Mark Edwards - Killing Cupid

Later. Went for a soya milk decaf at the High Street Starbucks – I just had the urge for one – and who do I bloody well bump into? Phil, of course. He was just passing the door as I came out.

‘I thought you were boycotting Starbucks,’ he said.

‘I am,’ I said, and we both stared at the coffee in my hand. He can still make me feel so inferior. ‘I am, on principle. And The Gap. It’s my own little anti-capitalist stand. It’s just that since I’m detoxing, I’m off dairy, and they don’t do soya cappuccinos at the Italian coffee shop.’

Phil just smiled in that rather patronising way of his, and I thought, no wonder I only miss him when he’s asleep. He’s far too smug when he’s awake. Asleep, snug; awake, smug.

To change the subject, I asked him how Lynn was. I guess I must have been desperate to change the subject.

‘Fine,’ he said. ‘We’re going away to Portugal next week.’

I had an instant flash of them on a beach with pale sand, Phil rubbing suntan lotion into Lynn’s back. Hopefully they’ll get so sunburned they won’t be able to have sex. Still, sunburn fades, doesn’t it? Unlike… oh, bugger it, Siobhan, stop. Be strong. Bring back that image of Phil with sunburn. That’s it. Now picture yourself slapping it.

Alex

My day off. Simon and Natalie were at work, and being in the house on my own with nothing to do made me feel like a polar bear at the zoo. I roamed from room to room, unable to rest or concentrate on anything; spent hours flicking through photos of people I barely know on Facebook, stopping every now and then if an attractive friend of a friend caught my eye. I was so bored that I decided to do a bit of housework, put some washing on.

Checking my jeans pockets before shoving them in the machine, I found a folded-up tenner. A sign from God for me to get off my bored skinny arse and go and do something. Anything. I decided to get on a tube and see where I ended up.

On the way to the station, my thoughts returned to the writing class. I’ve been thinking about it a lot over the last few days. I’m glad I took the plunge and signed up. The hours at work pass quicker now I have something to look forward to. Okay, they don’t exactly skip by, but previously they moved like a wounded soldier dragging himself across a battlefield. Writing this journal makes me feel better too. Getting my thoughts onto paper – or, more accurately, onto the computer screen; paper is so old-fashioned – stops them festering in my head.

I wonder what my fellow students will write about in their journals? It’s not hard to imagine. Brian will be writing his in the guise of a mythical character from one of his fantasy stories: Brian the Bloody Awful, roving the land and bewitching lusty maidens with his magic staff. Kathy will detail her lipstick-lesbian affairs in her journal: blow by blow, or lick by lick, accounts of Sapphic escapades. I’d love to read it. Barbara will stick pictures of her grandchildren in hers, confusing it with a scrapbook, and write long poems about Des Lynam. I can barely remember the names of the other students, so nondescript were they.

Unlike the teacher.

Siobhan. She came into the room with a knowing smile on her face, unhooking her bag from her shoulder and studying her new students in turn. Her hair was cut in that short, boyish style that I like, and she had big, bright eyes, though I couldn’t quite work out their colour. They seemed to change as I looked at her – or maybe it was just my opinion about them changing: blue – no, grey – no, green – no, hazel. She said she was 35 – I’ve always thought I’d like an experienced older woman. She also said she had no husband, and I wondered if she was divorced. She was too attractive not to have been snapped up at some point. There was something in her eyes that betrayed pain, disappointment. But she looked confident, standing there in front of us, as if whatever trials she’d been through had made her stronger. I like that. I like women to be strong. Intelligent. The kind of woman who can put up a fight when she needs to. I couldn’t imagine ending up with a wimpy girl. I would have been shitting myself if you asked me to stand up – or sit on a desk – in front of a group of strangers, but Siobhan clearly took it in her stride.

I’m sure that her eyes lingered on me for an extra beat when she looked around the class. She touched the bridge of her nose, as if she was pushing back a pair of glasses. A part-time contact lens wearer, like me. The gesture made me think she wanted a better look at me, that she was evaluating me. When she spoke and introduced herself, her voice was musical, but quiet. I had to lean forward and concentrate to understand what she was saying. It was night music; a lullaby. I noticed Barbara fiddling with her hearing aid.

When my turn came to speak, my voice trembled with nerves and I only managed to get out one sentence before coming to a halt. I’m sure this didn’t make Siobhan think badly of me, though. She’s a writer: she’s almost certainly into sensitive men. I was sad when the class ended, because it meant I had to say goodbye to her for a week. Still, that week is almost up now. I’ll see her again in a few hours.

The tube train got stuck in a tunnel just outside Oxford Circus. The lights flickered and electricity hummed through the carriage. Nobody looked at anyone else; nobody said anything.

There was a crackly, inaudible attempt at an announcement and I could feel myself getting hot, tense. Nobody else seemed to have even noticed that we’d stopped. I had an image of that scene in The Rats, passengers traipsing through the tunnels, savaged in the dark by razor-teethed rodents.

The woman opposite gave me a look. She chewed the inside of her cheek for a moment then said, ‘You okay?’ She was American.

‘I’m fine.’

‘It’s just that you made this noise…’

I felt my cheeks heat up.

I put my head down, concentrated on the litter. The train lurched into motion and I got off at the next stop. I waited till the next train came along.

I eventually emerged from Leicester Square station. I needed something to read and immediately thought of the second-hand bookshops on Charing Cross Road. I trawled around the shops, scanning the tables, picking up yellowed paperbacks, sniffing them and putting them back again. I like second-hand bookshops for their cheapness, but there’s something revolting about them too. The thought of all those greasy fingers handling the pages, all that dead skin gathering in the folds. Examining one book, I found a squashed spider between the pages. Perhaps someone had used it as a bookmark.

I passed a pleasant couple of hours wandering in and out of shops, until I found myself in a pokey bookshop back near the tube. If I don’t find anything here, I decided, I will spend my money on alcohol. Which was when something caught my eye.

It was lying on a table. The title was Tara Lies Awake. The author, Siobhan McGowan. My teacher. I tingled. It felt like a sacred moment, and I lifted the book with slow reverence, stroking the hardback cover like it was a holy artefact. Siobhan’s book. I flipped open the cover and the scrawled pencil mark told me it was only £2. I would have paid a lot more for it. Without any hesitation, I took it up to the counter and practically threw my money at the old bloke behind the till.

‘Hey, your change… ’ he called as I pushed the door open.

Out in the street, my change now safely in my pocket, I looked at the cover. There was a naked woman on it – artfully done, of course. And there, on the inner flap of the dust jacket, was Siobhan herself. She was a few years younger, with a broad smile on her face, but… well, I’ve got the book lying open in front of me now. She doesn’t look as good in the photo as she does in real life. It looks a bit posed, fake. When she stood up in front of us in the classroom she seemed real. I mean, of course, she was real, but… oh, I don’t know what I’m trying to say. I suppose what I mean is that although Siobhan looks good in the picture, she could be any woman. But the woman who stood in front of us in the classroom last week seemed special.