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

It was a postman. He must have unlocked the postbox 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% 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 David, 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, focussing 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 at her watch. ‘We’d better wait for Brian.’

But he didn’t appear. After five minutes, during which Siobhan chatted with Kathy, she said, ‘Well, I think we’d better get on.’ She looked a bit 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.’