Killing Cupid. Mark Edwards
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he said, ‘selling other people’s books and wishing I was writing my own. That’s it.’
So, only six of them. But it might be fine. Jane was great, really sparky – I bet her writing’s good. And the gay one, Kathy, seemed quite interesting. Alex acts like he’s allergic to all of the other students, sitting as far away from the rest of them as possible and wrinkling his nose whenever they speak.
No decent men, though. I must say I did have a small fantasy about some gorgeous late-thirties guy with devastatingly sharp prose and a wicked smile, whilst also being sensitive and modest… Alas, I fear that both my male students will be purveyors of the ‘aren’t I wonderful’ school of writing. The blokes so often are. Throw in some tepid one-liners – or in Brian’s case, six thousand headless Snark warriors – and they think they’ve got a best-seller on their hands.
Poor scrofulous Brian – he was probably christened ‘Poor Brian’, bless him. I’m sure he’s a sweetheart really, for all the ogling and acne. Not that Alex was much better. Thinks he’s the dog’s bollocks. He was ogling me too, but in that way men sometimes do when they don’t remotely fancy you, they just want you to fancy them.
Anyway, I told them they had to keep journals, and that I wanted them to start by writing up a recent, important conversation. Alex asked if I would look at what they’d written, so I said, ‘No, it’s private. You can write anything you like. You can even write about me, if you want.’
It was a joke, but Alex jotted something in his notepad, eyebrows raised. He’d better not, the little bastard.
By the time I’d talked them all through the wretched paperwork that the college requires – register, assessment forms, syllabus etc – it was nearly time to go. The class ended on a bit of a downer for me, with the question I’d been dreading ever since mentioning I was a writer: Mary asked me when the next book was coming out.
Like some kind of production line. I couldn’t bear to explain that I only got a one book deal, and they never renewed my contract. I know I’m going to have to admit it at some point, when we get to talking about submissions to agents and so on; but for now I just told her it was coming along slowly. ‘That difficult second novel… ’ Clichéd, but true.
Thursday
I feel so low this morning. I never realised it before, but the thing I hate most about being on my own is waking up alone. I miss Phil’s body in the bed with me. I miss him when I get up in the night for a drink of water, then go back to bed and he’s not there to wrap my cold legs around. I loved the solidity of his chest, heavy with sleep, almost burning hot. His skin always felt somehow softer when he was asleep, and his breathing was steady and comforting, in a way that Biggles’s fluttery little cat breaths never are.
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.
Chapter 2
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