Killing Cupid

by Louise Voss

  Simon had trailed off and he and Nat were gazing at each other in that way that made you want to say ‘get a room’. Actually, thinking about it, they’d been shagging a lot less recently, or more quietly anyway. I didn’t think I’d be so lucky tonight. Knowing that I needed more alcohol to knock me out, I stood up to buy a round. Si was drinking Guinness. I pointed at Nat’s glass. ‘What is that, vodka and orange?’

  ‘Just orange juice, please.’

  I had to wait ages at the bar, and when I got back there was a girl standing by the table talking to Nat.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, looking at me.

  It was the same girl who’d knocked on the door earlier. What was her name? Emily. That was it.

  ‘You didn’t tell me Emily called earlier,’ Nat said.

  ‘Oh… sorry. I forgot.’ I smiled apologetically at Emily, who smiled back then went off to the bar to buy herself a drink, after Natalie had invited her to join us.

  As soon as I’d sat down, Simon said, ‘Oh shit, I forgot to tell you something too. Your mum called.’

  I went cold. ‘My mum?’

  ‘Yeah. I was surprised, because I’ve never known her call before. Not like my mum – on the phone every other day.’

  I couldn’t speak for a few seconds. ‘Did she say why she was calling?’

  He shook his head.

  ‘Well, what did she say?’

  ‘She just asked if you were there. I told her you weren’t. And she said, “Can you tell him I called?” and put the phone down. Must have been the day before yesterday.’

  I stood up. All of a sudden, I didn’t want any more to drink. The pub felt too hot, too packed. I couldn’t get any oxygen into my lungs. I said, ‘I’ve got to go.’

  Simon didn’t get a chance to protest, because I turned swiftly and headed towards the exit, bumping into Emily on my way out. She went to say something but I swerved around her and pushed my way through the door, gulping down the cold night air and heading back here to the safety of my room.

  Sunday

  As soon as I woke up this morning I knew I had to see Siobhan. If I didn’t talk to her and try to make her see how good we would be together, then everything Mum used to say would be true. Gutless wonder. Coward. All that stuff. I still don’t know why she was calling me, and I’m not going to ring her back to find out. Maybe it was good news, though. Maybe she was calling to tell me she had a terminal illness.

  I had a bath and shaved, nicking myself in a couple of places, having to press tissues against the spots to stem the flow of blood. Standing in front of the mirror with the Bic disposable in my hand, I imagined that it was actually a cut-throat razor and that Mum was standing behind me. I’d turn and there’d be blood on the bathroom floor.

  After shaving, I sneaked into Si’s room and borrowed some of his aftershave, wincing as it stung my sore face. I put on my best trousers and my favourite shirt and looked in the mirror. I scrubbed up pretty well. A little thin, maybe, like Si said, but I’m no monster.

  On the way to Siobhan’s I wondered if I should take her a present, but decided that the last presents I’d bought her hadn’t been very successful. It was best just to present myself. That little thought made me giggle as I walked up the hill.

  There was no sign of her cat. I hadn’t seen him after the funeral either, but Siobhan hadn’t said anything so I assumed he must be okay. I felt clammy with nerves as I approached the front door, but as I wavered I heard Mum’s voice in my head and forced myself to do it. I rang the bell and waited.

  She didn’t come.

  I rang the bell again, and knocked, just in case the bell wasn’t working. Still no answer. For a writer, she seems to spend a hell of a lot of time out of the house.

  I was about to turn away, when I became aware of something hot in my pocket. It really did feel as if the key was trying to burn its way through the material. I felt it calling out to me: Use me, use me. I took it out of my pocket. It was like a cigarette, begging me to smoke it, even though I knew it was bad for me. I couldn’t resist.

  I unlocked the door and slipped inside. And this time I knew where I wanted to go. Towards the inner sanctum. Up the stairs. Where I could learn more about her.

  There were a number of framed photographs on the wall beside the stairs. Like before, I wanted to touch them but resisted. They were black and white pictures of a very beautiful woman, wearing clothes from the twenties or thirties. I realised this must be a relative of Siobhan’s – she had the same eyes and those kissable lips. But I knew how dangerous it was to touch. When I ran out of Kathy’s flat, terrified that someone would see me leaving, I’d been worried about fingerprints. I’d taken the beer bottle with me so there was no sign that somebody else had been with Kathy that fatal evening. The only way they’d find that out would be if they dusted for fingerprints, and they’d only do that if they suspected foul play. I was incredibly relieved when I saw the newspaper report, with its reassuring words. A drunken accident, nothing suspicious.

  I reached the top of the stairs. There was a framed copy of the cover of TLC; paperbacks were stacked on a table. There were three rooms leading off the hall: a small room which I looked inside, finding that it was piled high with junk (cardboard boxes, old teddy bears, more books, an old record player and accompanying vinyl; the debris of Siobhan’s childhood?; stuff that she can’t use but can’t throw away either); a bathroom; and a master bedroom. It was all very neat – even the junk room had a certain orderliness about it – and tastefully decorated. I wondered if Siobhan got lonely living here on her own. Had Phil ever lived here with her? I hated to think of him fouling the air; it was like thinking of a burglar invading this sacred space, violating it. I was so glad that my warning had worked and that he hadn’t been back. I’d done two women a big favour that day.

  I went into the bathroom first. Again, very tidy, spotlessly clean. The mirror gleamed – not like the mirror here in my flat, with its layer of dust and specks of shaving foam and toothpaste mottling your reflection. I had to deliberately slow down my breathing when I saw the bath. There were candles around it, all the wonderful lotions and potions that most women seem to have: bubble bath, several varieties of oil and bath soak and Japanese crystals, whatever they were. This was where Siobhan spent her most private, naked moments. I put my hand into the bath and stroked the plastic. There was a hair on the side – one she’d missed when cleaning the bath. I ran it between my fingers, then rolled it into a small ball and put it in my pocket.

  I opened the bathroom cabinet and looked inside. Headache tablets, assorted pills in small brown plastic bottles. Dental floss and tweezers; nail clippers and cotton buds. All the little things she used to make herself more beautiful. I moved onto the bottom shelf and found some contact lens solution. Next to that were a number of tubes. Savlon, for when poor Siobhan gets a cut or sore skin. Deep Heat, for when Siobhan gets muscular pains and doesn’t have someone on hand to give her a massage. Preparation H for when… well, maybe Phil did used to live with Siobhan after all.

  I closed the cabinet door and looked down at the toilet. It practically sparkled. Again, nothing like the toilet in my flat. I unbuttoned my jeans, pushed them down and sat on the toilet seat. Just for a few seconds. I didn’t do anything, just sat there. Then I stood, pulled up my trousers and headed towards the bedroom.

  It was a lovely room, the walls painted white, more Modigliani pictures on the walls: those naked women, stretched out, purring. And speaking of such things, Siobhan’s cat was lying on the bed, blinking at me. I felt a whoosh of relief. He was okay, after all. I sat down beside him and stroked him, eliciting sounds of pleasure. A splash of dribble fell from his lips onto the quilt. Siobhan wouldn’t like that. In fact, I was surprised she let the cat sleep on the bed, what with all that fur and the risk of fleas. Perhaps she was a bit freer in the bedroom. Perhaps the bedroom is where the real Siobhan emerges, a glorious sexual butterfly stretching her wings…

  I got up from the bed a
nd walked around the room, careful to stay away from the window. I loved the way light flooded into the room. Siobhan was very lucky to have this place. Now all she needed was someone to share it with. Somebody like me. I could imagine myself lying in this bed beside Siobhan, the cat at the end of the bed. I’d bring Siobhan breakfast and sit beside her reading the paper while she dunked soldiers into a boiled egg. Then she’d put her plate aside and gesture for me to put the paper down. I love you so much, she’d say. And then she’d get that naughty glint in her eye and say, Why don’t you fuck me?

  I moved around the bedroom. There was a huge wardrobe in the corner of the room. I opened it and saw how few clothes there were inside. There was no sign of the clothes I’d bought her.

  I shut the door then turned back to the bed. That was when I saw a hardback book lying on the bedside table. I bent down to pick it up and realised, with a spasm of guilty excitement, that it was a diary. It had this year’s date on the front. I sat down next to the cat. There was a fist clenching and unclenching in my stomach. Should I open it? I knew I shouldn’t, but what if there something about me in it? There might be something in this book that told me how to win Siobhan’s heart – that key that I’d been looking for.

  I opened it at a random page and read the following passage. I can remember every word – it’s seared into my memory:

  I practically dragged him up to the bedroom and ripped off his clothes, and then there was the shock of the cold bedclothes over and under our hot flesh…..

  ….. and nothing had changed. The cat hair still made him sneeze. He squashed me under his weight. He moaned and grunted and thrusted, ripping at my hair and using his fingers in all the wrong places. I’d been really turned on for the first two minutes but then I just kept thinking, I want a real man. I wanted to be fucked, by a man with a dick like a truncheon, not this skinny little excuse for a penis. I want to come three times in a night.

  I snapped the diary shut.

  Beneath me, the front door had just opened and closed.

  Somebody had come in.

  Chapter 13

  Siobhan

  Sunday

  Have just got in from tennis. Dennis couldn’t believe how well I was playing – nor could I, for that matter. It was as if I took all the fear and rage and confusion about this Alex business, packed it into a small green fluorescent ball, and smashed it at him, over and over, slamming it into the corners of the court, putting it over his head, squeaking it just inside the tramlines. I beat him, for the first time ever. 6-1.

  The tennis was a brief and welcome break from the Alex situation, but I feel weirdly compelled to get as many different opinions as I possibly can. I was on the phone to Mum for hours last night. I was very calm (at that point!) but I think she was crying. Then I called Paula and we had a long chat, and after that, I even called Jess. She and I had our first decent conversation in weeks, and she only mentioned Tom’s teething problems once. I even offered to do the godmotherly thing and take him out for an afternoon, which she fell over herself to accept; but mostly we talked about what had been going on with Alex. I ‘philled’ her in on the Phil situation too. (Tried to call him again last night but he never seems to be in, or else he’s still sulking. Tosser)

  All of them – Mum, Dennis, Paula, Jess – say I must go to the police. Alex has been using my credit card. He’s spent hundreds of pounds on it. I know they’re right, but something’s stopping me. After all, it’s not as if he’s broken into the house, or attacked me, or anything. He must have just taken my card out of my bag at some point, written down the number, and replaced it. I’m not condoning it, but at least he put it back. He’d have got access to the washing line by climbing over the back gate; and I’m sure it was me who left the mug out in the kitchen. I must have spilt the cat food, too. He’s not Houdini, he can’t have got into my house without forcing a lock or breaking a window – I’m so paranoid about security these days.

  I don’t know for sure that it was him who followed me the other week, and what else has he done? Nothing, except send me a card saying how much he likes and fancies me (OK, so that was a little inappropriate, but he’s clearly embarrassed about that). He’s sent me flowers (OK, so he didn’t realize they were dead) and has bought me expensive presents (WITH MY OWN MONEY, Siobhan, you sap).

  Anyway, I’ve decided how I’m going to play it. I’ve made it clear that his attentions aren’t welcome…although a tiny part of me thinks, what a shame. I just keep remembering the look in his eyes when he told me I was beautiful. It was one of those gorgeously longing looks, so full of affection. Phil never used to look at me like that.

  Don’t go there. The guy is probably a total freak. He scared me, and he’s robbed me. Aargh, this is so confusing!

  SO. I’m going to ask him for the money back, and if he doesn’t pay up, then I’ll go to the police. I’ll keep the underwear, because it’s too weird to give that back to him, specially since I’ve now worn it, although he might like that. (happily, it fits me very well and doesn’t climb up my arse at all). I’ve worn the clothes too, obviously – which is another major reason why I don’t think the police will listen to me – but I’ll get them dry-cleaned, give them back to him, and he can sell them at one of those second-hand designer shops. Or he can wear them himself, or dress his blow-up doll in them, for all I care. Whatever.

  What am I going to do about seeing him in class though? Jess and Paula both think I should get him kicked out; but then I’ve got to make a formal complaint and jump through all those bureaucratic hoops. I think I’ll write to him instead. I’ve got his address in my student file. Yes. I’ll write to him, tell him how much he owes me and that he can have the Prada back. And I will suggest that it’s best that he drops out of my class under his own volition.

  I’m writing this sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for the bath to fill up. I’m so sweaty – when I nipped into the bedroom to grab the diary from the bedside cabinet, Biggles was lying on the bed, and he gave me an ‘ooh, you’re smelly’ look; that haughty expression that cats do so well.

  This bath is so damn slow. I’m aching from the tennis, and I’m still disturbed by what happened with Alex yesterday, and Kathy’s funeral, but despite all the confusion I feel oddly invigorated. Not just by the exercise. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s a mixture of things: the catharsis of talking to good friends and family. The puzzle of figuring out a solution. The secretive buzz of having someone really fancy me, to the extent of buying me really expensive clothes. Yes, yes, I know – I paid for the damn clothes, but still. I wish Alex was less screwed up, or richer. He’s not bad looking, and if he’d paid for the Prada himself, I’d probably be on cloud nine by now. I love men who buy me clothes. He scared me shitless yesterday, but I think that it was just the emotions of the funeral making me overreact. I can deal with the likes of him. The fact that he thinks I’m beautiful makes me feel strong, capable, dominant. And sexy too.

  It’s so nice to hear a man say that you’re beautiful. Especially a younger man! Albeit a nutter… I’ve just peeled my damp tennis things off and stood in front of the big bathroom mirror, watching myself slowly turn into a ghost in the steam, trying to see myself through someone else’s eyes. Through a non-critical person’s eyes.

  And I have to say: not bad. Firm enough. I’m no Cheryl Cole but at least I don’t have cellulite or rolls of fat. Wish my tits were bigger, but they’re still pretty perky, and I don’t have to hide my body during sex anymore, the way I used to feel I had to when I was younger.

  Am now sitting in the bath writing this. I recently discovered that if I lean against the bath pillow, rest my diary on my knees, and keep my hands dry, I can carry on scribbling quite effectively. I adore big, deep, hot baths but unless you’re reading a book or listening to the radio, it’s such dead time, and writing this bloody diary is so time-consuming. I think I’ve spent as much time writing about Alex and the ‘situation’ as I have talking about it, ie. HOURS. I w
ish I spent half as long writing fiction. I’ve got three novels’ worth of words in my last two diaries alone. Shame my life is normally so boring – a confessional memoir would be a piece of cake, if I had anything worth confessing…

  I can hear Biggles scuffling around in my bedroom – bless him, he never comes near the bathroom when I’m in it. He thinks I’m going to wash him. He hasn’t quite been himself since the wall fell down. The woman in the car told Doreen next door that she’d had to swerve to avoid a black and white cat that ran out in front of her. I wonder if he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome? Perhaps

  What’s that noise?

  Chapter 14

  Alex

  Sunday (Continued)

  I panicked, looking around the room, my instinct telling me that I had to hide. In a corner of my mind an image was illuminated: me, sitting on the bed; Siobhan coming home, smiling as she saw me, saying, ‘Hi, darling’, kissing me softly. But that was for the future. Right now, I needed to get out of sight. But where? Under the bed? No, there was no space. Behind the curtains? They were too short, and there was no balcony. The wardrobe was the only possible place. Watched by Siobhan’s cat (‘Don’t tell,’ I mouthed silently), I opened the wardrobe and slipped inside, crouching on the solid oak floor. It was like being inside a massive speaker, my heart providing the bass beat.

  I strained to hear what was going on in the world outside the wardrobe. At first I couldn’t make out a thing above my thudding pulse, but then I heard a creak and several quick footsteps. Siobhan (oh, my Siobhan) was coming up the stairs. I pressed my ear against the wardrobe door. She was heading in my direction – the tread of her pretty feet moving towards me. Here she came, right into the bedroom. I had a moment of amplified horror: had I remembered to put the diary back on the bedside table? Yes – yes, I had. Thank God. I heard her stop and say something to the cat: ‘Something something Biggles.’ Well, now I knew what he was called. Quite cute, though perhaps reflecting a dodgy taste in literature…what the hell was I doing, mulling over the quality of Siobhan’s cat’s name? She was still standing in the bedroom, and I was terrified that she was going to open the door – not because I didn’t want to see her, but I thought it might harm our relationship if she found me crouched in her wardrobe.