Текст книги "Killing Cupid"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

Соавторы: Mark Edwards,Louise Voss
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Текущая страница: 4 (всего у книги 19 страниц) [доступный отрывок для чтения: 7 страниц]

Chapter 6

Alex

Tuesday

It took me almost an hour to choose the Klimt card, but once I’d bought it and got it home, I wrote the message in a feverish rush, letting my feelings spill from my pen and sealing the envelope before I could change my mind.

I printed her address on the envelope then took it down to the postbox. I stood there, gripping it hard, not sure what to do. I wanted her to read it and feel good. I wanted her to know that she could arouse those feelings, even though I’m not sure I want her to know it’s me yet. I need to play it cool – don’t want to seem too keen. That always frightens them off or leads to misunderstandings.

I may have to fight for Siobhan’s affections. Who was that man who left her house the other night? A lover? A friend? Maybe it was just her brother. No need to get violently jealous yet.

Standing beside the postbox, my hand was trembling; my resolve was wavering. And then I heard, ‘That for me?’

It was a postman. He must have unlocked the postbox and emptied the contents without me even noticing. (Sometimes, strangely, I just seem to black out, lose all sense of where I am, my mind conjuring up a fantasy world that over-rides reality.

‘I haven’t got all day, mate,’ the postie said.

I handed him the card. And as soon as I did, I was glad I’d written it.

Now I wish I could be there to see her open it. To see her smile. To see the pink flush of desire creep from her cheeks to her collar.

To hear her say, ‘I want you too.’

Wednesday

Woke up with a headache and wet sheets. Just before going to sleep I read my favourite scene from Tara Lies Awake again – the one where Tara and Luke screw in the changing rooms at the sports centre, their bodies reeking of chlorine from the pool. I must have read that scene twenty times already. I wonder if this scene is pure imagination or based on a real event? The most noteworthy thing that ever happened to me in a sports centre was catching a verruca.

It’s class tonight. I can’t wait, though I feel as nervous as hell. I ought to go to work, but I don’t think I can face it. I’m going to call in sick.

Just did it – Jackie, my supervisor, sounded strange. Well, stranger than normal, the uptight bitch. She is the archetypal little Hitler. A small fish in a tiny pond, poisoned by power. She’s been watching me closely recently because my stats are down. Last week, I took 14% fewer calls than the average employee, and had more toilet breaks than anyone else, apart from cystitic Sharon. Employing her favourite cliché, Jackie told me I needed to buck my ideas up or risk being sent to see David, the big boss. Ooh, I’m scared! But I’m not going to let her get to me. There are far more important things in the world.

Like tonight. Like seeing the woman I…

Oh go on, Alex, admit it.

The woman I love.

There. I said it. Or wrote it, rather. I love Siobhan. I love her I love her I love her! God, that feels good. I want to do what they do in all those tacky songs: shout it from the highest mountain top, proclaim it from the top of the tallest building. I feel it fizzing inside me, a catherine wheel spinning and shooting colours. A piranha gnawing at my stomach lining. Bubbles inflating and floating upwards, making me light, making me dizzy. All these things. Because:

I LOVE HER!

I got there early, without meaning to. I didn’t want to risk arriving to find Siobhan already there on her own so I hung back in the car park, crouching behind a bush, until I saw Barbara and Jane go in. Then I made my way towards the classroom, flashed them a smile and sat down.

Everyone else arrived, and then Siobhan. She looked us over, focussing on me for an extra second, I noticed. I expect she was embarrassed about losing my number. She wasn’t wearing her sexy outfit tonight: instead, she wore a black polo neck jumper and jeans. She still looked good, though, her sweater hugging her breasts, her bottom shapely in her jeans. I felt so hot from looking at her that I had to open a window, which made Barbara grumble.

Siobhan looked at her watch. ‘We’d better wait for Brian.’

But he didn’t appear. After five minutes, during which Siobhan chatted with Kathy, she said, ‘Well, I think we’d better get on.’ She looked a bit worried; perhaps she gets paid by the student. Oh Siobhan, if I could multiply myself to help you, I would. But I wasn’t going to miss Brian. Especially as I was now the only man in the group.

Though that didn’t mean I was the only one with my eye on Siobhan. As the class went on, I noticed how much Kathy was looking at her. Every time Siobhan turned around, Kathy ogled her arse. And she was trying to leap into the limelight at every opportunity. Anyone would think this was fame school, not a creative writing class, and that we should all be wearing black lycra.

‘Who would like to read out their piece from last week?’ Siobhan asked.

Straight away Kathy said, ‘I will.’ Bloody teacher’s pet.

She said the guy in her story had just come to her, ‘walked into her line of vision’ as she put it. Siobhan smiled and nodded at that. He was lonely, she said, and wanted someone to care for him. He’d had a difficult childhood, and a worse adolescence, sitting in his musty bedroom. Now he had met someone who he had fallen for, but he was too shy to approach this person (a non-gender-specific person, I noted). In the scene she read out, the boy – Michael – was writing in his diary about how he’d just love to spend a day with his loved one: a day by the sea, eating candy floss and paddling in the cold English Channel. At night they’d sit and watch the pier lights ebb on the surface of the sea. At the end of this, Siobhan looked tearful, her eyes moist, and I wanted to shout at Kathy, say, ‘See what you’ve done – you’ve upset her.’

But then Siobhan said, ‘That was beautiful, Kathy.’

My God. Was this more competition? Not just the man who left her house (if he is a competitor) but Kathy as well? Reading Siobhan’s novel, knowing how sexual she was, I could imagine her wanting to experiment; or perhaps she was a full-blown bisexual. And I was certain this dyke fancied my Siobhan. Who wouldn’t?

I wished I had something to read out myself. Something more beautiful – something like I’d written in Siobhan’s card. Barbara went next, and her piece was bloody awful, quelle sur-fucking-prise, but I wasn’t really listening anyway. Her words were drowned out by the buzzing in my ears.

And beneath the buzzing, I was thinking. About how, very soon, Siobhan will realise that, apart from her, I’m the best writer in the class. And she’ll ask me to read to her in bed, with our mingled sweat still drying on our skin. And as I read, she’ll stroke me. She’ll do all sorts of wonderful things to me with her hands and her mouth.

I found it even harder to concentrate after that.

At the end of the lesson, I hung back. Siobhan had given us more exercises to do: she wants us to put our characters into a severe weather situation. I think I’ll be good at that, once I’ve come up with my central character. I got away without reading aloud this week – fortunately, Jane had written so much and went on at such length (I think she’s cheating and that it was an extract from her novel-in-progress) that we ran out of time – but my good luck won’t last forever. Funny how listening to someone read out a seven-page description of their back garden can be classed as good luck.

Siobhan said something to Kathy on her way out, then began to pack up her stuff.

‘That was a good class,’ I said.

She looked up at me, eyes wide and bright. ‘Hi Alex.’

‘I’m really enjoying this class,’ I said.

She smiled. ‘That’s great.’

‘And I learned a lot today about the flora of north London.’

She appeared confused for a moment then got it and laughed. I think she must have felt guilty though because she put her hand to her mouth and stopped herself. I was glowing inside. I’d made her laugh!

‘I loved your novel,’ I said. ‘I think it’s one of the best things I’ve read in ages.’

Now it was her turn to glow. ‘Thank you for the lovely review. Shame I never got any write-ups like that in the press. You could have just told me you liked it though rather than go to all that trouble.’

‘I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the other students.’

‘Oh, don’t worry. Praise doesn’t embarrass me, I can assure you. Anyway, thank you again.’ She picked up her bag and threw it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you next week.’

She took a step towards the door and I knew I had to act fast before the opportunity slipped away. ‘Siobhan.’

She turned back. ‘Hmm?’

‘Would you…I wondered if…maybe we could go out sometime? To talk about your novel.’

She had her back to the open door. ‘You’re asking me out.’

I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.

‘Well…yeah. I guess so.’ I tried my best to maintain eye contact with her.

She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry Alex. I can’t. It’s a college rule. Teachers aren’t allowed to date students. I’m sorry.’

‘But…who would know?’

She was clearly unhappy about this rule too – she looked a bit choked. Oh, poor Siobhan. I wanted to comfort her, but I was frozen by what she had said.

She mumbled something about how rules were rules and how she couldn’t risk getting into trouble with the college. ‘And it would be so hard to keep it quiet.’

Before I could respond, she said, ‘See you next week.’ She left the classroom, leaving me on my own. I reached out for her, but she’d gone.

Walking home, I thought about what was going on. She was afraid. But was she afraid of breaking the rules, or of love itself? Was she using the college rules as an excuse? Maybe someone had hurt her recently? I know from the way she looks at me that she wants me. But she’s scared, like an animal that’s afraid of people, either timid by nature, or a victim of cruelty. That must be why she hasn't accepted my Facebook friend request yet.

If I’m going to win her love, I need to get the balance right. I need to show her that she needn’t be frightened, that that love is a bond, not a cage. I need to tiptoe and whisper rather than rush and shout. And I need to get to know her: the way she lives and feels and thinks. Not that that’s going to be a hardship. It’s going to be fun, researching this woman I love, because it will mean I’ll have to get close to her.

But what if she rejects you? What if she doesn’t want you?

The voice whispering at me sounded just like my mother. I wanted to punch her in the mouth, shut her up. Because, I whispered back to myself, Siobhan does want me; will want me. Cupid, that fat little angel, who changes our fate with an invisible arrow, has chosen us. Our hearts were his target, and his aim doesn’t lie. Siobhan and I are meant to be together.

Live our lives apart? I’d rather we were both dead.

I needed a drink, so I stopped outside a bar. It wasn’t the kind of place I would normally go to. Too trendy. But the people I saw through the window looked so happy and luminous, and the damp, shining bottles of beer on the table were calling to me. And seeing all the couples leaning close and laughing didn’t make me feel sick like it normally does.

I stubbed out my cigarette and went in, bought a bottle of Corona and took it over to a table in the corner.

Siobhan doesn’t smoke – at least, I’ve never seen her smoke – so maybe I should try to quit. She might not like the smell of it. Or, more likely, she won’t mind it on me. She might even find it sexy, mannish.

I took out my notebook and began to work on my exercise for next week. I wanted my hero to be masculine, strong, well-read and -travelled. A kind of modern day Indiana Jones. I thought Siobhan would like that.

I scribbled away happily, engrossed in what I was doing. The bar was pretty quiet, and the background hum was pleasant; quite soothing. I finished my beer and stood up to get another, and as I walked past the table next to mine, I saw a face I recognised.

It wasn’t until I’d reached the bar that I worked out who it was. It was him – the guy I saw leaving Siobhan’s house the other night. As I walked back to my table, I kept my head down, looking at him from the corner of my eye. Yes, it was definitely him. I recognised the cleft chin (like a bum) and the bags under his eyes. He was wearing the same denim jacket. But the skinny woman he was sitting with was definitely not the object of my affections.

I sat down, my back to them, and tuned in to their conversation. It wasn’t easy because they were talking quietly, so I missed some words. But I heard enough.

He said, ‘I want us to give it another chance.’

‘But I don’t know if I can trust you, Phil.’

‘Why not?’

‘Because…(inaudible).’

‘But Lynn, sweetheart, I swear. It’s over between me and Siobhan.’

‘(Inaudible) …since last week?’

‘I swear. On (couldn’t make it out) life. I haven’t even spoken to Siobhan this week.’

I couldn’t hear the next couple of lines at all. Their voices went really low and soft, and then they stopped talking altogether. I sneaked a look over my shoulder. They were leaning towards each other across the table, holding hands and kissing.

‘I love you,’ I heard the lying creep say.

‘I love you too,’ said the poor woman. ‘Let’s go home.’

‘To celebrate?’

She laughed throatily. I think they must have exchanged saliva again, and then Phil said, ‘Lynn… you don’t think I’m rubbish in bed, do you?’

‘Eh? What’s brought this on.’

‘I don’t know. I just… you don’t think I’m crap, do you?’

‘No! You’re fine.’

He must have been satisfied with this faint praise because the next thing he said was, ‘Okay, let’s go. I just need to go to the loo.’

He stood up and crossed the room to the Gents. And I followed, one hand lightly scratching my brow so it hid my face.

He held the door open, not looking at me, and went straight into a cubicle. There was nobody else in the Gents. Perfect. I heard him unzip his fly and let his jeans fall to the floor. He sighed as he sat down. I waited till I heard the first splash.

‘Phil,’ I said, through the cubicle door.

There was a pause. ‘Who’s that?’

‘You don’t need to know my name. You just need to listen. Actually, think of me as a guardian angel – though not yours.’

‘What?’ I heard him tear off a strip of bog roll. I needed to hurry.

‘I know you’ve been lying to Lynn. I know you saw Siobhan the other night. I want you to stay away from Siobhan. Don’t speak to her. Don’t go to see her. If you do, I’ll make sure Lynn finds out about the lies you’ve been telling her.’

‘Who the fuck . . ?’

But before he could clean his arse and fasten his trousers, I was out of there: out of the front door and round the corner. Phil couldn’t come chasing after me because of Lynn. He hadn’t seen my face, so he would have no idea who had been talking to him. And it was true what I said to him: I am a guardian angel. And I’d just helped Siobhan remove an obstacle from her life.

When I got home, I was still excited and pleased with myself. More than anything, I wanted to hear Siobhan’s voice.

I hit 151 first to withhold my number, then dialled Siobhan’s. The phone rang six or seven times. I just had enough time to wonder if she was in the bath, which gave me a wonderful image, her skin made pink by the hot water, her nipples peeking out through a layer of bubbles, when she said, ‘Hello?’

I didn’t speak.

‘Hello?’

God, I love her voice. What a pity I had to put the phone down.

Thursday

Called in sick again. Jackie said, ‘You will be coming in tomorrow, won’t you?’ I replied that I wasn’t sure.

The house was empty, with both Si and Nat at work. I ate breakfast in the nude, then checked Facebook to see if Siobhan had accepted my friend request yet. No luck. But when I looked at her friend list again I noticed that Kathy was now listed. How sickening. Siobhan had confirmed that lezzer's friend request but not mine.

Furious, I stormed into the bathroom and had a wank to calm myself down, unable to stop myself picturing Siobhan and Kathy in a Sapphic clinch. After I came I got dressed and collapsed on the sofa and watched some crappy programme on daytime TV. There was a phone-in about relationships: mainly women calling and complaining about how unromantic their husbands were; about how they never took them out or bought them flowers any more. That gave me an idea.

I headed down to the market. The flowers were so expensive.

‘Have you got anything cheaper?’ I said.

The bloke behind the stall rolled his eyes a bit and said, ‘I’ve got these lilies. They’re a bit limp, but you can have them for a quid.’

They looked alright to me. I decided to take them straight round to Siobhan’s. My plan was to leave them on the doorstep, with a little note. I checked my bag for my pen but it wasn’t there, so I wouldn’t be able to leave a message. Oh well – it would add to the romance, anyway, if Siobhan thought her flowers were from a mysterious admirer.

I reached Victoria Gardens and paused at Siobhan’s gate, which stood wide open. I could hear music coming from inside the house: something I didn’t recognize. I wondered which part of the house she was in. As long as she wasn’t looking out the front window, I’d be okay. I wasn’t meant to know where she lived.

Heart beating fast, I headed up the short path to the front door. I was about to lay the bouquet on her step when I saw a bunch of keys hanging from the keyhole. What was this? An invitation? Turn the key and come straight in, Alex. But no, she didn’t know I was coming. Was she expecting someone else? I was confused. But then I realised it was a sign, and I had another idea.

Taking the keys from the lock, and still clutching the flowers, I turned and ran back towards the main road. There was a heel bar there; I’d passed it on the way up. A sign outside said, KEYS CUT WHILE U WAIT.

I only had to wait five minutes, then I headed back to Siobhan’s house, creeping up to the front door again to replace the keys in the lock. My own copy of her front door key sat snugly in my pocket. Now I would be able to enter her territory and find out more about her at my leisure. I was so excited at this thought that I could hardly walk or breathe. I was tempted to hang around, hide somewhere until she went out, but in the end I thought it would be best to come back another time. Before I went, I left the flowers on her step. Keys and flowers. A gift for both of us.

Chapter 7

Siobhan

Thursday

Class went well last night. I think I’m finding my stride – well, I think we all are. I heard some really promising work. Kathy’s was fantastic. It never ceases to amaze me, how the beauty of words can grip me in the gut and pull me – she read out this piece about yearning, and loneliness, and love, and I really felt choked. She talked about candy floss as ‘tiny threads of twisted pink longing’, and the bone-chilling ache of cold sea water turning her character’s ankles numb.

It reminded me so much of my (one and only) holiday romance, when I was sixteen, with Colin the Glaswegian. We had to communicate in sign language because his accent was so thick. And body language. I wonder what happened to all his letters? I don’t think I have them anymore. Kathy’s piece brought it all back, how I felt when his mum wrote that note to say he’d died in a car accident. Life is so harsh. I often wonder if he and I would have ended up together. I know we were only kids, but I really felt something for him. I can’t picture his face anymore, just that great mop of wind-swept curly black hair, those blue blue eyes, and the clammy feeling of spending too long in a wet swimsuit. Coming back to the hotel at the end of the day all horny and sandy – that’s what reminds me of Colin. I don’t think I’ve felt that passionate about anybody since.

It really makes me think that if love does come along, you have to seize it with both hands and not let it go.

Anyway. Back to the class. Brian didn’t turn up, which gave me a horrible feeling that maybe it was him who sent that card. Phil’s still Number One suspect – and God knows how Brian could have found out my address – but I suppose it is possible. Surely not though . . .

Talking of my various admirers, Alex asked me out. Maybe the card is from him? He must like me. I said no, although I did give it a moment’s thought – it’s not that he’s bad looking, or anything. It’s not even that there might not be a spark, if I let there be. But there’s just something… I don’t know what exactly…which unsettles me about him. Maybe just his own weird energy.

He seemed cool about me turning him down, though, so I’m sure he’ll just move on to his next conquest. He probably doesn’t even like me all that much; probably is just impressed that I’m a ‘faymuss awfor’. Or, rather, an ‘awfor.’

I noticed that he's sent me a friend request on Facebook, which I hardly ever go on. Kathy sent me one too, which was nice. But I am not going to confirm Alex because there are various shots of me on there in my bikini in Malta last summer with Phil. Don't want one of my male students perving over them, do I? Though maybe I shouldn't have accepted Kathy either...

And bloody Phil has unfriended me on there! I know because I tried to visit his profile to see whether he was still listed as 'in a relationship' and I couldn't get onto the page. Guess I must have hurt his feelings more than I thought.

Friday

Dead flowers. Phil has actually left a bunch of dead flowers on my doorstep. I can’t believe it. That’s a really horrible thing to do to somebody. I don’t blame him for feeling fed up – he’s been rejected by me and Lynn – but how could he stoop to something so cowardly and pathetic?

It must be Phil. All these weirdnesses can’t be coincidence. Has he totally lost it? It’s so unlike him. There was the graphic postcard. Then hang-ups when I answer the phone, six or seven times in the past couple of days. And now the dead flowers.

The more I think about it, the more angry it makes me. He knows I hate lilies. And these have got brown spots all over the petals, and slimy stems. They stink. What’s that sonnet where Shakespeare talks about how bad lilies smell?

Just looked it up, it’s:

“For sweetest things turn sourest by their deeds;

Lilies that fester smell far worse than weeds.”

That just about sums it up, Phil, you nutter. I feel like going into his office and ramming them up his –

Maybe I’ll just ring him instead. Tear him off a strip on the phone. It’s not worth the energy I’d expend in going down there myself.

I stuffed the lilies into the bin under the sink, snapping the stems in two, trying to cram them in without letting any of the woody ends rip the bin bag. All the petals immediately dropped off, and that atrociously sticky pollen fell all over my hands, the kitchen floor, the top of the bin. By the time I’d cleaned it all up (which took ages because at first my attempts just left yellow swirly smears everywhere, and I had to practically bleach all the surfaces) I was in such a rage that my best being-rude-to-estate-agents voice came completely naturally:

‘Phil Harmony, please.’

‘Sorry, he’s on holiday. Can I put you through to his secretary?’

This somehow made me even more furious. I can’t bear idiots who give you the wrong information on the telephone. Of course he wasn’t on bloody holiday, his holiday had been cancelled. That receptionist always had been dim.

‘Hello, Siobhan,’ said Diane when I got through to Phil’s office. ‘He’s not here, I’m afraid. He’s on holiday.’

Oh – well, of course, he’d have already booked the time off. I felt bad for mentally slagging off the receptionist. She wasn’t to know. She wasn’t to know I’d mentally slagged her either, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel guilty. I invited the anger back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try him at home,’ I said, about to hang up.

‘He’s not at home,’ Diane said, sounding half-puzzled, and half-impatient; sort of, what part of ‘on holiday’ do you not understand? ‘He’s gone to Portugal.’

Suddenly the hand I was holding the phone with began to shake a bit. I’d been chewing gum at the time, and shock made it slide towards the back of my throat, giving me a moment’s panic. I had to suck it back into my mouth again. I grabbed it and pulled it out of my mouth, then rolled it around between my finger and thumb, feeling it change consistency, becoming harder and smoother, like a small lump of fear personified, sticking to my skin.

‘When, exactly?’ I asked, having a weird feeling that the gum was still in my throat, choking me.

‘They – I mean, he flew out yesterday morning. He rang me from the airport.’

‘They? He went with Lynn?’

There was a silence.

I sagged against the back of the sofa, nearly dropping the phone. I didn’t give a stuff that he and Lynn appeared to have got back together – let them baby-talk their way around the Algarve, Philly-willy and Lynny-winny– but my mind was racing, and even while part of me was in denial and trying to figure out why he was still ringing me and hanging up from Portugal, with Lynn there too; or how the flowers could have turned up on my doorstep today…. another more cognisant part of me realized where the fear was coming from.

Because if Phil went to Portugal yesterday, he couldn’t have left the lilies. And if he didn’t leave the lilies, then he most likely didn’t send the card. Or make those silent phonecalls.

But if it wasn’t Phil . . .

Who the hell was it?

I don’t know. Maybe it’s my hormones. I’ve got that weird, slightly unreal feeling that I sometimes get with PMT, like I’m inhabiting a parallel universe, one not dissimilar to this: but hazier, more painful. More frightening. A universe where I want to curl up and sleep and let someone look after me. I keep losing things, too. I lost my keys again, turned the place over looking for them (although ‘turned the place over’ isn’t really the right expression. ‘Picked up, looked, and replaced neatly’ would be more apposite. Dr. Bedford said I have issues with cleanliness and tidiness. I disagree. I think it’s more to do with growing up in a big messy household that nobody could ever find anything in. I never could stand that, even as a little girl).

But the weird thing about the keys was that I’m sure the first thing I did when I realized they were missing was to check the front door, and they weren’t there. I suppose I was a bit distracted, trying to stop Biggles from running out into the street again, but I definitely checked. Went back upstairs, cleaned out the fridge, fed Biggles, checked again to make sure – and there they were, dangling from the lock. It was bizarre. And that was when I found the flowers.

I’d been thinking what a wuss Phil was, to leave the flowers and run away without telling me that my keys were sticking out of the front door – I mean, anyone could have let themselves in!

But the horrible truth is that it wasn’t Phil. Someone else must have seen those keys. Someone else. The same someone who sent me that card, telling me he wanted to fuck me? The same person who keeps calling and hanging up. When I thought it was Phil it was just irritating. But now . . .

Oh God. What if I’m not alone now? What if someone’s standing behind one of my doors, perhaps this one…?

I’m all out of breath. Have just run up and down the stairs with the poker, opened all the doors, looked in all the cupboards. Put on Combat Rock at full blast – The Clash make me feel brave. Biggles is disgusted with me. He was chasing up and down the stairs after me with his tail out like a brush. At first, being paranoid, I thought that he could sense something strange. Then I thought, yes of course he can: me, charging around like a maniac with a poker while listening to music loudly enough to make his fur stand on end.

Naturally there was no-one here.

I still don’t understand how I didn’t notice the keys the first time I looked, but it doesn’t really surprise me. I’m getting so scatty now that by the time I’m fifty I’ll probably be completely barking. It happened to that great-aunt of my mother’s. She died in an asylum. God, that kind of thing is hereditary, isn’t it?

I suddenly really wanted to talk to someone. I rang Paula, but one of her flatmates – I never can tell the difference between them – said she’s not back from Thailand till Sunday.

Then I tried Jess, but she wasn’t in either. I didn’t leave a message. Things have been a little strained between us since she had Tom. I know I’m a crap godmother, but really, you’d think she could cut me a little slack here. She lives miles away – how am I expected to go and coo at him on a regular basis? I think she just wants a free babysitter. Anyway, we haven’t spoken for a few weeks, and I didn’t want to leave a whingeing message.

Probably just as well she’s out, on reflection. She’d only have banged on – about Tom’s chesty cough and his mustardy nappies – urgh, babies. A cat is more than enough for me.

Eventually I rang Mum, and she was out too. Dad answered, but I didn’t feel like running through the whole rude card/hang-ups/dead flowers thing with him, so I just asked him to get her to ring me later. I’m sure if I talk about it out loud then we’ll come up with some logical explanation. Or at least it might help me figure out who it is and what’s going on.

In the meantime I think I’ll do some work. Try and take my mind off it.