Killing Cupid (24 page)

‘Look, just send me a replacement today, alright? Signed, this time. And…and… stop trying to mess with my head. It isn’t fair.’

The phone went clunk.

I held onto the receiver for a few moments, listening to the dialling tone. My hand shook as I replaced it. Maybe it was the aggression that Siobhan had fired at me. Maybe it was the knowledge that I’d made another mistake, causing hassle for myself and upset for Siobhan. Or perhaps it was just the sound of her voice that did it. After all, not long ago I was convinced that I was in love with her. Maybe a fragment of that delusion still lingers, somewhere deep inside me, in the place where my memories dwell. The sooner I could get another cheque to her and get her out of my life the better.

I went into the bedroom, which was warmer than the rest of the flat, and dug out my cheque book which, apart from the cheque I’d written to Siobhan, was completely unused. I wasn’t used to writing the things – it wasn’t surprising I made a mistake. I couldn’t believe she thought I did it deliberately. What kind of person does she think I am?

I left the house and headed for the post office, where I paid a little extra to send the cheque by recorded delivery. I read the cheque over three times to make sure I hadn’t written ‘three pounds only’ or signed my name as Mickey Mouse. I even asked the woman behind the counter to look at it for me and check I’d written the correct date. She gave me a queer look then said, ‘It looks fine to me, love.’

Good. I walked out of the post office with my head down and collided with somebody coming in.

‘Sorry,’ I heard a vaguely familiar voice say, and when I looked up I realised it was Brian, the guy from Siobhan’s writing class. I tried to scurry away but he had recognised me and his myopic eyes had lit up as if we were old, great pals.

‘Alex,’ he said. ‘How are you?’

‘I’m alright,’ I said, wanting to keep my answers as short as possible so I could get away from him. He was wearing a Star Trek baseball cap. God, what if somebody cool saw us together? They might think he was my friend. I shuddered.

‘You’ll never g-guess what happened last night,’ he said, pausing to see if I could in fact guess. When he saw that I wasn’t going to bother trying, he said, ‘Siobhan flipped out. She shouted at us and called us all rubbish writers and st-stormed out. It was really shocking. She had a real g-go at me about this exercise she made us do. Jane and Barbara were quite upset.’

I was interested now. ‘So has she quit?’

‘L-looks like it. She said she had, anyway. The college has said we can have a part refund for the course fees. It’s a real shame – I was really enjoying the course. And I always thought Siobhan was so nice. But I suppose, well, writers are re-re...’

I waited a moment for him to spit it out.

‘Renowned for being a bit volatile, aren’t they?’

I said, ‘Hmm,’ thinking of Siobhan’s phone call earlier.

‘Why did you leave the course anyway?’ he asked.

‘Oh, I’ve been really busy at work.’

He nodded. ‘We ought to have a re-reunion,’ he said. ‘The old class. Except, of course, poor Kathy couldn’t come.’

‘Yes, yes,’ I said, suddenly wanting to get away again.

‘Did you see that thing about her in the paper?’

My bad news radar started bleeping. ‘Yes. I did.’

‘Well, I gave that woman a ring.’

I could feel storm clouds gathering overhead. A number 13 bus went past the post office. A gipsy came out and gave me the evil eye.

‘You what?’

‘Yes. Well, I wanted to offer her my condolences and tell her that I was a friend of Kathy’s.’

A friend? In my experience, Brian had barely exchanged a word with Kathy. What the hell was going on? Was he part of some great conspiracy against me?

‘She was really interested,’ he continued. ‘She said she was compiling a dos-dos...’

‘Dossier?’

‘That’s right. On people Kathy might have met recently. So I gave her a list of the people in the writing class. She seemed very grateful. She...’

‘A list? Including me?’

He was starting to look nervous and went into a huge spluttering fit of w-w-ws, and I quickly realised that I was being a moron: I didn’t want to give the stupid twat any reason to wonder why I was so upset. I took a deep breath. He took a deep breath too. And after I’d counted to five, I said, ‘So is she going to want to talk to us?’

‘Yes – I think so. Just to see if Kathy said anything to you about meeting anyone that night – the night she died.’

I nodded, then blurted, ‘She certainly didn’t say anything to me.’

‘Nor me.’

I could picture Kathy in the half-light, clambering on the fire escape. I could hear the noise her body made as it hit the ground. Suddenly, I had to get away. I said, ‘Well, maybe I’ll call this woman to save her the trouble of trying to contact me.’

Brian nodded and started to say, ‘Bye-bye.’ Before he could get to the second bye, I had gone, striding into the pedestrian flow on the High Street. What the hell would happen next? Why was Brian such a stupid freak? And then I thought, well, how is this woman going to find me? It’s not as if Brian had a list of our phone numbers to give her? So what if she had a list of people who knew Kathy? She probably had a list as long as Park Lane. I needed to chill out.

And I needed to see Emily. After talking to Siobhan and then Brian, both of them torturing me with memories of the past, I needed to talk to the one person who represents my future. My Emily.

I decided to walk to her office, thinking I might just catch her in time for lunch. I could get my short stories back then have a bite to eat and a few soothing kisses. That was what I needed. Balm for my inflamed nerves.

Standing outside Emily’s office, I called her on my mobile – which I’ve finally been able to replace, thanks to Great-Uncle Clive - to surprise her and tell her I was standing outside. An extraordinarily posh woman answered: I almost hung up, thinking I’d dialled the number for Buckingham Palace by mistake. I said, ‘Um... is Emily there?’

‘Emily? She’s at lunch.’

I looked at my watch – it was one o’clock, later than I’d thought. ‘Oh. Do you know where she’s gone.’

‘Maybe Aroma Therapy.’

‘Eh?’ Was Emily so stressed out that she’d signed up for lunchtime aromatherapy classes?

‘It’s a coffee shop.’ She hung up, rather abruptly, I thought. Rude old bag. Maybe that was the famous Pernilla. Emily would often lie with her head on my chest, telling me about the bitchy things her boss had said to her that day, impersonating her fag-addled upper-class voice.

I stopped a passing suit and asked him if he knew where Aroma Therapy was. ‘It’s a coffee shop,’ I said when he looked at me as if I’d just asked him the most abstract question ever.

‘Oh. Try around there – there are a few cafés and things.’

I thanked him and walked around the corner. There was a florist and a pub, plus a swanky Italian restaurant. And there, just across the road was Aroma Therapy, a pretty natty-looking place with a blackboard outside, no doubt advertising various flavours of coffee and the quiche of the day. I hurried across the road and looked through the window, trying to see if Emily was inside.

She was – sitting at a table in the far corner. She was sitting with another woman, who had her back to me. Emily seemed engrossed in conversation – it was nice watching her without her knowing I was there. She’s my girlfriend, I thought, rather soppily. I was just about to go inside when the other woman turned her head to the side and I realised, with a thunderbolt of horror, who she was.

It was Siobhan.

Chapter 25

Siobhan

Thursday

I wonder if I should go back to Dr. Bedford. Or maybe just back to bed. No career, no boyfriend, crap friends, useless and unsupportive family. I’d almost forgotten what it feels like to be so depressed – the sleeplessness, eye-bags and pallor, the dark misery every minute of the day, so thick I feel like slicing it with a knife. Or slicing myself, after what happened today.

I’d got the tube into town, telling myself it was for a change of scene, a need to get out the house after last night’s histrionics. I always feel so drained after a big emotional outburst like that. And to be honest I’m fairly mortified at what I did – in class, I mean; although I’ll get over it. It’s the loss of the novel which still feels like bereavement.

Anyway, even though I kidded myself I was just going for a walk around Bloomsbury and a spot of lunch in a café, I knew where I would end up: lurking around outside Emily’s office. Call it character research for a future novel – if I ever write another one – but I was still really curious to know what she’s like, what he sees in her. She draws me like a car crash.

I followed my instincts and got there early. She’s definitely the type that would have an early lunch break – she probably claims she gets hypoglycaemic if she goes without food for more than two hours – and I was right. At 12.33 she and another woman (not Pernilla, thankfully. Although Pernilla wouldn’t have recognised me this time since I’d decided to come out without a disguise) came down the steps.

It had been raining earlier, and Emily was carrying a large furled umbrella, which she dragged along the iron railings as she walked past them, like a kid would. Clunk-a clunka-a clunk-a. She is like a little kid: awkward and clumsy. And stupid. I followed them. They were chatting and laughing and clearly knew each other well. They went into a café round the corner and sat down at a small table at the back, so I went in after them. To my irritation, a sweaty businessman and a harrassed-looking woman beat me to the table right next to them, and so I had to sit at the next one along. If I strained my ears, I could just about hear Emily and friend’s conversation – snippets of it, anyway.

Emily’s friend was a bit of a wet weekend too. Mousy lank hair, sloping shoulders, no lipstick and cheap shoes, the sort that people used to call ‘court shoes’ for some reason (probably because the fashion police would have you up in court for wearing them). She was wearing a wedding ring, and I thought, blimey, who’d marry her? I tried to imagine her in a wedding dress, still with the greasy hair, unmade-up face and court shoes. She probably thought she adhered to the ‘natural’ look.

They appeared to be gossiping about work – the friend, who had her back to the door, kept half-turning as if she was worrying about being overheard, and I heard Pernilla’s name mentioned a few times. On at least one occasion it was followed by a gale of guilty giggling.

How childish, I thought contemptuously. Then the friend said, ‘How’s Alex?’

At that moment of all moments, the waitress chose to come and take my order. I glared at her and snapped out my request for coffee and a bagel, then went back to trying to eavesdrop.

Emily said something I didn’t catch, and then I heard: ‘It was awful. He was really obsessed with her.’ My heart jumped into my throat the way it does when somebody’s talking about you without knowing you can hear them. I noticed the tabletop had a sticky mark on it, and I spat surreptitiously on my folded paper napkin and tried to rub it off, all the time listening avidly. My heart was beating too fast and I was holding my breath to see what she’d say next.

I couldn’t believe it. Quite audibly, and looking towards me as she spoke, she said, ‘He calls her “the old dragon”, and she certainly sounds like one. She’s made his life a misery.’

The friend tutted sympathetically. Emily paused as the waitress placed a large sandwich in front of her, and a latte in front of the friend, before continuing. ‘But I think he’s finally getting over it now. I tell you, I feel like going up there and telling her what I think of her…’

I went hot and cold with outrage. The people at the next table started up a loud conversation, drowning out Emily’s next words, but I did hear her mention something about a cheque, and then she said ‘…on the train…’ and then I knew that it was true: Alex had told Emily everything. He’d definitely recognized me that day I fell in and out of the tube train. They’d probably lain in bed together laughing about it. How they must have roared to think that Alex had actually had a crush – on an old, unsuccessful harridan like me? Well, ha bloody ha. She won’t be laughing when I’ve finished with her. If she wants a fight, she’ll get one.

All my self-pity suddenly disappeared at that point. I stopped wanting to slice myself - I felt like slicing that horrible little tart instead. I mean, to actually catch her in the act of slagging me off! It was astonishing, the complacency with which she put me down. She knows nothing about me! How dare she? She’s clearly found out that her precious boyfriend is in love with me, and she can’t handle the jealousy. Well, she might have every right to be jealous, but I’m not going to stand for anyone bad-mouthing me around the place.

My coffee and bagel arrived, but I couldn’t eat. The coffee was good though, hot and strong, and it helped calm me down. Sudden tears sprang into my eyes – must have been an overspill from yesterday’s traumas, but I felt desolate. Furious, used, unloved.
VENGEFUL
, if the truth be told. I was about to finish my coffee and slink off home again, when two things happened which changed my mind.

First, the couple next to me looked at their watches, drained the froth on their cappuccinos and left, the man jabbering into a mobile phone and the woman putting on her jacket as she scurried off behind him. This seemed to remind Emily’s friend of something, because she too looked at her watch. I heard her apologetic tone, although not the actual words, and then she too gathered up her things and walked out, leaving three pound coins on the table.

As soon as she was alone, Emily began to stuff the sandwich into her mouth, trailing bits of watercress and tomato. There was nobody between her and me. I hesitated. Then I leaned across.

‘Excuse me? It’s Emily, isn’t it?’

Emily smiled at me in a puzzled sort of way, raising her eyebrows. She had a big piece of cress on her front teeth. It was revolting. ‘Yes. I’m sorry…?’

You will be, I thought. You will be. I beamed falsely at her. ‘Don’t worry – I can’t remember where we met either. I’m very good at names, but not very good at places.’ How we laughed. ‘It’s bugging me now,’ I said, frowning. ‘You weren’t at Vincent Shaw’s party, were you?’ She shook her head. ‘Do you go to Cannons gym?’ Another shake, making her cheeks wobble like a baby on a bus going over a cattle-grid.