Harold was watching his favourite programme when the telephone rang. He snatched up the receiver in annoyance.
"Hello." he snapped.
"I love you." said a female voice. Harold was stunned.
"I love you." the voice said again.
"Who is this?" demanded Harold. There was a click and the line went dead.
Astounded, Harold sat staring at the telephone, his programme forgotten. "I love you," she had said. Harold shook his head in bemusement. As far as he knew, he was loved by no-one except his cat, and he wasn’t always sure about her. He was a shy man and had always felt that he was unattractive to the opposite sex. Incredible as it seemed, he must have been wrong. As the implications of the telephone call sank in he began to feel a strange exaltation. Obviously some female admirer, finding Harold inattentive, wanted to let him know that he was loved, without giving herself away. She, of course, had too much pride to declare herself openly. Who could she be? His excitement grew. Could it be Melissa from Customer Services? He had been in love with her for months but lacked the confidence to approach her. Perhaps she had seen the devotion in his eyes and wanted to let him know that his feelings were returned. Well, there was one way to find out, he would ask her out on Monday.
Harold examined his reflection in the mirror. He supposed that, possibly, he was a handsome devil after all, but he needed a bit of tidying up. Tomorrow was Saturday. He would get a haircut and buy a new suit and... yes, why not, a new tie as well.
That weekend was the first one Harold had really enjoyed in a long time. He was still musing on the identity of his unknown admirer and every woman he saw was a potential candidate. Whenever he saw a feminine eye resting on his newly shaved face he wondered if she was the one, and his self confidence grew and blossomed. He was completely satisfied with his new appearance and, on Monday morning, it was a transformed Harold who entered the office. He walked with the jauntiness of a man who knows that he is irresistible to women and whistled a cheerful little tune. He greeted all his staff with a cheery "Good morning" and Valerie, his secretary, was moved to say,
"You´re looking very dapper this morning, Mr Cruncher."
"Thank you Valerie." said Harold, beaming. "And Valerie..."
"Yes, Mr Cruncher?"
"Call me Harold."
The whole office was talking about Harold's transformation and he was pleased, at lunchtime, to overhear a couple of typists discussing him.
"What's up with Mr Cruncher?" said one. "He's like a new man."
"Must be in love." replied her friend.
"Too true," thought Harold, "too true."
He was rather nervous as he approached Melissa in the staff room. Fortunately, she was sitting alone, reading a magazine. She put it down as Harold joined her and greeted him with an encouraging smile, which set butterflies tap-dancing in his tummy.
"Anything good?" he asked, indicating the article she had just been reading.
"It's about that new Brad Pitt movie." she replied. "It sounds really good but I can't get anyone to go with me." Harold offered up a silent prayer for this golden opportunity.
"I've been wanting to see it myself," he lied. "We could go together."
"That would be wonderful," Melissa agreed and, again, flashed her magical smile.
The only thing that troubled Harold slightly was the possibility that it might not have been Melissa who had made the 'phone call. In that case some other poor female was languishing in unrequited love. Harold did not want to be the cause of pain for anybody, but, ah well, that was life.
The cinema date went incredibly well. Harold and Melissa got on like old friends and he was delighted to discover they had so many interests in common. The date led to a meal, which led to a concert and, three exhilarating months later, Harold decided to propose to Melissa.
It was the big night. Harold had taken Melissa out to an expensive restaurant. Everything was perfect. On the pretext of going to the toilet, he sneaked out and ordered a bottle of champagne. He would propose when it arrived. He was smiling to himself and preparing to return to the table, when he overheard part of a conversation between the cloak room attendant and one of the waitresses.
"It's such a giggle," the cloakroom attendant was saying. "We just pick a number from the 'phone book, call it, say 'I love you' and hang up."
"You're so wicked," gasped the waitress in admiration. "You could cause divorces like that."
"I know," agreed her friend and they both went into peals of laughter.
Harold's world turned suddenly grey. It had been a joke, an imbecilic, heartless joke. There was no secret admirer. Of course. How stupid he had been to think that anyone could love him, Harold Cruncher. He considered running out of the restaurant. How could he have the nerve to ask the most wonderful woman in the world to marry him?
It was a smileless Harold that returned to Melissa but she seemed not to notice. She chattered away excitedly and, when the champagne arrived exclaimed,
"Ooh! Champagne! What's the occasion?" Harold had forgotten about the champagne and mentally cursed the waiter. He looked gloomily at Melissa, wondering what he could say, when, suddenly, his mood changed. Her eyes were shining with a warm light that could only be love. Incredible as it was, the most wonderful woman in the world was actually in love with him. So what if it had been a silly joke, so what if there was no secret admirer? The last three months had been the best of his life. There was only one woman in the world that mattered to him and he wasn't going to risk losing her because his ego had been dented. Because he believed that somebody loved him, he had been given the confidence to offer his love and receive love in return. Suddenly, the joke no longer seemed cruel and pointless but had taken on the aspect of heavenly intervention. Because of that stupid joke he was sitting here with his beloved Melissa and was happier than he had ever been.
His face re-lit with a smile that outshone even Melissa's. He filled the glasses and, handing one to Melissa, said,
"Melissa, will you do me the honour of becoming my wife?"
Melissa almost dropped her glass. She screamed and, rushing around the table to Harold, threw her arms around him.
"Yes! Yes! Yes!" she shouted.
Later on, the waitress at the next table enjoyed describing the scene to her friend in the cloakroom, who was sorry to have missed it.
"What I can't understand" said the waitress, "is why, when his fiancee was kissing him, he winked at me."