Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards

very quickly, I became accustomed to it. I even forgot the others were there, and it felt like it was just me and Siobhan. Brian wasn’t scratching like a mangy hamster, Kathy wasn’t sending me hate rays for being a man, Barbara wasn’t snoring. It was just me and Siobhan, Siobhan and me, and it was so dark with the blackout blinds down that I couldn’t even see my own hands, and nobody else could see how aroused I was as I listened to Siobhan’s deliciously husky voice.

      She asked us to think of a character, but the only character I could think of was her, and then there were two of us in the story in my head, her and me. I couldn’t manage the bit about standing in my childhood bedroom. All I could picture was my bedroom now, rucked-up sheets beneath two entwined bodies.

      I felt like she was caressing me with her words, reaching across the room to me and stroking my hair, my face, touching my eyelids and running her hand down the back of my neck, then around to the front and – oh God – into my lap. I could smell her – her skin and perfume and hair – and when the lights came on I nearly fell out of my chair in my desperate attempt to cross my legs.

      Have to admit, though, the mood was spoiled a bit by the sight of the drool on Grandma’s hairy chin. But when my eyes adjusted to the brightness I couldn’t stop myself gazing at Siobhan. She caught my eye then quickly looked away, shy, sweet, coquettish.

      When I had to write down what I’d visualised, I had to make something up. I couldn’t be honest, could I? This journal is the only place where I can be fully honest.

      The class ended and the others started to file out. Brian stuttered something to her as he passed and she smiled at him, sympathetically. I hung back, waiting for all the others to leave. I wanted to talk to Siobhan about her book and my review. I wanted to give her the chance to say how pleased she was. But bloody Kathy wasn’t leaving. She stayed in her seat, scribbling something, and Siobhan came over and started talking to her. It didn’t seem that Kathy would be leaving too quickly. Realising there was no way I could hang around without seeming like a weirdo, I slunk out.

      But I wasn’t too worried because I knew Siobhan would love what I’d written – and I was confident that she’d want to call me to talk about it. She… shit, there’s the phone now.

      It wasn’t her. Someone for Simon. Of course it wouldn’t be her. She’ll want to play it cool, won’t want to let me know how excited she was to read my words straight away. I expect she’ll call tomorrow, Thursday. I wish I still had my mobile – I’d forgotten what it’s like to have to literally wait by the phone.

      I doubt I’ll be able to sleep tonight. Too excited.

      Thursday

      Had a terrible evening. Sat in the living room watching TV and waiting for the phone to ring. Nothing on except a programme about lions: all they seem to do is sleep and shag. Looked at the cover of Siobhan’s novel; the naked woman, Siobhan’s picture, the two merging into one. I stared at the phone. It stared back, mocking me. It rang at one point, making me leap off the sofa. It was Si, asking if I wanted to join him and Nat for a drink.

      ‘I can’t.’

      He sighed. ‘You need to get out more, Alex. You couldn’t come out the other night because of your writing class. You can’t keep turning down our invitations. We’ll get offended.’ I could hear the clink of glasses in the background, Christina on the jukebox. I put the phone down, worried about blocking the line.

      I smoked six cigarettes and rummaged through Si’s bedside cabinet, trying to find his dope stash. Just a few hard crumbs. I ate them. They didn’t do anything.

      At ten, I checked the phone connection. At this point, I realised how sad I was being. Maybe I should unplug the phone, I thought. Then when she tried to ring she wouldn’t be able to get hold of me; it would just ring and ring, and she’d be there getting worried, wondering where I was. I knelt down to pull the cord out of the wall. But I couldn’t do it.

      I wish I’d had the chance to talk to her after the class. Maybe I was too subtle, simply writing my phone number. Perhaps I should have made some ‘call me’ sign in class. But that would have made me look like a twat. And I’m sure Siobhan’s the kind of person who understands subtlety. Her novel is subtle. So why hasn’t she taken the hint and called? Does she think I’m just a loser who doesn’t even have a mobile phone?

      Or maybe she’s just shyer than she seems.

      Friday

      Maybe she lost my number. That could be it. She might have lost the card I gave her somehow. She might even have lost her bag. Maybe she’s been searching her flat or house, getting frantic, wanting to call me, worrying that I’ll be upset. Of course, I’ll reassure her, I’ll tell her it’s fine, let’s go for a drink, a meal, and who knows what will follow.

      Friday night, and I’m in my bedroom. It’s eleven thirty and, through the thin walls, Si and Nat are at it again, doing more for Anglo-French relations than Concorde, hypermarkets and Julian Barnes combined. I’ve put my headphones on, to drown it out, but when I close my eyes all I can see is flesh.

      But it’s not just sex. It isn’t. No, no, I’m not being dirty. Not like when mum caught me in the bathroom, caught me with the magazine. And she made me scrub with the pumice stone: made me scrub my hands and… no, that’s the past. I don’t want to remember it.

      Saturday

      No call again. I went out for a walk, up towards the college. I wasn’t sure if Siobhan teaches there at the weekend; thought I might bump into her. I didn’t.

      When I got home, I knocked on Simon’s door.

      ‘Enter at your own risk.’

      I went in. The room stank of dope and sex. No sign of Natalie. Simon was on his iMac, looking at porn on the Web. The girl on the screen looked very young; I had to look away.

      ‘Did anyone call for me?’ I asked.

      He reached for his cigarettes and lit up.

      ‘Yeah… actually, some chick did ring.’

      ‘What? When?’

      ‘Yesterday afternoon when you were at work.’

      ‘What did she say?’

      He grinned. ‘She asked if I wanted to save money on my gas bill.’

      ‘You git.’

      ‘She was nice, actually. Maybe I could have fixed you up on a blind date.’ He laughed and coughed simultaneously.

      In my mind, I grabbed hold of his stupid, grinning head and shoved it through the screen of his computer. In reality, I just muttered, ‘Arsehole,’ and left the room.

      ‘Don’t get eggy, Alex,’ he called after me. ‘It was only a joke.’

      I came into my room and slammed the door. Then I turned on my own PC, staring at the flickering screen while it booted up, the hard disk grinding away. I could see my reflection in the monitor screen. My hair was all over the place and my eyes looked puffy. I needed a bath.

      But if the phone rang while I was in there …

      I logged onto Facebook and typed Siobhan’s name into the search bar. There were five Siobhan McGowan’s in the UK, plus some more in Ireland and a page full in the States. Two of them were listed as living in London on the search results. Of those two, one had a picture of a baby as their profile picture; the other had a picture of a cat.

      Siobhan doesn’t have a baby – but I remembered her telling us she had a cat when she first introduced herself to the class. I clicked through. Because her privacy settings were preventing me from seeing her full profile, I was only able to see a small amount of information, including the fact that she had 82 friends. Twice as many as me. I scanned the list. None of the others from class were on there.

      My mouse cursor hovered over the ‘Add as friend’ button. Should I do it? Why not. After all, we were friends, weren’t we? Certainly better friends than half of the people