Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards
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worried; perhaps she gets paid by the student. Oh Siobhan, if I could multiply myself to help you, I would. But I wasn’t going to miss Brian. Especially as I was now the only man in the group.
Though that didn’t mean I was the only one with my eye on Siobhan. As the class went on, I noticed how much Kathy was looking at her. Every time Siobhan turned around, Kathy ogled her arse. And she was trying to leap into the limelight at every opportunity. Anyone would think this was fame school, not a creative writing class, and that we should all be wearing black lycra.
‘Who would like to read out their piece from last week?’ Siobhan asked.
Straight away Kathy said, ‘I will.’ Bloody teacher’s pet.
She said the guy in her story had just come to her, ‘walked into her line of vision’, as she put it. Siobhan smiled and nodded at that. He was lonely, she said, and wanted someone to care for him. He’d had a difficult childhood, and a worse adolescence, sitting in his musty bedroom. Now he had met someone who he had fallen for, but he was too shy to approach this person (a non-gender-specific person, I noted). In the scene she read out, the boy – Michael – was writing in his diary about how he’d just love to spend a day with his loved one: a day by the sea, eating candy floss and paddling in the cold English Channel. At night they’d sit and watch the pier lights ebb on the surface of the sea. At the end of this, Siobhan looked tearful, her eyes moist, and I wanted to shout at Kathy, say, ‘See what you’ve done – you’ve upset her.’
But then Siobhan said, ‘That was beautiful, Kathy.’
My God. Was this more competition? Not just the man who left her house (if he is a competitor) but Kathy as well? Reading Siobhan’s novel, knowing how sexual she was, I could imagine her wanting to experiment; or perhaps she was a full-blown bisexual. And I was certain this dyke fancied my Siobhan. Who wouldn’t?
I wished I had something to read out myself. Something more beautiful – something like I’d written in Siobhan’s card. Barbara went next, and her piece was bloody awful, quelle sur-fucking-prise, but I wasn’t really listening anyway. Her words were drowned out by the buzzing in my ears.
And beneath the buzzing, I was thinking. About how, very soon, Siobhan will realise that, apart from her, I’m the best writer in the class. And she’ll ask me to read to her in bed, with our mingled sweat still drying on our skin. And as I read, she’ll stroke me. She’ll do all sorts of wonderful things to me with her hands and her mouth.
I found it even harder to concentrate after that.
At the end of the lesson, I hung back. Siobhan had given us more exercises to do: she wants us to put our characters into a severe weather situation. I think I’ll be good at that, once I’ve come up with my central character. I got away without reading aloud this week – fortunately, Jane had written so much and went on at such length (I think she’s cheating and that it was an extract from her novel-in-progress) that we ran out of time – but my good luck won’t last forever. Funny how listening to someone read out a seven-page description of their back garden can be classed as good luck.
Siobhan said something to Kathy on her way out, then began to pack up her stuff.
‘That was a good class,’ I said.
She looked up at me, eyes wide and bright. ‘Hi Alex.’
‘I’m really enjoying this class,’ I said.
She smiled. ‘That’s great.’
‘And I learned a lot today about the flora of north London.’
She appeared confused for a moment then got it and laughed. I think she must have felt guilty though because she put her hand to her mouth and stopped herself. I was glowing inside. I’d made her laugh!
‘I loved your novel,’ I said. ‘I think it’s one of the best things I’ve read in ages.’
Now it was her turn to glow. ‘Thank you for the lovely review. Shame I never got any write-ups like that in the press. You could have just told me you liked it though rather than go to all that trouble.’
‘I didn’t want to embarrass you in front of the other students.’
‘Oh, don’t worry. Praise doesn’t embarrass me, I can assure you. Anyway, thank you again.’ She picked up her bag and threw it over her shoulder. ‘I’ll see you next week.’
She took a step towards the door and I knew I had to act fast before the opportunity slipped away. ‘Siobhan.’
She turned back. ‘Hmm?’
‘Would you… I wondered if… maybe we could go out sometime? To talk about your novel.’
She had her back to the open door. ‘You’re asking me out.’
I wasn’t sure if it was a question or a statement.
‘Well… yeah. I guess so.’ I tried my best to maintain eye contact with her.
She cleared her throat. ‘I’m sorry Alex. I can’t. It’s a college rule. Teachers aren’t allowed to date students. I’m sorry.’
‘But… who would know?’
She was clearly unhappy about this rule too – she looked a bit choked. Oh, poor Siobhan. I wanted to comfort her, but I was frozen by what she had said.
She mumbled something about how rules were rules and how she couldn’t risk getting into trouble with the college. ‘And it would be so hard to keep it quiet.’
Before I could respond, she said, ‘See you next week.’ She left the classroom, leaving me on my own. I reached out for her, but she’d gone.
Walking home, I thought about what was going on. She was afraid. But was she afraid of breaking the rules, or of love itself? Was she using the college rules as an excuse? Maybe someone had hurt her recently? I know from the way she looks at me that she wants me. But she’s scared, like an animal that’s afraid of people, either timid by nature, or a victim of cruelty. That must be why she hasn’t accepted my Facebook friend request yet.
If I’m going to win her love, I need to get the balance right. I need to show her that she needn’t be frightened, that that love is a bond, not a cage. I need to tiptoe and whisper rather than rush and shout. And I need to get to know her: the way she lives and feels and thinks. Not that that’s going to be a hardship. It’s going to be fun, researching this woman I love, because it will mean I’ll have to get close to her.
But what if she rejects you? What if she doesn’t want you?
The voice whispering at me sounded just like my mother. I wanted to punch her in the mouth, shut her up. Because, I whispered back to myself, Siobhan does want me; will want me. Cupid, that fat little angel, who changes our fate with an invisible arrow, has chosen us. Our hearts were his target, and his aim doesn’t lie. Siobhan and I are meant to be together.
Live our lives apart? I’d rather we were both dead.
I needed a drink, so I stopped outside a bar. It wasn’t the kind of place I would normally go to. Too trendy. But the people I saw through the window looked so happy and luminous, and the damp, shining bottles of beer on the table were calling to me. And seeing all the couples leaning close and laughing didn’t make me feel sick like it normally does.
I stubbed out my cigarette and went in, bought a bottle of Corona and took it over to a table in the corner.
Siobhan doesn’t smoke – at least, I’ve never seen her smoke – so maybe I should try to quit. She might not like the smell of it. Or, more likely, she won’t mind it on me. She might even find it sexy, mannish.
I took out my notebook and began to work on my exercise for next week. I wanted my hero to be masculine, strong, well-read and -travelled. A kind of modern day Indiana Jones. I thought Siobhan would like that.
I scribbled away happily, engrossed in what I was doing. The bar was pretty quiet, and the background