Текст книги "Killing Cupid"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards,Louise Voss
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Текущая страница: 2 (всего у книги 19 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 7 страниц]

Chapter 3

Siobhan

Well. That was quite an evening.

I got to college early – I wanted to be the first one there, rather than drifting in with the other students as I did last week. I want to project more authority. I dressed up a bit more this week, too, I’m not sure why. Maybe because I feel a little more confident now I know that they aren’t the world’s most intimidating bunch. So I put on my high boots and my fishnet tights. Decided against the denim mini-skirt – too slapperish, with the fishnets – but went for my knee length black cord skirt, and a polo neck. It must really be true, what they say about attractiveness being all about confidence. I felt pretty good.

As I walked past the main office area, Betty the receptionist called out to me: ‘Ms. McGowan? Someone left this for you.’

She reached over the desk and handed me an envelope; wrapped in a pink ribbon, no less. I mean, who puts a ribbon round an envelope? I thanked her, and she gave me a knowing look over the top of her half-moon specs. I didn’t want to open it then and there, so I went into the disabled toilet and locked the door, before ripping open the envelope. I’d thought it would be a card, so I was surprised to pull out a single, typed sheet of A4, in one of those fancy fonts meant to look like handwriting.

I was even more surprised at the heading: ‘Bookjungle.com: ’ it said. ‘This reader, Aparkinson, has awarded this product * * * * *. Five stars. It was a review of TLA.

‘Sublime, erotic masterpiece,’ was the sub-heading. I quickly scanned the page, superlatives jumping out all over the place at me. It was a rave review, so glowing it was almost neon. In fact – and I never thought I’d say this – it was almost too glowing. Pleased as I was, it was embarrassing, too. Like that creep at the gym that time, who kept going on about how sexy my calves were. Nice to have the compliment, but a bit much really.

I couldn’t even think who Aparkinson was, until I saw the note at the end:

‘Dear Siobhan, I read your book. In case you don’t look at Bookjungle.’ (As if! All authors look at Bookjungle.) ‘I thought you might appreciate my posting. I really loved it. All the very best, see you in class. Alex.’

Alex – the boy rebel. How weird! I wouldn’t have put him down for a pink-ribbon gushy kind of guy. But I had wondered if he fancied me.

He might not, though. Perhaps he just genuinely loved the book. It’s very sweet of him.

I wasn’t quite sure how to react. I mean, what was I supposed to say? Thanks?

I re-read the review more slowly. I can’t say I wasn’t chuffed – it’s been years since anyone posted a review of TLA, not since that bastard who proclaimed it ‘Unreadable – the worst book I ever read,’ and gave it no stars.

It was, admittedly, lovely to see such a nice one, and to know it’s on the internet for all to see. I kind of wish he hadn’t put his name, though, so the other students, when they eventually – and inevitably – look it up, don’t discount it because they know that he knows me.

Can’t resist transcribing a few choice quotes:

‘The central character, Tara, is incandescent, shining on the page, the kind of person we all dream of meeting in real life but so seldom do; we cannot help but fall for her.’

Aah – sweet!

‘The prose is rich and sweet as marzipan, but never cloying, never too much. Instead, we are happy to gorge ourselves on these delicious words, to get drunk on sugar, to be giddy like E-numbered-up children.’

Hmm, that’s a bit OTT.

‘Sex scenes are notoriously difficult to get right, but McGowan seduces the reader in the same way the handsome Luke seduces the lovely Tara; a verdant eroticism moistens these pages, as sexy as hell, as blissful as heaven.’

Yeah, baby! Love it.

Anyway, I slid the review back into the envelope and put it, plus ribbon (Biggles will enjoy playing with it) back into my bag, and exited the toilet, glad that there wasn’t a queue of cross people in wheelchairs waiting outside.

When I got into the classroom, I expected to see Alex, waiting cockily for my reaction, but the room was empty except for Poor Brian. It was funny, because when he clocked my boots and the tights, his eyes opened so wide you’d think I was naked.

‘H-h-h-hello,’ he said, gulping like a cartoon character who’s just swallowed a pikestaff.

We chatted for a bit – I asked him a bit about his fantasy book, but I have to admit that it sounded as if he was talking in a foreign language, with all the place names and weird aliens and so on. I told him that I’d loved The Blind Assassin, and that had a sci-fi story within it, but he hadn’t even heard of Margaret Atwood!

Then he glanced towards the door, and for a moment I thought he was going to lunge at me; he had this rather worryingly expectant look in his eyes. Or else do a runner. But to my astonishment, he produced a copy of TLA! That’s doubled my annual sales figures then. I wonder if they’ve all gone out and bought it? I hope so. But I wasn’t sure what he wanted me to do with it – he sort of waved it at me.

‘Would you like me to sign it?’ I asked, and he blushed gratefully, nodding. I duly inscribed it, and the poor chap looked as if he was about to die with gratitude – but it was a lot more straightforward than Alex’s big gesture.

The others all arrived together, just as I was handing back the book to Brian. I smiled briefly at Alex, but didn’t make real eye contact with him. I felt a bit … flustered, I suppose. Like he somehow had one over on me now – although of course that’s silly. I don’t know what it was, but as soon as I saw him, I felt uneasy. When I looked at him, skinny and cockier than he seemed last week, the review and the pink ribbon seemed a bit inappropriate. I casually leaned over and pushed it right down to the bottom of my handbag, so it was hidden. I suddenly wanted him to be unsure as to whether or not I’d even received it, and I decided not to mention it at all, unless he asked me outright. Perhaps I’ll thank him, next week, without making a big deal out of it.

At the end of the class, I could see Alex beginning to loiter behind the others as they filed out, chatting. Only Kathy was left, so I wandered over to her desk and told her how much I’d enjoyed the piece she’d read out earlier.

‘I’m so glad you like it!’ she said, her face lighting up. She looks really pretty when she smiles, under that harsh jagged haircut. I subtly edged my shoulders round until my back was to Alex, and he wasn’t in my line of vision at all – although I was somehow still very aware of him there, lurking.

‘Actually,’ Kathy said after a minute chatting about the task, ‘I was wondering if I could have a word?’

Phew, I thought – a reason to ask Alex to leave. But when I turned back around, he was marching out of the classroom, without a farewell.

I turned back, and Kathy was standing there, beaming – with a copy of TLA in her hands! I couldn’t believe it, and started to laugh.

‘I’ll be able to retire on the royalties soon,’ I said. ‘It’s brilliant – you’re all buying it! I knew there was a reason I should take up teaching.’

Kathy laughed too, and good-naturedly handed me a biro. ‘Loved it,’ she said. ‘I really couldn’t put it down.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, blushing. Her praise somehow felt more valid than Alex’s overblown words and Poor Brian’s stammered compliments, and I felt foolish for over-reacting, even in my own head, about Alex’s review. At least I hadn’t made a fool of myself by mentioning it in any way. And having three of them comment on it definitely diluted the impact.

I wonder if there’s any chance that Kathy fancies me too? She certainly seems to glow when she talks to me. But perhaps I’m just being arrogant.

I left the college feeling far more cheerful than of late, all the evening’s words of flattery echoing around my head. Perhaps it wasn’t too late to get another book deal after all. I must have some talent, to provoke such a reaction. I’d just forgotten, that’s all.

Either that, or I’ve got three new admirers! Can’t be bad, however you look at it.

Chapter 4

Alex

Wednesday

I spent all afternoon working on my online review of Tara Lies Awake. I submitted it to the site and printed it out, kissing the paper before sealing it in an envelope. I wrote my home number on the printout (haven’t been able to afford to get a new mobile since mine was nicked from my pocket the other week in the pub, and of course it wasn’t bloody insured) and wrapped the envelope with ribbon I’d found in Simon’s room. Nat’s always making cards and doing fancy stuff with parcels, so I expect the ribbon belonged to her. I was sure she wouldn’t mind me borrowing a bit.

On the way to class, I kept imagining how impressed Siobhan would be when she read my review. The more I thought about it the more excited I got. I found myself walking really fast, marching in time with my heartbeat.

I wasn’t sure exactly how to give my review to Siobhan. Ideally, I’d have liked her to stumble across it on the website, but I couldn’t be sure enough that she would see it – authors apparently always check their own Bookjungle rankings, but since the book had been out for so many years, I couldn’t believe that she checked all that regularly. I didn’t want to leave the printout on her desk in case someone else picked it up. And if I handed it to her in class the others might wonder if there was something going on between us. But it had nothing to do with any of them – this was a private matter between Siobhan and me.

Entering the college, I saw the receptionist and decided she was the best person to leave the envelope with, mainly because I couldn’t give a flying one what she thought of me.

‘Has Siobhan McGowan come in yet?’ I asked.

‘I don’t think so, love.’

‘Could you pass this to her when she does?’

She took it and set it aside.

‘You won’t forget, will you? It’s very important.’

She looked at me, then at the pink ribbon wrapped around the envelope and raised a well-plucked eyebrow. ‘No, love, I won’t forget.’

‘Thank you.’

After that, I needed the loo. I must have been in there longer than I thought because when I reached the classroom, everyone, including Siobhan, was already there.

I opened the door and saw Siobhan look me up and down. I swear she seemed impressed. And kind of hungry. Like I was a Mars Bar and she was Marianne Faithfull. She must have read my review already and – well, it looked like it had had the most positive effect I could have hoped for. Could it be that praise makes her horny? Makes her want the person praising her?

Is she that similar to me?

To my delight, I saw a hint of pink poking out of her bag – the envelope I put the card and review in. So the receptionist didn’t let me down. And when I saw what Siobhan wearing…wow! The boots, below what looked like they could be stockings on her long, sexy legs, and more make up than last time – though not too much, nothing tarty or cheap. She looked sensational.

She asked me to sit down, and I could feel her eyes on me as I walked to my chair. I had this rushing sensation in my stomach and chest, that feeling you get when something very exciting is about to happen. I was trying not to stare at Siobhan too hard, trying to be cool, trying to stay calm. And then she turned all the lights out.

It was a shock at first, suddenly being in pitch darkness with a group of near-strangers. But, very quickly, I became accustomed to it. I even forgot the others were there, and it felt like it was just me and Siobhan. Brian wasn’t scratching like a mangy hamster, Kathy wasn’t sending me hate rays for being a man, Barbara wasn’t snoring. It was just me and Siobhan, Siobhan and me, and it was so dark with the blackout blinds down that I couldn’t even see my own hands, and nobody else could see how aroused I was as I listened to Siobhan’s deliciously husky voice.

She asked us to think of a character, but the only character I could think of was her, and then there were two of us in the story in my head, her and me. I couldn’t manage the bit about standing in my childhood bedroom. All I could picture was my bedroom now, rucked-up sheets beneath two entwined bodies.

I felt like she was caressing me with her words, reaching across the room to me and stroking my hair, my face, touching my eyelids and running her hand down the back of my neck, then around to the front and – oh God – into my lap. I could smell her – her skin and perfume and hair – and when the lights came on I nearly fell out of my chair in my desperate attempt to cross my legs.

Have to admit, though, the mood was spoiled a bit by the sight of the drool on Grandma’s hairy chin. But when my eyes adjusted to the brightness I couldn’t stop myself gazing at Siobhan. She caught my eye then quickly looked away, shy, sweet, coquettish.

When I had to write down what I’d visualised, I had to make something up. I couldn’t be honest, could I? This journal is the only place where I can be fully honest.

The class ended and the others started to file out. Brian stuttered something to her as he passed and she smiled at him, sympathetically. I hung back, waiting for all the others to leave. I wanted to talk to Siobhan about her book and my review. I wanted to give her the chance to say how pleased she was. But bloody Kathy wasn’t leaving. She stayed in her seat, scribbling something, and Siobhan came over and started talking to her. It didn’t seem that Kathy would be leaving too quickly. Realising there was no way I could hang around without seeming like a weirdo, I slunk out.

But I wasn’t too worried because I knew Siobhan would love what I’d written – and I was confident that she’d want to call me to talk about it. She…shit, there’s the phone now.

It wasn’t her. Someone for Simon. Of course it wouldn’t be her. She’ll want to play it cool, won’t want to let me know how excited she was to read my words straight away. I expect she’ll call tomorrow, Thursday. I wish I still had my mobile – I’d forgotten what it’s like to have to literally wait by the phone.

I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Too excited.

Thursday

Had a terrible evening. Sat in the living room watching TV and waiting for the phone to ring. Nothing on except a programme about lions: all they seem to do is sleep and shag. Looked at the cover of Siobhan’s novel: the naked woman; Siobhan’s picture; the two merging into one. I stared at the phone. It stared back, mocking me. It rang at one point, making me leap off the sofa. It was Si, asking if I wanted to join him and Nat for a drink.

‘I can’t.’

He sighed. ‘You need to get out more, Alex. You couldn’t come out the other night because of your writing class. You can’t keep turning down our invitations. We’ll get offended.’ I could hear the clink of glasses in the background, Christina on the jukebox. I put the phone down, worried about blocking the line.

I smoked six cigarettes and rummaged through Si’s bedside cabinet, trying to find his dope stash. Just a few hard crumbs. I ate them. They didn’t do anything.

At ten, I checked the phone connection. At this point, I realised how sad I was being. Maybe I should unplug the phone, I thought. Then when she tried to ring she wouldn’t be able to get hold of me; it would just ring and ring, and she’d be there getting worried, wondering where I was. I knelt down to pull the cord out of the wall. But I couldn’t do it.

I wish I’d had the chance to talk to her after the class. Maybe I was too subtle, simply writing my phone number. Perhaps I should have made some ‘call me’ sign in class. But that would have made me look like a twat. And I’m sure Siobhan’s the kind of person who understands subtlety. Her novel is subtle. So why hasn’t she taken the hint and called? Does she think I’m just a loser who doesn’t even have a mobile phone?

Or maybe she’s just shyer than she seems.

Friday

Maybe she lost my number. That could be it. She might have lost the card I gave her somehow. She might even have lost her bag. Maybe she’s been hunting her flat or house, getting frantic, wanting to call me, worrying that I’ll be upset. Of course, I’ll reassure her, I’ll tell her it’s fine, let’s go for a drink, a meal, and who knows what will follow.

Friday night, and I’m in my bedroom. It’s eleven thirty and, through the thin walls, Si and Nat are at it again, doing more for Anglo-French relations than Concorde, hypermarkets and Julian Barnes combined. I’ve put my headphones on, to drown it out, but when I close my eyes all I can see is flesh.

But it’s not just sex. It isn’t. No, no, I’m not being dirty. Not like when mum caught me in the bathroom, caught me with the magazine. And she made me scrub with the pumice stone: made me scrub my hands and . . . no, that’s the past. I don’t want to remember it.

Saturday

No call again. I went out for a walk, up towards the college. I wasn’t sure if Siobhan teaches there at the weekend; thought I might bump into her. I didn’t.

When I got home, I knocked on Simon’s door.

‘Enter at your own risk.’

I went in. The room stank of dope and sex. No sign of Natalie. Simon was on his iMac, looking at porn on the Web. The girl on the screen looked very young; I had to look away.

‘Did anyone call for me?’ I asked.

He reached for his cigarettes and lit up.

'Yeah...actually, some chick did ring.’

‘What? When?’

‘Yesterday afternoon when you were at work.’

‘What did she say?’

He grinned. ‘She asked if I wanted to save money on my gas bill.’

‘You git.’

‘She was nice, actually. Maybe I could have fixed you up on a blind date.’ He laughed and coughed simultaneously.

In my mind, I grabbed hold of his stupid, grinning head and shoved it through the screen of his computer. In reality, I just muttered, ‘Arsehole,’ and left the room.

‘Don’t get eggy, Alex,’ he called after me. ‘It was only a joke.’

I came into my room and slammed the door. Then I turned on my own PC, staring at the flickering screen while it booted up, the hard disk grinding away. I could see my reflection in the monitor screen. My hair was all over the place and my eyes looked puffy. I needed a bath.

But if the phone rang while I was in there . . .

I logged onto Facebook and typed Siobhan's name into the search bar. There were five Siobhan McGowan's in the UK, plus some more in Ireland and a page full in the States. Two of them were listed as living in London on the search results. Of those two, one had a picture of a baby as their profile picture; the other had a picture of a cat.

Siobhan doesn't have a baby – but I remembered her telling us she had a cat when she first introduced herself to the class. I clicked through. Because her privacy settings were preventing me from seeing her full profile, I was only able to see a small amount of information, including the fact that she had 82 friends. Twice as many as me. I scanned the list. None of the others from class were on there.

My mouse cursor hovered over the 'Add as friend' button. Should I do it? Why not. After all, we were friends, weren't we? Certainly better friends than half of the people I have listed as friends, most of whom are colleagues or people I haven't seen or wanted to see since I left school.

I clicked the button then had a tremulous little daydream about how long it would be before I saw the words 'In a relationship with Alex Parkinson' appear on her page.

Then I hovered over the 'Poke' button but thought that was taking things a bit too far.

For the next two hours I refreshed the page repeatedly. I learned that one of my 'friends' was bored, that another had a cold, and that one of them had just finished watching the second series of Prison Break on box set. But Siobhan hadn't yet confirmed me as a friend. I checked Twitter but all I found was an account in the name Siobhan MacGowan with a single tweet that had been made six months ago: 'So this is Twitter, eh? Wonder what all the fuss is about. Am going to tweet every day.' Couldn’t be her, unless she’d accidentally added an extra ‘a’ into her surname – unlikely, I’d say.

Monday

I decided this morning it was time to stop moping around. Stop being pathetic and passive. Do something, Alex. I went into work with a plan, albeit a dangerous one. I was going to commit one of the few sackable offences.

I sat down at my desk and put my headset on. My supervisor, Jackie, looked over at me, making sure I wasn’t wasting time before logging on. As we’re consistently being told, Bookjungle is the biggest online retailer in the world – not that you’d know it from our wages – and we have to keep our customers happy by letting them talk to us like we’re shit and not keeping them waiting when they want to tell us this.

I took a couple of calls from people moaning about delays in receiving their books, then did what I’m not supposed to do.

Checking that nobody was watching, I went into what we call the ‘back office’, the part of the computer system that the public can’t see. It’s the database where we keep all our customers’ details. We need to be able to access it in order to answer their queries: we can see their address and all the books and CDs they’ve ordered. But we’re only allowed to look up the details of customers we speak to, and only if we need the information to deal with their enquiry, to prevent you looking up the details of your friends and enemies. To deter us, the system generates random reports, which mean that you have to be able to show the supervisor that you spoke to the customer you were looking up. These reports only capture one in fifty of the customers we look up, but it’s not usually worth taking that chance.

Today, it was worth that chance.

I was quietly confident that Siobhan would be a customer of ours. After all, we are the biggest of our kind, and anyone who reads a lot, like Siobhan must, was more than likely to have ordered a book from us.

I typed her name.

There were 13 Siobhan McGowans on the database. Most were in Ireland, but three were in London, one more than on Facebook. Two of them had North London postcodes. I wasn’t sure which one it would be so I looked at them both. I felt jumpy and sweaty as I hurried to look up the details. The first Siobhan McGowan had bought a few CDs (Norah Jones, Gareth Gates – Jesus wept) and one Delia Smith cookbook. Surely that wasn’t my Siobhan? I’d be very disappointed if it was. I clicked on the second Siobhan and looked at her list of purchases. It was huge. I quickly scanned the list: Ryan Adams, The Cure, Belle and Sebastian, Sting…well, nobody’s perfect. And among the many books was one about teaching creative writing – and Tara Lies Awake by Siobhan McGowan! In fact, she’d ordered her own book several times. I clicked another icon and there were her personal details. Her home and mobile numbers and email address. I copied them, pasted them into an email, then sent it to myself at home, deleting the message from my sent items folder.

I couldn’t concentrate for the rest of the day.

All I could think was, I know where she lives.

Victoria Gardens was a pleasant little street: nice and quiet, curving off the main road, a small Victorian terrace, aptly enough. Close enough to Camden to be hip, and close enough to Hampstead to be respectable and safe. Siobhan lived at number 54. I walked down the odd-numbered side of the street, trying to act casual, trying not to look like I was reading the numbers on the doors. I was having a job in the dim light anyway, but luckily number 54 had a big brass sign on the front door. Siobhan’s house. Just a few feet away.

Close enough to sense her.

After this initial recce, I came home to check there were no phone messages. There weren’t. Then I went on to Google Maps and found the location of her house. It was only a thirty minute walk from my place, if I took the short cuts I carefully worked out.

I couldn’t phone her because she’d want to know where I’d got her number from. Oh, I was snooping on the computers at work, breaking the Data Protection Act, Siobhan. No. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t email her either, for the same reason. But I could walk by her house again, and maybe, just maybe, I’d get lucky. She’d come outside and look surprised and I’d say, ‘How strange, I’ve got a friend who lives down here. I’ve just been to see him. Yes, I’d love a cup of coffee. You lost the card with my number in? No, don’t worry, I knew it would be something like that. And I do have a mobile, by the way, it’s just been nicked. Ha ha.’

I had a bath and downed a couple of glasses of Absolut. Not enough to get me pissed; just a bit of Dutch courage. Or Swedish courage, I should say.

It was nearly nine by the time I had enough Swedish courage to return to Siobhan’s house. It was dark, the sodium orange streetlights illuminating the alleys I cut through. There weren’t many people around: a few dog walkers, a bunch of teenage boys and girls hanging out by the Lock, buckling under the weight of their facial jewellery. I walked past them and on towards Hampstead.

When I got to number 54, I didn’t stop – just walked straight by, glancing to my right. The lights were off downstairs, but there was a light on in the first floor front room which I assumed was the bedroom: not a bright light, maybe a lamp, or candles. It was just before ten – too early for her to be in bed, surely?

I walked to the end of the road then back, again sticking to the odd-numbered side. I lit a cigarette. I wasn’t sure what to do. I couldn’t keep walking up and down, could I? I felt sick. Should I go and knock on the door? No, of course not. What excuse would I give? There were none.

I thought it would be okay to walk by one more time. I felt like there were hundreds of little butterflies going crazy inside me; a thousand newborn spiders wriggling in my stomach.

I was about five houses down from Siobhan’s when her downstairs light came on. Very quickly afterwards, the front door opened.

I ducked behind a car before anyone emerged. My breathing seemed so loud to me I was worried she might be able to hear it from across the road. But when I risked a glimpse around the car’s bonnet, I saw that the person who emerged wasn’t her. It was a bloke, a big, dark-haired rugger-bugger type. My heart sank.

Then I heard the door shut, and the next thing I knew footsteps were coming straight towards me.

I held my breath, wondering what the hell I should do. But then the footsteps ceased, and a car door opened and closed. The engine revved up and I peered through the window of the car I was crouching behind. I could see him in his car; a huge exhausted-looking man. He gripped the steering wheel and drove off.

I memorised his licence plate number.

And after all the lights had gone off in Siobhan’s house, I came home.