Killing Cupid

by Louise Voss

  We were waiting for the taxi when the phone rang again. I grabbed it, thinking it might be someone responding to my email, calling to congratulate me. But, for the second time that day, in a kind of sick, twisted symmetry, someone said, ‘May I speak to Alex Parkinson?’

  ‘Speaking,’ I said.

  She paused. ‘My name is Elaine Meadows. I was a friend of Kathy Noonan’s and I believe you went to the same writing class as her. I’ve been calling all…’

  She might as well have walked into the room and delivered a karate chop to my windpipe. At the same time she was speaking I heard – as if from a great distance – Simon say, ‘The taxi’s here,’ and I must have gestured that I would be one moment, because the three of them headed out to the cab.

  ‘I heard that you went to Kathy’s funeral. I wondered…‘

  ‘Sorry,’ I said, ‘who did you want to speak to?’

  ‘Alex Parkinson. You said…‘

  I interrupted again. ‘No, sorry – my name’s Alex Parker. I must have misheard you. You must have got the wrong number.’

  I dropped the receiver. I was sweating. Why the fuck did I lie to her like that? It looked so suspicious, so obvious. I hurried towards the front door, the taxi driver sounding his horn impatiently. As I shut the door behind me, the phone began to ring again.

  The meal tasted of cardboard; the wine like dirty washing-up water. I felt sick, unable to concentrate on anything. Emily joked about it, saying I must be in some kind of shock, dreaming about success. Simon raised a toast – ‘To bestsellerdom’ – and I held up my glass weakly. Maybe it wouldn’t have been so bad if I hadn’t felt so happy during the afternoon; it was like coming down from E, landing so hard that it knocked all the wind out of me. Kathy’s friend had found me. It was all the fault of that arsehole Brian. If I saw him again, I’d throttle him; I’d stuff his socks full of rocks and chuck him in the Thames. It was so unfair. What the hell was I going to say if that woman called again – especially as I’d lied to her now? Goddamn, Alex – it was such a stupid thing to do.

  I needed time to think. Some space, away from here, away from the flat, from London and Elaine Meadows and Siobhan and dead rats and ghosts.

  ‘Let’s go away,’ I said to Emily.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Let’s go for a break somewhere, to celebrate.’

  Later, Emily told me that she had also been thinking about how nice it would be to go away, to help her recover from the shock of receiving the magazines and the rat. ‘Where shall we go?’

  Across the other side of the restaurant was a man wearing an orange football shirt – the uniform of the Dutch football team.

  ‘Let’s go to Amsterdam,’ I said.

  When we got home, I went online to book our flights to the Netherlands, and also found a hotel for us. Emily was almost bouncing on the bed in anticipation. ‘It’s going to be great,’ she said. I nodded.

  While I was online I checked my emails. There was one from Brian:

  Congratulations! That’s really great news, Alex. I’d like to meet you for a drink so you can tell me all about it. How about tomorrow?

  Again, congrats

  Brian

  Well, I thought, he might be an idiot, but he’s the only person who’s bothered replying to my email. I felt an unexpected warmth towards him. He wasn’t to know that he was dropping me in the shit when he spoke to Elaine Meadows, was he? I quickly replied, saying we could meet up for a drink sometime, but not tomorrow as I was going to Amsterdam with my girlfriend to celebrate.

  Then I joined Emily in bed. The drink had knocked her out and she was snoring. Without warning, I found myself wildly irritated, close to anger. Here she was, sleeping peacefully – well, it was peaceful for her; she couldn’t hear her own room-rattling snores – whilst I was in the middle of a crisis. I took a few deep breaths until the irritation went away. I couldn’t sleep though – there was far too much going on in my head, faces spinning like numbers on a roulette wheel. Women’s faces. Siobhan, Kathy, Emily, an invented face for Elaine Meadows – she had carroty hair in my imagination and a witch’s wart on her chin. And I thought about my mother, replaying many of the cruel things she said to me when I was a child. All that stuff about me being unwanted, ugly, stupid, evil. Maybe the follow up to my book of short stories will be a misory memoir, dedicated to my mum.

  Or a fucking prison memoir.

  Chapter 29

  Siobhan

  Haven’t written for a few days. Been too busy. But thought could bring diary – something to do to wile-whyl -whil away the hours, sitting in coffee shops. Doing what you do in coffee shops in Amster…dam. Ha! Damn.

  Bit out of it actaully. Keep making spelling mistakes and cant be assed to correct them. Tired. Head spinning. Pen too heavy think better go back to hotel to better thnik. Write more later

  Later

  OK so now I know that pot makes me lose the use of my personal pronouns (see above!), not to mention the ability to spell. I feel better now, but it took me a good few hours. Thank goodness I’m not meeting the people from the publishers’ until tomorrow. I think I got a bit carried away, with my first solo foray into a coffee shop.

  I managed to buy the gear, and even roll one for myself. Admittedly it looked like a rolled-up copy of the Financial Times, but then a nice Dutch bloke helped me tighten it up a bit. I didn’t mind him butting in. I’d done the hard part – walking up to the counter and asking to see the menu, so they know you’re after some gear, and not just a coffee. The Dutch guy was called Evan. I might go and meet him later – he said he’d be there after eight. I think he was hitting on me – stop press, MAN FANCIES SIOBHAN, shock horror; though he was stoned too so he was probably seeing me through dope goggles. I can’t say that he really set my knickers alight but he seemed nice enough, if a little shifty. At least he spoke great English.

  It was strong gear, too – Evan said it was called ‘Afghan Gold’. He talked about it like it was some kind of fine wine. When I was writing that stuff above, after my new friend had gone, my pen felt so heavy that I could hardly lift it. It was like my brain had slowed down, and I didn’t even really care that I was spelling things wrongly, or what I was writing. Very liberating, actually, to not care what you put down on the page.

  And liberating to have a couple hours’ respite from the pressure I’ve been going through at home, too. Finding out about Alex like that, and thinking that I was actually going to have a heart attack when I heard about his deal. Really, I literally couldn’t breathe, and Barbara – those bloody writing students get everywhere – looked quite worried. I mean, things have got to a pretty bad state when an overweight septuagenarian with varicose veins worries about my health!

  But the Alex thing is beginning to seem like some giant trick the universe is playing on me, for the sole purpose of tormenting me; I feel poisoned by it, like some bastard cherub dipped an arrow in a bucket of strychnine and fired it at me. There I was, minding my own business, trying lipstick shades on the back of my hand in Boots, wishing I had someone who would complain about the lipstick traces I’d left on his collar, or skin; when Barbara tapped me on the shoulder, looming up behind me like Fungus the Bogeyman with a shopping basket.

  ‘Hello, Siobhan!’ she says, friendlily but somehow cautiously, like a mental nurse talking to one of her patients. Like she’s afraid I’m going to go off on one again (turns out that I was, kind of. But there was still no need for her to act like that). ‘Are you feeling better? We were all ever so sorry when you left, you know. The class isn’t the same without you.’

  I smiled weakly. ‘Thanks Barbara.’ I wondered if I should apologise – hadn’t I said something quite nasty to her? I couldn’t remember if it was her or Mary, so I decided against apologising unnecessarily.

  ‘We’ve got a very nice young man teaching us now. He’s quite hot on homework though – works us much harder than you used to! He’s had a book published, you know.’

  ‘So have I,’ I
said, pretending to be offended that she hadn’t remembered, when actually I was very offended. My hand now had six different pastel lines drawn on it in lipstick. I decided on a raspberry-coloured one, and scrubbed off the others with a tissue.

  ‘Oh yes, dear, well, you writers are such a talented bunch, aren’t you? And have you heard the wonderful news about Alex?’

  I nearly dropped the raspberry lipstick. ‘Alex?’

  ‘Yes, remember him? I always thought his work showed such promise.’

  ‘Alex,’ I repeated, somehow knowing what was coming.

  ‘Got a publishing contract, he has, for his stories. And they want him to write a novel too. Brian told us last night in class. Alex wasn’t there because he’s gone to celebrate in Amsterdam with his girlfriend. Isn’t that lovely for them? He got an awful lot of money, too, I understand. Fifty thousand pounds, at least.’

  Fifty grand? Fucking Alex got fifty grand? Well, at least it wasn’t half a million, but still – 50K for a few minging short stories and a not-even-written-yet novel? My advance was long ago swallowed up by the bricks and mortar of my house. The house where Phil and I were supposed to live happily ever after.

  And he’s taken that piglet on holiday to Amsterdam… I felt faint.

  ‘Are you all right, dear?’ said Barbara, looking panic-stricken. ‘You’ve gone a funny colour. Are you going to have another of your turns?’

  I could have punched her. I clenched my fist around the lipstick. I don’t have ‘turns’, for God’s sake! She made me sound like some ancient grandmother. ‘I’ve got to go. Nice to see you Barbara. Do send my love to the rest of the class.’

  I pocketed the lipstick and marched out, panting with shock.

  So that’s how come I’m sitting in a hotel in Amsterdam, wearing a stolen raspberry lipstick (it’s a bit too pink for my liking, actually. Wish I’d taken the Ginger Spice one) and coming down off an extremely strong joint. I wonder how I go about finding out where Alex and the Piglet are staying? I feel empowered, as it happens, exhilarated by the chase and the challenge and the change of scenery. If I want things to happen in my life, I have to make them happen. If I want to get back at Alex and the slag of a girlfriend who slagged me off, I have to do it myself. Instead of sitting on my ass grumbling about him like some sad, weak loser.

  It was easy to get out here. I rang Patricia and reminded her of that offer by the Dutch company to do a reading, so she rang my Dutch editor, Mareliese. Mareliese said there wasn’t enough time to organise a reading, but if I was coming over anyway, she’d love to take me to lunch, and into a few bookshops to sign some stock. They couldn’t pay for my flight, though. But it wasn’t expensive on Easyjet, and by that time I’d made up my mind. And it was nice to have an official reason to be here.

  I also rang Alex’s flat and spoke to his flatmate, pretending to be someone from an agency wanting to represent him (a great excuse to ring, I thought). His flatmate confirmed that he was away in Amsterdam until next Thursday. I invented a name and phone number, and told him to get Alex to call me.

  Mareliese recommended a lovely hotel. It’s where all the authors stay when they come to Amsterdam to do promotion, and there are signed copies of all their books in a little library next to Reception. I wondered if Alex might have plumped for this one too, but there was nobody by the name Parkinson when I checked. And anyway, he probably doesn’t know about it. Yet.

  The room’s a bit expensive, but I thought, sod it. I need a break. So I went for a canal-view one, with huge black-framed windows running down the length of it, and the dark water sliding past outside. The building opposite has twenty-eight windows, all with shutters. It must have been some kind of warehouse originally. The windows are all different sizes – big down the middle, flanked by smaller ones, and then with these two tiny round windows right at the top; bits of wood jutting out above them which must have been where the pulleys were attached. It looks like a pair of eyes with eyebrows. Freaked me out a bit when I was high, actually.

  If I try hard enough, I can pretend that I’m here because I’ve won some prestigious Dutch award for Best First Novel, or something. Or I’m about to be picked up and taken to a radio station for a national radio interview.

  I’ve just rung thirty hotels in my Rough Guide to Amsterdam, starting with the most expensive ones, assuming that Alex will want to splash out, now he’s rich and everything. No Alex Parkinsons. Maybe they only stayed two nights and then went to Rotterdam or somewhere. I’ll try a few more then I’m giving up….

  ….Ha! Well, I was wrong about Alex wanting to splash out. I’ve finally found him, on my 35th call, to a hotel listed under the ‘budget’ heading in the guide book. I double-checked it was him, by asking if he was with his girlfriend Emily, and he was. Bingo. Unfortunately their hotel seems to be quite a way away from here. And I haven’t decided what exactly I’m going to do anyway.

  Think I’ll go out for some dinner and a wander, get some air. And maybe back to the coffee shop to see if Evan’s around.

  Monday

  What an excellent night! Evan is such a laugh. I can’t remember when I last laughed so much. His friends were an interesting bunch, too. A bit lacking in the tooth department, some of them, and there was a little too much talk of breaking people’s limbs for my liking; but I’m sure all that was just macho bollocks. Big lads, they were. I’ve never seen quite so many tattoos. The air was as heavy with testosterone as with pot – but I loved it. I loved the uncomplicated masculinity of their company. They really made me feel welcome, like a little sister.

  Evan’s friend owns that coffee shop, which is why he’s always in there. I had all sorts of different flavoured beers, including a raspberry one, to match my lipstick, and God knows how many hits off how many different joints.

  I was really out it. Evan walked me back here and we had a bit of a snog on the bridge, but – thankfully – I declined to let him come back to my room. He’s not my type. Too…I dunno…meathead-ish, I suppose. But not stupid – we had some long, long talks. Or rather, I talked, and he listened. I couldn’t seem to stop, actually. It was so great to have a sympathetic ear, and I really felt he understood my plight.

  I told him all about Alex, and what he’d done to me: breaking into my house, using my credit card, following me home. And about how the Piglet badmouthed me to her friends for no reason. I think I told him about Phil two-timing me too, and about not having a job. I think – oh blimey – I might even have cried at one point. But Evan was lovely. He held me close and stroked my face and handed me joints to puff on and said, ‘I’d sort Alex out for you, if I could get my hands on him.’

  Evan had very large hands.

  I remember sort of sitting up and saying, ‘He’s in Amsterdam at the moment, as it happens.’ Then I remember taking the scrap of paper with the name of Alex’s hotel on it out of my bag and showing it to him. Him nodding and stretching out one of those big hands for the scrap. Asking me to write down Alex’s surname too. I wrote it down.

  Evan looked at the piece of paper and slipped it into his top pocket. The moon shimmered on the black surface of the canal and, all of a sudden, I felt cold and exhausted. I asked Evan to walk me to the door of my hotel. Then he turned away and walked back across the bridge, and I remember marvelling at how someone who’d smoked so much dope could have so much purpose in their stride.

  Chapter 30

  Alex

  Amsterdam

  Emily threw the rucksack on one bed and herself on the other, sprawling on her back, breasts bouncing beneath her shirt, arms and legs spread, star-shaped.

  She let out a long, relieved sigh. ‘This is exactly what we need – a few days of peace. Away from horrible magazines and horrible dead rats – and I was going to say away from Pernilla, but I suppose I’ve got to be nice about her now.’

  I smiled at her, then looked around the room. Not bad for the price. The view was of a brick wall, but it wasn’t an English brick wall, and that’s what mattere
d. No mini-bar, but there was a TV and – praise be – a trouser press. Just what every weary traveller needs.

  ‘Shame about the twin beds. This is supposed to be the sex capital of Europe, isn’t it? And they give you twin beds.’ Emily had wanted to go to this hotel that she’d heard about at work – some place where authors always stay. But I decided it wouldn’t feel right, not yet – not until I’ve actually got that book with my name on the cover in my hands. And I haven’t got any of the money yet, so, having a rare attack of level-headedness, I booked us into this cheapish hotel. Now, looking at the separate beds, I wished I’d splashed out a bit – not that five thousand pounds is going to last very long.

  Emily rolled over on her side and hitched an eyebrow. ‘We’ll just have to snuggle up in one bed, won’t we?’

  I came over to give her a kiss; Emily tried to catch my arm, to pull me onto the bed, but I resisted. Despite my complaint about the twin beds, I wasn’t really in the mood. My thoughts kept strobing, flicking from one thing to another:

  Kathy falling from the fire escape… literary glory…Siobhan telling me I was a stalker… the dead rat in the jiffy bag… Elaine’s telephone call… Emily and Siobhan in the café…. the things I can spend my advance on… my mother telling me I’d never amount to anything… that time I hid in Siobhan’s wardrobe….

  Round and round and round they go. And although my main worry involves Kathy and her fucking friend, and my main source of happiness is my literary success (oh, and Emily, of course – how could I forget?), it’s odd how many of the scenarios that whizz through my head involve Siobhan. It’s as if she’s still at the centre of my life, my nemesis. When I think about her sending the rat to Emily, and the magazines, and seeing them together, I feel so confused: angry and stupefied. I don’t know what to do about her. Should I confront her? Warn her to stop? I really don’t know. And I promised myself that while I was in Amsterdam I wouldn’t think about it. I wouldn’t think about her.