Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards

is disgusted with me. He was chasing up and down the stairs after me with his tail out like a brush. At first, being paranoid, I thought that he could sense something strange. Then I thought, yes of course he can: me, charging around like a maniac with a poker while listening to music loudly enough to make his fur stand on end.

      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 per cent 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 have 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