Текст книги "Killing Cupid"

Автор книги: Louise Voss

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

‘Come on then,’ I said, and she led me through the flat to a window that opened onto a balcony. From there, a metal fire escape led up to the roof and down to the garden. A long way down to the garden. The fire escape didn’t look very sturdy. I looked down again and had a sudden attack of vertigo. My palms were wet with sweat. Half of me wanted to go home. But there was a voice in my head telling me what I had to do.

‘Are you alright?’ she said, turning to look at me, a silly pissed smile on her face.

I nodded.

Kathy stepped up onto the fire escape and I followed . . .

I can’t write any more. It’s too much. Too much.

I ran all the way home.

And I know that when I close my eyes tonight all I’m going to see is her crumpled body on the patio. All I’m going to hear is the way she cried out.

And how it sounded like the first syllable of my name.

Chapter 11

Siobhan

Monday

It’s too much. First, the card, the flowers and the underwear...and now the weirdest thing yet has happened. Even more bizarre than that stupid woman in her car destroying most of my garden wall.

If it was happening to someone else, I’d think it was quite funny. I came back from Sainsbury’s this morning and was just putting the fish fingers into the freezer when I heard a few spots of rain tap against the window. It was at that point I remembered I’d left the washing out, so I went into the garden, and there, hanging demurely on the line, were these clothes which weren’t even mine!!!! At first I felt sick, and upset because whoever left them had nicked my favourite NY t-shirt and my vintage Levis. All these paranoid thoughts went streaming through my head, about sexual predators and freaks spying on me with binoculars – until I realised that a) nobody could see into my bedroom, and b) it was unlikely that any sad pervert would spend the kind of money which had clearly been spent on these clothes. They were Prada! Cotton jersey; a black skirt and a sort of slinky t-shirt, with the tags still on them. I unpegged them and scrutinized them. They felt lovely, that really smooth, thick good quality jersey material.

My first thought was: I want them. I unpegged them from the line and took them inside. They looked like they’d be a perfect fit. But thinking about what they were doing there was too much – it made my head hurt. I needed some air, some space to think, so I hung the clothes in my wardrobe – might as well look after them – and closed the door on them. If it’s all some great big mistake, I might not have them for long. Part of me was hoping that they’d be gone when I returned home; that the Prada Fairy or whoever the hell brought them would take them away in the time it took me to walk down the road to buy a paper. A bigger part of me hoped they’d still be there when I got back. Which of course they were.

I did make a few tentative phonecalls, just to see if anyone I knew had left them there as some sort of joke, but got no joy. I even tried Phil – left him a message which he didn’t return. I’m sure it wasn’t him, though, he’s not talking to me. I’ve called him a couple of times – he must be back from Portugal by now – but he isn’t getting back to me. I think I must have really upset him.

Well, I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough who left the clothes there. Nobody would spend that much money on me and want to remain anonymous for long.

Thursday

Police were called to Beulah Mansions in Grove Road, Camden on Monday evening, where the body of a woman had been discovered in the grounds of the building. She was later identified as 31 year old Kathy Noonan, a resident of Beulah Mansions. There were no witnesses, but the police report states that Ms. Noonan had fallen to her death from the roof of the building. A police spokesperson said that Ms Noonan had been out drinking that evening, and that there was no suspicion of foul play. ‘It seems that she tried to climb on to her roof via the fire escape and must have slipped,’ the spokesperson went on. ‘It’s a popular spot for residents of the building.’

The Ham and High spoke to another resident of Beulah Mansions, who told us, ‘The young people at the top of the building are always climbing up there. I’ve warned them it’s dangerous, but they never listen.’

There was no suicide note, and Ms Noonan’s parents tell us that they had spoken to their daughter earlier that day and she was in good spirits. The funeral will be held at St. Peter’s Church, Highgate, on Friday 2nd October at 1pm.

Friday

Haven’t written this diary for ages. Two weeks – that’s awful. Haven’t done anything much for two weeks, actually, what with all the crap that’s been going on. I cancelled one writing class out of respect for Kathy – they weren’t very pleased, at the college, but I was in no fit state to teach – and then it was half term. I haven’t felt like writing anything, not even this. But I suppose I should write it all down, otherwise I’ll forget it.

I thought it appropriate that I should go to her funeral. After all, she was a friend – nearly – as well as one of my students. What I didn’t anticipate was how much it would upset me. I suppose I’m lucky, having got to the ripe old age of 35 and having only been to two funerals in my whole life, both of which were for octogenarians; but this one was horrible, in a totally different league of awfulness to Granny’s and Auntie Dot’s. The church was packed with young people, and everyone – including me – was crying. Sobbing, mostly.

I will never forget the desolation on her parents’ faces, a drab looking couple in their sixties, who seemed bewildered, horrified and grateful by turns at the huge gay turnout. I hope for their sakes that they already knew Kathy was gay – I’m sure they must have done. She did like to broadcast it. I remember her so clearly at that first writing class, saying ‘I’m Kathy and I’m gay’, with a really proud, defiant expression on her face like it absolutely was a celebration for her, something she wanted to shout from the rooftops.

Bad choice of expression.

The service was so, so moving. Kathy clearly had a lot of friends, and they were so shocked at her just suddenly… being dead. There was as much disbelief as grief in people’s eyes. I don’t believe it was anything but an accident, and nobody else believed it either… but whenever something like this happens, you can’t help but wonder if it wasn’t an accident. There’s this little voice that says ‘what if she jumped?’ But really, so what if she did? She’s still dead.

The four or five people who stood up to speak, their voices trembling, clearing their throats and swallowing back tears constantly, talked of her lust for life, her adventurous spirit, her desire to excel.

No, there’s no way she’d have thrown herself off her roof.

One woman in particular could barely get the words out at all. Poor thing. She said she and Kathy had been best friends since childhood – I remembered Kathy mentioning her, briefly, in the pub. She was quite pretty, in that rather gummy sort of way. I thought she’d probably look a bit horsy when she smiled – although since I didn’t see her smile, I wouldn’t know for sure. She got about two sentences into her speech and just kind of crumpled. The church was completely silent, a deep heavy intense silence that even people’s quiet sobbing didn’t seem to dent, and we all waited for her to finish, like the agonising seconds spent willing a stammerer to get his words out; but she couldn’t. Her face turned redder and redder and eventually she shook her head, and fled back to her seat. It was awful.

The whole bloody thing was awful.

But there was one little part of me that – and I’d never admit this to anybody – felt oddly jealous. Imagine, being envious of a dead woman! But the love that all her friends felt for her was so completely palpable, and all the wonderful things that they said of her. I suppose everyone says nice things about you once you’re dead, but Kathy clearly was a very special person. It made me wish that I’d had more time to get to know her. It also made me wonder if people would say the same kinds of things about me, if I died?

As we all filed out at the end (family and close friends only were going on to the crematorium), they played ‘I Just Don’t Know What To Do With Myself’ by Dusty Springfield, because it had been one of Kathy’s favourite songs. At that moment I think every single person in the church felt the same, that now Kathy was gone, none of us knew what to do with ourselves, and that, even if we hadn’t known her well, nothing would be the same again.

Then I heard a voice at my shoulder. At first I didn’t register that it was Alex from the writing class; I was crying too hard.

‘Isn’t it terrible?’ he said. He looked a state too; really white and red-eyed. I didn’t realize he’d been matey with Kathy. I nodded, trying to get myself together but feeling the corners of my mouth pulling right down for another batch of tears. He handed me a clean tissue, and sort of twitched his fingers, as if he wanted to reach out and comfort me. I was glad he didn’t though – if anyone had touched me then, I think I’d have collapsed entirely.

‘It was nice of you to come,’ I said, then regretted it. It sounded like I was hosting the damn event or something. We stared at each others’ ravaged faces, and suddenly I felt relieved that he was there. I didn’t know anybody else there, and couldn’t face going back to the house for drinks, as her father had hesitantly invited everyone.

‘Do you want a lift somewhere?’ I asked, wiping under my eyes with the tissue and wishing I’d thought to wear waterproof mascara.

‘Thanks,’ he said immediately, not saying where. ‘That would be great.’

Later, in the car, once I’d calmed down enough to drive, Alex said that he and Kathy had had a drink after class a couple of times, and had met for lunch too. I thought it was odd that she hadn’t mentioned it, but I suppose that she probably didn’t really feel it merited a mention, him being a bloke, and all. He seemed edgy, biting his nails and staring out of the window, and then surreptitiously studying me when I was driving, as if he thought I couldn’t see him.

Turns out he lives quite close to me. I hadn’t heard of his street, but he said it was only about ten minutes’ walk away. Before I knew it, I found myself saying, ‘Come in for coffee, if you like.’ I thought that if I went home alone, I’d only sit and cry all afternoon.

He nodded, like one of those toy dogs who sit in the back windows of cars.

‘What happened to your wall?’ he asked, climbing over the pile of rubble to get to my front path. I hadn’t told him which house was mine, but he just headed straight for it, no hesitation. At the time I thought it was strange, but I was too strung out to dwell on it. I should’ve called him on it. I should never have let him into the house. I’m a fool.

So, as weird as I thought it was then, that he knew which house was mine, things started to get even weirder when we got inside. I showed him to the sofa and he sat down on the very edge of it. He still seemed really jumpy, but I put it down to the emotion of the funeral. I made some coffee, and took the mugs into the living room.

There was a long silence. Alex looked so strange then that all these thoughts starting running through my head: if he knew where I lived, was it him who followed me home that time after class? I’d suspected him of sending the card and leaving the flowers, but now I felt more certain. Perhaps he’d only come to the funeral because he guessed I’d be there! Maybe he bought the clothes too – he must have got such a kick out of seeing me wearing the damn things – I wondered why he kept staring at them. I hadn’t meant to wear them, not until I knew where they were from, but when I’d opened my wardrobe to try and find something suitable for a funeral, there they were, just perfect with my black jacket over the top…

I got up from the armchair and went over to lean – casually, I hoped – on the windowsill, willing Mrs. Roberts over the road to be in her usual chair at her own living room window. At least that way if he tried anything, it would have to be in view of Mrs. Roberts’ beady old eye. My hands started shaking, and a splash of coffee spilled out onto the carpet. I was really upset – my pristine carpet! – but I didn’t dare get up and get a cloth. I didn’t want to leave the safety of the window. I thought longingly of the Stain Devil under the sink, and then almost laughed. This guy is a potential nutter, and I’m worried about a tiny splash of coffee on my carpet? It would take the application of several dozen Stain Devils to get my life blood out of the same carpet, if Alex really did turn out to be a psychopath.

But somehow I thought that, however uneasy he was making me feel at that moment, he probably wasn’t dangerous. Probably. ….Although I was clearly in denial.

And then he said what he said, staring at the stain, not meeting my eyes, muttering almost coyly into his own coffee: ‘I’m glad to see you’re wearing your new clothes.’

My heart almost gave out. Even though I’d suspected him, it was a huge shock to hear him admit it. ‘What?’

‘Those clothes.’ He stopped, and smiled at me then, a big, ingenuous beam of pride, like I was his mother and he was waiting for me to say, ooh, what a clever boy you are. ‘They’re from me. I left them on your washing line as a surprise.’

I lowered my coffee mug onto the windowsill, spilling some more out. Then I reached back and grasped the glossy white sill with both my hands, to steady myself and to try and stop them shaking. I wished I could rip the sill off, and bash him over the head with it, because at that moment I realized that it had all been him: everything – the card, the flowers, the man who’d followed me home, maybe even him who was responsible for the underwear that I thought I’d accidentally ordered myself…

‘Was the underwear from you, too?’ I said, sounding as if I was being strangled.

He nodded proudly, blushing like a schoolboy. I closed my eyes. ‘Then – how – come – it was bought with myowncreditcard?’ The last words came out in a huge rush, because I wasn’t at all sure I wanted to hear the answer.

He looked at the floor now, guilty again. ‘I just wanted you to have some nice things,’ he muttered. I noticed the way his eyelashes fell on his cheeks, lazily, softly. I think it was the eyelashes that made him seem like a little boy. And it was that feeling of power, dominance over him, which made me temporarily forget my fear, and allow anger, boiling and acid, to roll up inside me like vomit and spew out all over him. For about ten seconds I no longer cared if he was dangerous, or about the fact that he was five inches taller than me and probably much stronger. Right then, I could’ve crushed him like a bug.

‘Don’t tell me that I paid for these fucking clothes too,’ I hissed, sticking my face into his face, almost spitting at him with fury.

He stood up then, lifting one arm, appearing to tower above me. As quickly as it had risen, my rage vanished and fear washed back over me again.

‘I care about you, Siobhan’, he said, reaching out and drawing a soft line with his index finger down the left side of my face. ‘I want us to be friends. That’s why I sent you the card, and the lilies. I wanted you to know that I like you. I really do. I’m sorry if the card was a bit strong, you know, so soon, but I couldn’t help it. You’re so beautiful.’

I backed away from him, my knees trembling so hard that it took all my strength not to sit down, then and there, on the floor. It felt as if someone had removed my kneecaps.

‘Please leave. Now,’ I managed. ‘Or I’ll call the police.’ He looked scared at that but didn’t move.

‘GET OUT!’ I wanted to push him, but I still had this kneeless problem. We just stood staring at each other, hackles up, tails bushy. Then he seemed to droop.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said, almost inaudibly. He turned and walked out of the room, and I heard the front door close quietly behind him.

Chapter 12

Alex

Friday evening

I had been so happy to see Siobhan in her new clothes – and I was right; they did suit her; they made her look like a princess, all in black, a princess of darkness? – that I thought it must be another sign. She had invited me back to her house. She was wearing my clothes. She might even have her new underwear on. I thought this was the silver lining to Kathy’s cloud.

But then...I pictured Siobhan’s angry face. She looked really sexy when she was angry, her neck and face flushed pink, pupils wide, the air around us crackling with tension. Anger is closely related to passion, after all. Oh god, I wonder how long it will take her to calm down.

What if she calls the police, like she threatened?

What if . . ?

Bang bang bang.

It was probably the police. A nice cop and a nasty cop, with suspicious eyes and minds and all sorts of questions.

And how did you come by these credit card details, sir? Where were you the night Kathy Noonan died?

It wasn’t the police. It was a girl, asking for Natalie:

‘Ah, hi. Have I got the right address?’

‘Who are you looking for?’

I wondered for a split-second if she might be a plainclothes policewoman – a honeytrap from the Met, sent to get me to ‘fess up. She was a little overweight to be a honeytrap, perhaps, but she wasn’t unattractive. Her eyes were blue and bright with amusement. She seemed a little flustered too – perhaps she’s one of those people who mirrors the actions of the person they’re talking to.

‘Natalie Sauvage.’

‘Oh no. I mean yes. Natalie does live here – sort of. Her boyfriend, um, does.’ I was having an attack of the Hugh Grants.

The girl smiled at me. Probably a Hugh Grant fan, then. ‘Is she in?’

‘No. She’s at work, I think.’

She looked at her watch. ‘Oh yes, of course. It’s just that I was in Camden and thought… well, anyway, can you tell her Emily called round?’

‘Emily. Okay.’

And she walked away, looking over her shoulder at me and smiling again before I closed the door.

I lay on my bed for a while, waiting for my heart to slow down. When I closed my eyes, Siobhan’s face swam up in front of my eyes.

I wanted to call her, talk to her. I needed to make her understand. I had a knot in my gut, a bubble of dread floating inside me. Had I screwed it all up? Helen had told me that if she was a woman she’d like to receive flowers and undies and so on – exactly as I suspected. I don’t pretend to understand to women but I know that. They like underwear as long as it isn’t scratchy and crotchless; they love all sorts of flowers; and they’re all totally obsessed with clothes. So why was Siobhan so angry? Sigh…maybe I should have sent her chocolates instead.

I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised – Siobhan isn’t like other women. She’s unique. Okay, I made her angry. I made some mistakes.

But there has to be some way to make it right. I need to know more about Siobhan, to really get inside her head, her most private spaces. That’s it. Once I’ve seen into her soul, I’ll know exactly how to win her heart.

Later

I’ve just got in after going out with Si and Nat. They came home at about seven this evening; I was asleep. Must have been worn out. Don’t think I dreamt about anything, though. Certainly nothing memorable. Simon knocked on my door and asked me if I wanted to go out for a drink.

I said I wasn’t in the mood, but he insisted. ‘It’s time you came out of your bedroom, mate,’ he said. He doesn’t realise that every time I leave my room, something goes wrong. But I wasn’t in the mood to argue with him. Plus I had no alcohol left in the house and I needed a drink to quell the tremors that kept running through me.

We went to a pub behind Camden High Street, a favourite haunt of Simon and Natalie. It was a cosy, smoky place, the bar awash with fag ash and foam, the Irish barman’s political sympathies tattooed in green on his forearms.

We sat and drank our pints. I was worried that Si might start asking me how the job hunting was going, so I was tense. Plus I kept thinking about what happened the last time I visited a pub. Somebody died. Luckily though, we chatted about everything but job-hunting: football, telly, music, all the usual stuff that stops us having to talk about anything serious. It’s one of the reasons Si and I get on: we don’t ever go near weighty or emotional subjects.

Which was why I was so surprised when Simon started saying how he was worried about me.

‘Why? What do you mean?’

He and Nat exchanged a look.

‘Well, mate, you hardly come out any more, just sit in your room tapping away on the computer. You’ve lost weight, you’re smoking twice as much, you hardly talk to us any more. I was amazed when you said you’d come out tonight.’

‘I haven’t been able to come out because I haven’t got much money. I’ve been worrying about finding a job.’

‘How is that coming along?’ said Nat, but Simon raised a hand for her to shush. (He was quite drunk by now – he wouldn’t have dared shush her if he wasn’t.)

‘I know that, mate. But you were like this before you lost that shitty job. And it was a shitty job, wasn’t it? It used to depress me just seeing you come home after a day there. You’re an intelligent bloke. You should be doing something different, better. I mean look at me…’

He went into a speech about how important and well-paid he is, writing copy for dog food adverts and tag-lines for tampon commercials. Natalie nodded along. But beneath the waffle, he had a point. I knew that. I’ve spent the last ten years of my life drifting along, from crap job to crap job, going travelling when I could afford it, never having any money in the bank, approaching my thirties without a whiff of a career or a family. Not that I fucking want either of those things. I just want…well, what do I want?. The only answer to that question is ‘Siobhan’. She’s my only desire. Alright, there are other things I want – to write my book, have a little money, to not be so bored all the time. But if Siobhan and I get together, everything else will fall into place. She and I will be able to live together, writing our books, kind of like Iris Murdoch and her husband, but hopefully without the Alzheimer’s. Although if Siobhan did get sick I’d care for her. I’d like that, in fact. And I wouldn’t let anything go wrong like it did with Chips the hamster.

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…