Outfit: Classic 1988 fashion-forward – a black oversized blazer with structured shoulders, high-waisted jeans, and a belt with a chunky gold buckle. Paired with low black kitten heels, it was both casual and effortlessly glam for a date night.
Scent: The ever-alluring Body Shop White Musk—a fragrance that was light, sensual, and just a little rebellious.
Soundtrack: George Michael’s “Faith” had been on the radio constantly, and now it was on repeat in my mind, setting the tone for the evening.
1988.
The Beginning of Lace and Love (and One Cringe-Worthy Valentine’s Dinner)
It was 1988, and there I was in 6th form, dreaming of the day I’d head off to fashion college in London. I wanted to be fabulous, I wanted glamour, and if I was honest, I was hoping my boyfriend, Paul, might show me a side of himself that was a little… more Don Johnson and a little less David Brent. But, as with most things in life, the universe (and a boyfriend named Paul) had other ideas.
Paul was… a nice guy. Safe, sweet, a bit like milk and toast. But he made me laugh, and at 20, that was more than enough. So when he showed up in his polished red Ford Escort XR3i, cruising in with the confidence of a Miami Vice extra, I hopped in, ready for what would become The Valentine’s Day Incident.
As soon as I got in, he cranked up George Michael’s “Faith” loud enough to drown out the fact that his “baby” was rattling like a tin of bolts. And as we stopped at a red light, he leaned out, sizing up a group of lads in the car next to us. With a nod, he revved the engine, grinning like a Cheshire cat.
“Do we… have to race them?” I asked, half-laughing, half-praying the car would hold together.
“She’s just got spirit,” he said proudly, giving the dashboard a loving pat.
I smiled, bracing myself as he gunned it through the next green light, the car lurching in a way that was anything but romantic. Still, despite the ear-splitting music and the constant threat of a breakdown, I couldn’t help feeling like tonight might actually be something special. Maybe Paul had layers after all. Maybe this was a turning point.
Then, we arrived at one of London’s trendiest spots. Full of writers, artists, and people who would sooner be seen in a rubbish skip than at Pizza Hut, this place had the vibe. For a moment, I felt a thrill—I was the girl about to go to fashion college, right? This was my world.
And then, he did it.
With a grin bigger than the Cheshire Cat’s, Paul pulled out… the biggest Valentine’s card I have ever seen. I’m not kidding; this thing was the size of a small child, emblazoned with a cartoon bear hugging a massive red heart. Across the top, in glittering, blindingly red letters, were the words “To the one I love more than anything.”
I nearly died.
Everyone around us—the cool people—turned their heads to gawk. And there I was, the future fashion student, sophisticated, mortified, and holding a card fit for a six-year-old’s birthday.
“Do you like it?” Paul asked, absolutely beaming like he’d just handed me the crown jewels.
“Erm… it’s… big,” I stammered, trying to look appreciative, my face hot with embarrassment.
“Oh, and you like bears, right? Remember how you told me you loved Winnie the Pooh?”
Now, here’s the truth: yes, I still loved Winnie the Pooh. But I was trying to look like the kind of girl who reads Vogue and goes to the trendiest spots in London, not the kind who’d cuddle up with Pooh Bear after a hard day. I forced a smile, mumbling, “Loved. Past tense, Paul. Loved him.”
But Paul was oblivious. “Oh! And there’s more!” he added, as if the card wasn’t mortifying enough. Out from under the table came a giant teddy bear clutching a padded red heart, smiling up at me as if to say, “Surprise! Your social life has flatlined!” At this point, I was torn between laughing and hiding under the table.
Then, in a final flourish, he handed me a third gift, this one wrapped in tissue paper. My heart sank as I braced myself for a bear-themed nightie or something equally horrifying. But when I opened it, I was stunned.
Inside was the most beautiful silk camisole and matching French knickers I had ever seen. Blush pink, delicately trimmed with lace, soft as a whisper. It was perfect. For a moment, I forgot the giant bear card and the teddy bear now seated beside me. I ran my fingers over the fabric, genuinely speechless.
“You like it?” Paul asked, his grin now fading as he saw my real reaction.
“I love it,” I whispered, and for the first time that night, I meant it. The lingerie was a revelation—a moment of clarity in an otherwise mortifying evening. It was soft, elegant, feminine—everything I wanted to be.
Did the lingerie save the relationship? Absolutely not. The truth is, Paul and I had zero spark, and no amount of delicate lace was going to fix the fact that I just wasn’t that into him. We broke up shortly after. But that gift, that beautiful lingerie set, sparked something far more important. That night, I didn’t just fall in love with a piece of fabric—I fell in love with the idea that lingerie could be more than just something you wear. It was a way to feel beautiful, confident, and powerful.
So, while Paul and his bear-themed cards are now long gone, my love affair with lingerie? That’s lasted a lifetime.
Looking back, 1988 wasn’t the year I fell in love with Paul—it was the year I fell in love with lace. And that love? Well, it’s been far more reliable than any Valentine’s card ever could be.
Note to Self: When a relationship starts to feel like a clunky engine, it’s probably time to trade up… unless there’s lace involved. Then, keep the lace, lose the guy.