Killing Cupid (25 page)

‘Mind if I join you?’ I nodded towards her friend’s vacated seat, and Emily spread her palm towards it in invitation, smiling with her green teeth. I moved my coat and coffee, and sat down opposite her.

‘You look familiar to me, too,’ she said, her mouth full of sandwich.

Of course I do, you dozy cow, I thought. You’ve probably seen my photograph in the back of Alex’s copy of my book. This led me into a small dilemma – should I tell her my real name and freak her out now, when she realizes who she’s talking to; or should I soften her up a bit first? I decided on the latter.

‘What do you do?’ I asked, my head on one side in chirpy interrogation mode. Her umbrella lolled under the table between us, so I wiped my feet on it a few times. I felt quite pleased with myself for being such a good actress, when actually all I wanted to pick up the umbrella and stab her in the throat with the spike on the end.

‘I work in publishing,’ she said. ‘Round the corner. Nothing grand – I’m an editorial assistant.’

I slapped my hand to my forehead. ‘That must be it!’ I cried. ‘I’m an author. We’ve probably met at the Book Fair or a party or something.’

Emily looked doubtful. ‘I don’t go to many publishing parties,’ she said. ‘Who’s your publisher?’

‘It was Penguin, but I’m between publishers at the moment’. I thought it would be better not to pretend I was anybody current.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Um – I write under the name Jessica Thomas,’ I said, naming my mum’s elderly next door neighbour as the first person who came into my head. ‘But I only had a two book deal which expired a couple of years ago. My agent’s about to auction my third.’

Emily’s eyes widened. ‘How fantastic. I’ve heard of you, you know, but I’m afraid I haven’t read either of your books. You got brilliant reviews for the last one, didn’t you?’

Silly, silly tart. I inclined my head bashfully. ‘Well, I suppose they were pretty good, yes.’

She gushed on. ‘Oh, I do admire writers. I’d love to be one myself but I can’t even write a shopping list! I’d like to be an editor one day, though. I like working on other people’s stuff…. My boyfriend’s a writer, too, actually.’

‘Oh?’ I said, gritting my teeth. ‘Published, is he?’

‘Not yet. But I’ve just shown his short stories to my boss. I know she’s going to love them – they’re fantastic. He’s really talented. It would be so brilliant if he got a publishing deal.’

My blood ran cold. This was a new and horrible prospect I hadn’t even contemplated before – Alex, getting a deal when I had none! It was unthinkable. It was becoming harder to disguise my anger and contempt for the pair of them, especially when I thought again of what I’d overheard Emily saying about me just minutes earlier. I drained the lukewarm dregs of coffee and stood up.

‘Well, must dash. I’ve got a meeting with my film agent – apparently Paramount are going to option my first novel. Nice to see you again, Emily. By the way, you’ve got spinach or something in your teeth. Bye!’

I walked unsteadily up to the cash register, paid for my coffee and bagel, and hurried out of the door, resisting the urge to flatten myself, panting, against the damp brick wall outside. I felt sick and upset, and at that moment I hated Alex and Emily with a vehemence that obliterated every other thought in my spinning, aching head.

Chapter 26

Alex

Thursday (cont)

Siobhan. Siobhan and Emily. Together.

I closed my eyes for a second, praying that it was an hallucination. But when I opened them, the two women were still there. Talking to each other. Terror made me go cold; I felt a black dog snapping at my heart. This could be it: the end of Emily and me; the death of everything we had together. Siobhan could shatter our world with a well-chosen word. I peered through the window, half-hidden behind the window menu, one eye closed, as if that would make me less visible, wondering what they were talking about. Emily looked a bit confused. Not upset or angry, just bewildered. Then she smiled, looked happier (and even then, feeling that stressed, that scared, I noticed how lovely Emily is with a smile on her face).

God, I wished I could hear them; I would give anything to be able to turn myself into a fly so I could go buzzing in there and spy on them. Or to make myself invisible – stand beside them and hear exactly what they were saying. Was Siobhan telling her about the clothes I bought her? The time I – and it makes me sick typing this – hid in her wardrobe? She might even show her the card I wrote her. It’s bad enough for any man when his current girlfriend meets the last object of his desires. It makes it a little bit worse when the current girlfriend doesn’t know that her boyfriend was formerly a stalker. Because that’s exactly the ‘well-chosen’ word Siobhan will use to describe me.

I had a sudden impulse to rush into the café and shout, ‘Don’t listen to her. It’s all lies.’ But then I pictured Emily turning to me, brow furrowed, saying, ‘What’s all lies?’ Because surely - common sense, arriving late as usual, told me - Siobhan doesn’t know who Emily is? How could she know? It’s not as if she’s been spying on me, is it? And then it hit me – the reason for this universe-crunching event: Emily works for a publisher; Siobhan is a writer. Emily’s company must be publishing Siobhan’s new book. It had to be a coincidence – nothing more.

But then I had another spasm of panic, another wave of paranoid thoughts making me reel: What if Siobhan finds out that Emily and I are together? Emily might mention that her boyfriend is a writer too; she might even say my name. I expect Emily talks about me at every possible opportunity. And if Siobhan discovers that this sweet, harmless girl is going out with a man she thinks of as a stalker, surely she’ll tell her about my past, try to warn her off.

I was paralysed by all those ifs, not knowing what to do. And while I was paralysed, I realised that Siobhan was standing up and heading my way.

I rushed around the corner of the café and ducked down an alleyway. This was where the Aroma Therapy dustbins were kept. Hell, I was going to need therapy after this. I heard something move beside me and jumped, clutching my chest. A rotund moggy blinked at me then returned to the remnants of the tuna baguette it had dragged out of the dustbin.

I figured Siobhan must have gone by now, so I poked my head out of the alleyway, startling an old woman. I considered going in to the café to see Emily, but I knew how I must look: wide-eyed and flustered, smelling of sweat on a frigid London afternoon. I didn’t want to arouse any suspicion in her. I really wanted to go home. I really, really wanted a cigarette. On the way back to my flat I stopped off and bought a packet of Marlboro – full strength. I smoked three of them before I got home.

Simon was there – he’d taken the afternoon off work – and he was playing loud music that echoed the pounding inside my head. He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Are you alright, mate?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. Fine.’

‘You look like you’ve just witnessed a car crash or something.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Could you turn the music down a bit? I’ve got a really bad headache.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘I’m going to go and lie down.’

I went into my room and lit up another cigarette. Now I would have to wait. It was all I could do.

Later

By the time seven o’clock crawled around, I was working on my last remaining fingernail. Emily had told me she’d stop by on her way home. I was sitting here at the computer, playing Solitaire, when the doorbell rang. I heard Simon go to the door, and then there was a light knock on my bedroom door. As I opened it, I took a long, deep breath and muttered a two word prayer.

She was smiling.

That meant Siobhan hadn’t told her she was going out with a psycho. I’d been terrified that the only reason for this visit was so Emily could a) shout at me and tell me I was a bastard and a loser and that she never wanted to see me again, and b) collect the pair of knickers she left here this morning. She wouldn’t want to leave them in the hands of a pantie-sniffing freak like me, would she? (Actually, Siobhan knows I’m more likely to buy underwear than sniff it, but who knows how she might embellish the story?) But Emily was smiling, and that meant that Siobhan hadn’t told her anything. Thank you, God.

Of course, that didn’t mean I was in the clear completely. What if Siobhan and Emily had arranged to meet up again? What if they got really pally and Emily invited her to come out with us? Just thinking about it gave me goose-bumps. So I knew that any reprieve might only be temporary.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ Emily said, bestowing a firm kiss upon my lips. ‘How was your day?’

‘Oh…okay. Did some writing. Went for a walk. Nothing exciting.’

‘Did you call me earlier?’ She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, wriggling her toes inside her tights.

‘I… yes, I did. I wanted to see if you wanted to meet for lunch, but you’d already gone.’

‘Oh.’ She leaned over and kissed me again. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’ I gave her my most innocent smile. ‘So, did you have a nice lunch?’

‘Hmm. Actually, I was talking about you with someone.’

My blood went chilly. ‘What? Who?’

She hesitated. ‘I hope you don’t mind me telling people about you. I was just telling Sara from work about you and your mum.’

My sigh of relief must have been audible.

‘You don’t mind, do you? You had this really strange look on your face just then.’

‘Did I? I was…trying not to fart.’

It was Emily’s turn to pull a face. ‘Of course I don’t mind. As Oscar Wilde said, there’s only one thing worse than being talked about, and that’s not being talked about.’

‘Ooh, I love it when you talk literary to me. Speaking of which, I took your stories in to show Pernilla.’

Shit – I’d forgotten all about that. But after meeting up with that moron Brian and finding he’d set Kathy’s bloodhound of a friend on my trail and then seeing Emily with Siobhan, the worry about an editor seeing my stories before they’re ready seemed pretty trivial. I said, ‘I was going to talk to you about that.’

Emily nodded enthusiastically. ‘She said she’d try to read them this weekend. I kept telling her how brilliant they are, and she said she’d read them if it was the only way to get me to shut up.’

So it sounded like it was too late to get them back. Oh well. Like I just said, it’s the least of my worries. I’m just thankful that none of the stories are about people falling off of fire escapes, or stalkers. All my stories are set further back in my past: my childhood and my schooldays. This journal is my only piece of contemporary autobiography, apart from a couple of stories about a guy who falls in love with the tutor at his writing class which I haven't let Emily see.

‘Wouldn’t it be great if she liked them?’ Emily said. ‘You might be a real, published writer. Imagine it!’

I did, and smiled.

‘I bumped into a writer at lunchtime, actually.’

My blood temperature plummeted again. ‘What was her name?’

She gave me a look. ‘Her? Why did you say “her”?’

Well done, Alex. ‘I don’t know. I just assumed.’ What a brilliant excuse. That’ll really fool her. I wanted to punch myself.

But Emily didn’t seem that bothered. ‘It was weird, actually. She said she knew me from somewhere. Then we had this odd conversation which ended with her telling me I had something on my teeth. I didn’t really like her, to be honest. I got this bad vibe off her, like there was something wrong with her. Attractive, well-dressed – but a bit strange.’

‘Did she tell you her name?’

‘Well, yes, she did. But when I got back to the office I looked her up on Amazon and couldn’t find her. So I can’t have remembered her name correctly.’

‘What was it?’

‘I told you, I didn’t remember it properly. But I thought it was Jessica Thomas.’

Nothing like Siobhan McGowan, then. But why had Siobhan – and it had definitely been Siobhan; I’m sure I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing – given Emily a fake name?

There’s something very odd going on. And whatever it is, it certainly isn’t good news for me. I’m sighing as I type this: sighing long and hard. Fuck, if I could turn the clock back, I would never have signed up for that writing class.

Tuesday

I haven’t had a chance to write here since Thursday because I’ve been with Emily most of the time; and when I haven’t been with her all I’ve wanted to do is sleep. This whole thing is sucking away my energy, wearing me down and leeching me dry. Because things have got worse. I don’t know how much more my overworked heart can take.

On Friday, a day I spent working on my new short story and sleeping, Emily called me at six and told me she wanted to go to the pub. ‘I need a drink,’ she said.

‘Why? Have you had a bad day?’

She paused. ‘Do you think I’m fat?’

‘What?’ I was taken aback.

‘Do you think I’m fat?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

I haven’t had much experience of this kind of thing, but I’ve read in numerous men’s mags that you should never ever tell a woman she’s fat. Even voluptuous is pushing it. Apparently, you can’t even say things like, ‘I like women to be a bit curvy,’ without triggering an outbreak of tears, gym membership and ultimately anorexia and death by starvation. So I said, ‘You’re not fat at all. Why on earth are you asking me that?’

She sniffed and said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

I grabbed my coat and headed out the door, waving goodbye to Si and Nat. It was arctic outside, a chill wind blowing nobody any good. The streets were quiet, sensible people huddled inside with the central heating turned up full. I thought about what Emily had said on the phone and hoped we weren’t going to have a long conversation about her weight. I would rather be running my hands over her flesh than talking about it. The truth is, I guess Emily is a little bit overweight, certainly compared to the whippet-women who populate the magazines she reads. I know I’ve commented on it here before. And the truth is, I really do like her body. Her heavy breasts, her soft thighs. Yum. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to use the words heavy or soft if she was having a body-image crisis.