Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards

a woman on her back with that frowny, closed-eyed expression which is more likely to be orgasm than sleep. One naked breast is showing, and her arm is around another woman, who looks as though she’s sucking the other breast. The two look like one. It’s weird how he so often painted his women with their heads at ninety degree angles to their bodies.

      When I turned it over it had a few lines printed on it, by hand. It said:

      … I don’t think I can even write it. I’m not a prude or anything, but it makes me feel embarrassed because of the way it describes what somebody wants to do to me. It wasn’t signed. I’ll stick it in here when I find my sellotape – it’s not something I’d want to leave around for Mum to find.

      I didn’t recognise the handwriting, but Phil knows I like Klimt. And it figures that he’d be trying to dispel his bad rap in bed – although it’s not like him to go in for soft porn. I thought I knew him well enough to know that it’s just not his style.

      I was really shocked, actually. I didn’t realise how shocked until Dennis Tennis turned up, lolloping across the park like a daddy long legs, and when I stood up to meet him I sort of almost lost my balance. Dennis looked really concerned.

      ‘Are you OK?’ he asked, in his funny Wiltshire accent. ‘You look a bit pale’.

      Normally I’d never confide in Dennis Tennis; the 6’5” religious tennis-playing plumber. He carries his tennis racket and his Bible around with his toilet plunger and his spanners. Ours is a strictly tennis relationship, I have no idea where he even lives – but suddenly I just wanted to talk to someone, so I blurted it out. Not what the card said, of course, just that I was a bit taken aback by its content. And that I’d sort of finished with an old boyfriend, and was worried that he’d taken it badly. Dennis looked utterly mortified, and muttered something that sounded suspiciously like he’d pray for me if I liked. I felt like saying, ‘No, that’s OK, just let me win at tennis for once.’

      Then I suddenly thought; what if the card’s from him? The quiet ones are often the worst.

      I dismissed this idea instantly. But then I thought, it can’t be Phil, either. I know Phil well enough to know that he’s not that imaginative – I lived with the man for eight months. Not Phil, not Dennis, then.

      What about Poor Brian, gutted that I knocked him back? But no, how would he know where I live? And the same goes for Alex, too, my other potential admirer. It’s a picture of two women… couldn’t be from Kathy, could it? No – a woman wouldn’t be anatomically capable of doing some of the things described on the card. I can’t think of any other ex-boyfriends who would suddenly come out of the woodwork. Why is it anonymous, if they did? It must be Phil.

      Needless to say, tennis was a disaster. I played atrociously, and Dennis thrashed me 6-1, 6-0, which irritated me beyond measure, even though I deserved to lose that badly. I couldn’t concentrate at all. My mind was like the ball, flying all over the place, everywhere except where I wanted it to go. I just kept thinking of those words, and seeing the rapture on the face of that Klimt woman with her long hair streaming down over her shoulders and mingling with the other woman’s hair.

      When I got home, I looked at the envelope again. It’s postmarked Kentish Town, so whoever it’s from is not far away. My hands were clammy as I took out the card and re-read it, holding it between finger and thumb like it was going to contaminate me.

      On second reading, I thought, maybe it’s not that obscene. It’s quite, well, erotic. It’s just the fact that it’s not signed that makes it so creepy. If I got that card from someone I was madly in love with, I’d actually be rather flattered. And turned on.

      Who fancies me enough to fantasise these things, and to let me know – albeit anonymously – that they do?

      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 post box. 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 post box, my hand was trembling; my resolve was wavering. And then I heard, ‘That for me?’

      It was a postman. He must have unlocked the post box 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 per cent 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 Martin, 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, focusing 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