Killing Cupid (8 page)

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.

Chapter 8

Alex

Thursday

I felt happy this morning. Really happy, endorphins fizzing and popping in my bloodstream. I could feel Siobhan’s key in my pocket; the metal warm where it touched my leg through the thin cloth. I kept stroking my pocket, a silly smile on my face, not caring what anyone thought of me, ignoring the looks I got on my way to work. I was so far over the moon I was about to collide with Venus.

So why did they have to fuck it all up?

I was just thinking maybe it wouldn’t be too bad, talking to customers today. I mean, sometimes I do have a laugh there. Although you only ever remember the bastards, 95% of the punters are alright. Of course, it isn’t my ideal job, but, I realised as I strolled from the Tube to the office, it would suffice until I wrote my novel and hit the big time.

As soon as I got in, I knew something was wrong. Across the floor, I saw several people look at me then look away. As I walked towards my desk, the carpet tiles felt spongy and vast, and Jackie – mein call centre Kommandant, old Hitler-with-halitosis herself – stepped into my path.

‘Martin wants to see you.’

‘Is this about my sick leave?’ I said. ‘I was only off for two days. I was genuinely sick. I can get a doctor’s note.’

The vicious expression on her face was replaced by something that looked very much like pity. She told me to just go and see Martin.

So I did.

Martin is only a year older than me, but he’s managed to become the biggest fish in this cramped tank. This is despite being dumber than the average football player. A triumph of ambition over talent, rather like Victoria Beckham’s career. He often treats us with jokes that he picked up at Sunday’s rugger game and we all pretend to be amused. I guess you could say I don’t have much professional respect for him. But he’s the boss, so I had to try to stay on his good side. Because of our similar ages and the fact that we’re both in possession of a penis – well, I assume he is – he often affects a fake bonhomie with me, asking me if I watched the footie at the weekend and pretending he’s heard of the bands I like. Our conversations make me want to weep with despair.

‘I was only off for two days,’ I said as soon as I sat down in his office. There was a picture of a golden retriever on his desk. His best friend.

He shook his head slowly. ‘This isn’t about your sick leave, Alex. Everybody’s entitled to go off sick from time to time. Even I had a day off last year, when I had that infection.’

I waited. I was starting to get a bad feeling.

He folded his arms, a classic defensive gesture. Bad news was coming. The kind of news that made him fear that I might attack him. Even just seeing him then, this ‘oh isn’t it awful being a manager when we could be great mates on the outside?’ look on his stupid face, I did feel like slapping him. Punching his fucking nose through the back of his head.

‘We’ve had a report from the IT department that you broke one of our most important rules, Alex. We know that…’ he closed his eyes, as if the very concept of what he was about to say, this thing that I’d done, was too awful for him to bear. ‘We know that you looked up a customer’s personal records.’

I didn’t speak.

And I don’t even want to recount the rest of it. I don’t want to have to write about how a random spot-check had revealed that I had taken an unauthorised look at a customer’s details. How the call-monitoring computers confirmed that this customer hadn’t called that day. How the IT department recorded every message that we sent from our email accounts and that they knew I had pasted this customer’s details into a message and sent it home.

How he had no option but to let me go. With immediate effect.

And I certainly don’t want to recount the details of how I asked him, as he sat there with his arms still folded, unable to meet my eye, what the hell I was supposed to do to pay the bills now. How a cold sickness crept through me at the thought of being jobless and having no money. I couldn’t believe that I’d been caught on the spot-check . . . It wouldn’t surprise me if Martin had told IT to monitor everything I did because of my recent poor stats, so the bastards would have an excuse to get rid of me.

But I have to face it. How will I pay my rent? How will I eat? The only bright spot is that – thank God – I paid for Siobhan’s writing classes up front.

I left Martin’s office and pushed open the double doors to the main office, feeling, once again, all those eyes burning into me. Jackie avoided my eye too. What is it with these people? Why are they so gutless? Suddenly, I was an embarrassment, something that made them feel awkward. I was a failure and they wanted me gone.

I pulled open the drawer of the pedestal beneath my desk and began clearing out the contents. There wasn’t much in there. A couple of books, a computer magazine, scrappy paperwork, stationery. I found a carrier bag and scooped this pitiful selection into it. Then I turned round to find Sally, the girl who sat next to me, staring at me.

She asked me what had happened. I told her.

‘They just wanted to get rid of me, and this was their excuse, this cock and bull story.’

‘If you didn’t do it, you should fight them. Surely it’s unfair dismissal?’

I sighed. I didn’t want to tell her that it was all true. I was too ashamed.

I picked up my carrier bag and left, suddenly desperate to get out of there, not able to bear any of it, hearing my mum’s voice in the back of my head, saying, F-A-I-L-U-R-E – that’s what you are and what you’ll always be.

Fuck her. Fuck the job. Fuck them all. I don’t need them. I’ll show them. Because I’ve found somebody to love now. That will give me strength. And think how much more time I’ll have now! This is a blessing. Sure, it’s pretty heavily disguised, but that’s what it is. It’s another sign, isn’t it? A sign that I should devote more of my time to my own happiness. And to Siobhan.

My head was whirling when I left the building, handing in my pass to the security guard on the way out. All these terrors and emotions spiralled through my mind: money, revenge, bitterness, relief, confusion, anger… Spin, spin, lifting me up and slamming me down, making me dizzy and nauseous. And emerging from all this mental noise was a single thought:

I wanted to see Siobhan. I wanted to be close to her.

I was like a moth that had been battered by the weather, and was bewildered and lost. But one thing was clear – the urge to follow my instinct. To head towards Siobhan’s light.

I put my hand in my pocket and felt the key: solid, warm, like a talisman. It gave me strength. It made me feel safe.

I didn’t go straight towards Hampstead, though. First, I came back here. I needed coffee and cigarettes. And there was stuff I wanted to take care of first.

I called Simon’s name as soon as I came through the door, knowing that I was going to have to break the news to him. On the way home I’d stopped at the bank and checked my balance. I had enough to see me through a month and that was it. I’m so crap at saving. There’d been the new computer (and I can’t sell that; I need it to write this journal and my pieces for college, for Siobhan) and my half of all the bills… and the rent here is so bloody high and my wages so pathetic that it didn’t leave me anything to save anyway.

Simon wasn’t in, which was a big relief. I came straight to my room and sat down at the PC, logging straight onto the Web. First, I subscribed Martin to a load of hardcore porn sites. I found these really disgusting coprophagia sites and added his email address to their mailing lists as well. I added Jackie’s too, for good measure. Well, they enjoy crapping on people, don’t they? I felt it was apt. Even if I did make myself feel really sick.

I tried to think of something bigger I could do – something that would really fuck them up… and then realised I couldn’t be bothered. The sick subscriptions were enough – for now, anyway. What’s the point in trying to get further revenge? It will make me feel good for a few minutes, and then it will fade and I’ll still be in the same place. I felt really mature and virtuous coming to that decision. Siobhan would be proud of me.

I wish I could have been there to see her face when she saw the flowers I left her. She must be so intrigued. I can imagine her talking about it with her girlfriends, excitedly wondering aloud who her mysterious admirer is. But she’s so clever, I’m sure it won’t be long before she works it out. And by then she’ll be hooked. She’ll be mine. But before that, I can’t risk telling her how I feel; can’t risk her rejection. Not that it matters too much. Because in the meantime I can still be close to her.

I’ve just had a horrible thought. What if my employer – or should I say former employer – contacts Siobhan to tell them I looked up her records? I’m pretty sure they wouldn’t want a customer to know that their details were not 100% secure. But there’s a chance they might. They might have a legal requirement to do it, to warn her.

Maybe I should talk to her first. Explain why I did it. Because if they tell her it will make me look bad and she might kick me off the course.

I left the flat and headed towards her light. London felt so grey and cruel today, a dry wind blowing between the buildings where all the drones laboured away, chained to their workstations, and for what? I’m not a drone any more – and, thinking that, I felt liberated, momentarily free of my worries. The sky might be dim, the buildings may be bleak, but there’s beauty in this city. And I was going to be near it.

I didn’t know exactly what I was going to say to Siobhan. I thought I might tell her that I looked up her address because I was originally planning to send the review of her book to her house, but that I’d decided that would be a breach of her privacy and that I really regretted looking her up.

But then something happened:

I went into a newsagents to buy some fags. And just as I was about to open the door to leave the shop, I saw her. Siobhan, coming down the road towards me. Her eyes were downcast, and she didn’t see me, so I hid behind a card rack until I felt it was the right moment to come out. But when I did, she was gone. She had been heading down the hill, away from her house, towards Camden Lock. Suddenly, I had a decision to make. I could either follow her down the road, trying to stay out of her sight. Or I could go towards her house – where I might be able to check if she’d received any messages about me.

I pushed open the newsagent’s door and headed up the hill.

I was sweating by the time I reached Siobhan’s house. There was a guy with a black dog coming along the road towards me. I stopped just before Siobhan’s gate and pretended I was trying to find something in my pocket. After he’d passed, I had one more look around then went up her front path. My palms were damp and the key almost slipped from my grasp as I pushed it into the lock. I didn’t want to look furtive, so I didn’t look around again. More aware of my heartbeat than ever before, I turned the key and went through the door.

It was utterly silent inside the house. I couldn’t even hear a clock ticking. Which was why I jumped when my footsteps made the floorboards creak.

I laughed, the noise very loud in the silence. I guess it was just my conditioning – a voice telling me that this was wrong. But really I knew I wasn’t doing anything bad. I was just checking out Siobhan’s territory, exploring the place where she lives. Pretty soon I knew she would be inviting me inside anyway (oh God, I like the way that sounds: inviting me inside), so, telling myself this, I relaxed. There was a Modigliani on the wall inside the front door, a dark-haired woman stretched languorously on a bed, naked, gazing out intently at the artist and the viewer. Looking at the curve of her breasts and the shadow of her pubic hair, I felt myself become aroused. Why had Siobhan put such an erotic picture just inside her door? What did it signify? I held my hand up in front of me, yearning to touch the glass that screened the print. I held back. I didn’t want to leave any marks.

I looked up the stairs. I wanted to go up there, see where Siobhan slept, but I had to hold myself back again. I wouldn’t find what I was looking for up there. Instead, I went into the living room. It was quite small, but filled with light. More pictures on the wall, though I didn’t recognise the artists. And the place was so neat – astonishingly so. It looked like a hotel suite just after the chambermaid’s been round. No, it was even tidier than that. There were no magazines or papers scattered on the floor: instead, they were stored neatly in those boxes you get in Habitat. The carpet was spotless – I felt like I ought to take off my shoes. What a contrast to my room, with the stacks of books on the floor, the underwear overspilling the drawers, the ashtray that I always forget to empty.