Her name was Camilla. She’s the new MP for Putney. Horrible, imperative woman-“

“Did you say ‘Camilla’?” Holly demands, and rivets her gaze on Phillip. “Not – Camilla Shawcross?”

His eyes widen. “Yes. Do you know her?”

Holly’s lower lip begins, ominously, to quiver. “Know her? I should say so. She’s the w-woman who’s s-stolen Alex away from m-meeee…”

And Holly begins to cry, great, noisy, heaving sobs. Phillip and I both engulf her in hugs and cluck our outrage and offer lots of ‘there-theres,’ and Caro goes to fetch another round of drinks and crisps, and Gemma tells Holly indignantly that Alex is a wank anyway, and good riddance.

Holly drinks way too much Merlot and proceeds to get squiffy, and as she slumps face-first on the table an hour or so later, Caro and Philip and I exchange worried glances.

“Poor girl,” I murmur. “Let’s get her home, shall we?”

Phillip nods and hails a taxi; he helps Caro and I wrestle Holly inside, then climbs in after us, and we take her home to her flatshare in Camden. I unlock her door, and Phillip and I help her into bed, where she passes out cold, while Caro makes us all a pot of tea.

Because after all – that’s what best friends do, isn’t it?

We hold each other’s hair back when we’ve had a bit too much to drink; we offer a shoulder and a few well-placed ‘there, theres’ after a breakup; and we make tea and toast and settle in to watch a few episodes of Corrie with our hungover (and faintly green) BFF the next day.

And if the next day happens to be Valentine’s Day, and our best mate doesn’t get flowers, or chocs, or even a card from her wank of a boyfriend?

Well, we make sure there are plenty of tissues on hand…

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