I got up from the bed and walked around the room, careful to stay away from the window. I loved the way light flooded into the room. Siobhan was very lucky to have this place. Now all she needed was someone to share it with. Somebody like me. I could imagine myself lying in this bed beside Siobhan, the cat at the end of the bed. I’d bring Siobhan breakfast and sit beside her reading the paper while she dunked soldiers into a boiled egg. Then she’d put her plate aside and gesture for me to put the paper down. I love you so much, she’d say. And then she’d get that naughty glint in her eye and say, Why don’t you fuck me?

I moved around the bedroom. There was a huge wardrobe in the corner of the room. I opened it and saw how few clothes there were inside. There was no sign of the clothes I’d bought her.

I shut the door then turned back to the bed. That was when I saw a hardback book lying on the bedside table. I bent down to pick it up and realised, with a spasm of guilty excitement, that it was a diary. It had this year’s date on the front. I sat down next to the cat. There was a fist clenching and unclenching in my stomach. Should I open it? I knew I shouldn’t, but what if there something about me in it? There might be something in this book that told me how to win Siobhan’s heart – that key that I’d been looking for.

I opened it at a random page and read the following passage. I can remember every word – it’s seared into my memory:

I practically dragged him up to the bedroom and ripped off his clothes, and then there was the shock of the cold bedclothes over and under our hot flesh…..

….. and nothing had changed. The cat hair still made him sneeze. He squashed me under his weight. He moaned and grunted and thrusted, ripping at my hair and using his fingers in all the wrong places. I’d been really turned on for the first two minutes but then I just kept thinking, I want a real man. I wanted to be fucked, by a man with a dick like a truncheon, not this skinny little excuse for a penis. I want to come three times in a night.

I snapped the diary shut.

Beneath me, the front door had just opened and closed.

Somebody had come in.

Chapter 13

Siobhan

Sunday

Have just got in from tennis. Dennis couldn’t believe how well I was playing – nor could I, for that matter. It was as if I took all the fear and rage and confusion about this Alex business, packed it into a small green fluorescent ball, and smashed it at him, over and over, slamming it into the corners of the court, putting it over his head, squeaking it just inside the tramlines. I beat him, for the first time ever. 6-1.

The tennis was a brief and welcome break from the Alex situation, but I feel weirdly compelled to get as many different opinions as I possibly can. I was on the phone to Mum for hours last night. I was very calm (at that point!) but I think she was crying. Then I called Paula and we had a long chat, and after that, I even called Jess. She and I had our first decent conversation in weeks, and she only mentioned Tom’s teething problems once. I even offered to do the godmotherly thing and take him out for an afternoon, which she fell over herself to accept; but mostly we talked about what had been going on with Alex. I ‘philled’ her in on the Phil situation too. (Tried to call him again last night but he never seems to be in, or else he’s still sulking. Tosser)

All of them – Mum, Dennis, Paula, Jess – say I must go to the police. Alex has been using my credit card. He’s spent hundreds of pounds on it. I know they’re right, but something’s stopping me. After all, it’s not as if he’s broken into the house, or attacked me, or anything. He must have just taken my card out of my bag at some point, written down the number, and replaced it. I’m not condoning it, but at least he put it back. He’d have got access to the washing line by climbing over the back gate; and I’m sure it was me who left the mug out in the kitchen. I must have spilt the cat food, too. He’s not Houdini, he can’t have got into my house without forcing a lock or breaking a window – I’m so paranoid about security these days.

I don’t know for sure that it was him who followed me the other week, and what else has he done? Nothing, except send me a card saying how much he likes and fancies me (OK, so that was a little inappropriate, but he’s clearly embarrassed about that). He’s sent me flowers (OK, so he didn’t realize they were dead) and has bought me expensive presents (WITH MY OWN MONEY, Siobhan, you sap).

Anyway, I’ve decided how I’m going to play it. I’ve made it clear that his attentions aren’t welcome…although a tiny part of me thinks, what a shame. I just keep remembering the look in his eyes when he told me I was beautiful. It was one of those gorgeously longing looks, so full of affection. Phil never used to look at me like that.

Don’t go there. The guy is probably a total freak. He scared me, and he’s robbed me. Aargh, this is so confusing!

SO. I’m going to ask him for the money back, and if he doesn’t pay up, then I’ll go to the police. I’ll keep the underwear, because it’s too weird to give that back to him, specially since I’ve now worn it, although he might like that. (happily, it fits me very well and doesn’t climb up my arse at all). I’ve worn the clothes too, obviously – which is another major reason why I don’t think the police will listen to me – but I’ll get them dry-cleaned, give them back to him, and he can sell them at one of those second-hand designer shops. Or he can wear them himself, or dress his blow-up doll in them, for all I care. Whatever.

What am I going to do about seeing him in class though? Jess and Paula both think I should get him kicked out; but then I’ve got to make a formal complaint and jump through all those bureaucratic hoops. I think I’ll write to him instead. I’ve got his address in my student file. Yes. I’ll write to him, tell him how much he owes me and that he can have the Prada back. And I will suggest that it’s best that he drops out of my class under his own volition.

I’m writing this sitting on the bathroom floor waiting for the bath to fill up. I’m so sweaty – when I nipped into the bedroom to grab the diary from the bedside cabinet, Biggles was lying on the bed, and he gave me an ‘ooh, you’re smelly’ look; that haughty expression that cats do so well.

This bath is so damn slow. I’m aching from the tennis, and I’m still disturbed by what happened with Alex yesterday, and Kathy’s funeral, but despite all the confusion I feel oddly invigorated. Not just by the exercise. I don’t know how to describe it, but it’s a mixture of things: the catharsis of talking to good friends and family. The puzzle of figuring out a solution. The secretive buzz of having someone really fancy me, to the extent of buying me really expensive clothes. Yes, yes, I know – I paid for the damn clothes, but still. I wish Alex was less screwed up, or richer. He’s not bad looking, and if he’d paid for the Prada himself, I’d probably be on cloud nine by now. I love men who buy me clothes. He scared me shitless yesterday, but I think that it was just the emotions of the funeral making me overreact. I can deal with the likes of him. The fact that he thinks I’m beautiful makes me feel strong, capable, dominant. And sexy too.

It’s so nice to hear a man say that you’re beautiful. Especially a younger man! Albeit a nutter… I’ve just peeled my damp tennis things off and stood in front of the big bathroom mirror, watching myself slowly turn into a ghost in the steam, trying to see myself through someone else’s eyes. Through a non-critical person’s eyes.

And I have to say: not bad. Firm enough. I’m no Cheryl Cole but at least I don’t have cellulite or rolls of fat. Wish my tits were bigger, but they’re still pretty perky, and I don’t have to hide my body during sex anymore, the way I used to feel I had to when I was younger.