Trying to keep up with the Italian chef on the telly, I hurriedly chop an onion, press the garlic and begin to fry the risotto rice. Tomorrow is Valentine's day - and as this will be my third Valentine's day alone, I decided I would cook my favourite meal and watch my favourite film, When Harry Met Sally all on my own. Honestly?I wouldn't have it any other way.

Just me, on a date with the young Billy Crystal (who I don't find at all attractive but for the sake of the point I'm trying to make just go with it) and some white wine I bought in the boxing day sales.

At the most inconvenient moment possible (when you add the liquids to the rice; a vital and fatal stage in the process) the landline begins to ring.

Hands covered in white wine and mushroom skins, I pull the phone off from the wall. "Hello? Penny Lane speaking?"

"I need your help." The voice says before adding, "Urgently."

"For fucks sake..." I grumble, slamming the knife down onto the chopping board, "I'm busy Gallagher."

"No you're not." Is all he says, leaving me to slowly wash my hands and take the phone into the living room. I'll finish the risotto later.

"There better be a catastrophic incident Gallagher because if not-"

"Valentine's day." He states.

I throw myself onto the sofa and furrow my brow, "What about it?"

He sighs like I should know before continuing, "It slipped my mind is all. What would Zara like?"

What a question.

What do you get the woman that has everything?

"She's pretty much got all she needs. Don't just cop off and cheat her with a tacky diamond necklace, that's what the last one did and hell did she complain. Think about it."

He curses down the phone, "Fuckin' women..." and for a moment I think he might hang up before he says, "I could probably bag us a table at the Ritz... I know it's tomorrow but I'm Liam fuckin' Gallagher afterall." Swine. "Would that impress you?"

"Bit too posh for me." I admit, inspecting my torn up nails and picking off the varnish from my thumb.

"And me I suppose. Bet there's a dress code and all."

Silence.

"Do you still need my help or?" - or can I get back to finishing my singles risotto for the loneliest day of the year in peace? "It's just I've got a call expected in an hour with a publisher." Is what I say instead. He won't know any different.

"Nah that's everythin'. Ta." And then he hangs up.

At least he said thank you I suppose.

Even if it was a half-arsed one.

/////

"-bit posh for Gallagher but his date, Zara Macintosh seemed very impressed; the pair looking exceptionally loved up as they were spotted leaving the site in a cab-"

Scraping the remains of the risotto into the bin, I glare up at the telly. So he did manage to bag a table and to my relief he is wearing a tie.

"-the couple are said to have been together since September last year-"

"November." I correct the news presenter, well, I say news, this doesn't really class as 'news' to me.

"-this stardust couple are at the pinnacle of fame; with Oasis' last album being rated 4/5 from Q magazine and Macintosh having just sealed another acting deal - they really are at the height of celeb-dom. Fans are wondering when they'll 'put a ring on it.'"

"Never." I find myself muttering at the telly and not really knowing why. They could do. I shiver, shutting of the news and turning my back on the screen.

Maybe I should take a leaf out of their book and find someone. They say there is someone out there for everyone however I thought I had found my 'someone' the last time and all the times before. Everyone's slept with everyone. No one is actually yours.

It's impossible for me to find love at work. I'm a PA. All my friends are married with kids and only have sisters - no brothers for me to steal.

Essentially, my only chance is to walk the streets and hope someone accidentally bumps into me with a coffee Notting Hill style (my second favourite film).

Now I'm depressed...

When the doorbell rings instead of cursing under my breath, I decide to be polite. Maybe that's the key? Being nice? It's an underrated thing.

Standing at the door in a burgundy suit with a black tie and polished shoes, is Liam. I find myself, subconsciously, looking him up and down and feeling my insides suddenly tighten.

Spying my own outfit, (grey pyjama bottoms with a slogan shirt reading, 'BITCH',) I feel embarrased and wish the floor of my flat would open up and swallow me alive.

He's holding a small bouquet of snowdrops (the most delicate of flowers) merged with a few other kinds I cannot name, and holds them out to me. "For you." He nods towards the shining bouquet with a small upward curve of his lips. "You saved my arse this evenin'."

I take the flowers out from his hands and fight the urge to do the cliché thing of smelling them and saying, 'Oooh they smell lovely' because that is more than just unoriginal and let's face it, they never really smell of anything anyway.

"Where's Zara?" Is all I can think to say. I can hear an engine running and she knows where I live.

"She's in the cab."

Suddenly I don't feel so special anymore.

"Oh."

He states down at his shoes and frowns - the slight furror of his brow making him seem ever so younger like I just caught the tiniest glimpse into his past.

Before I can say anything (or close the door in his face) he yanks off his tie from around his neck and sighs, hurling it down the corridor of the apartment building. "Christ I feel so... so Southern in this." He grumbles, and I try not to stare as he gingerly tears off the top button from his shirt, but I fail and peek anyway.

"Definitely offensive to Southerners."

He looks up suddenly, "You're from down South?"

"Bristol."

"Never been."

Sensing the awkwardness I delve into my mind to think of possible excuses to get Liam away from the door, but as if my mouth is no longer connected to my brain, I find myself saying, "You should go sometime. It's nice."

In return all I get is a small nod, "I'll see you soon."

/////

The flowers didn't survive long. Once blooming and happy, tiny heads reaching up as far as they could to absorb the little light available, starving. Now? Black and shrivelled like olives on sticks.

My mind races through the events of the past week; the advice, the tie being thrown, the small talk (very small talk).

The dreaded post-valentine's day blues are kicking in. Still no one. An empty bed. Meals for one.

What I would give to make two cups of tea each morning and still only make one bed.

I turn to the decaying flowers and being to dispose of them, stems squishy beneath my fingertips and petals black with the absence of life. My fingers find a small length of ribbon coiled round one of the decaying stems and carefully, I pull it off to reveal a tag:

THINGS LIAM IS NOT ALLOWED TO SAY:

- that Zara wasn't in the cab