Am now sitting in the bath writing this. I recently discovered that if I lean against the bath pillow, rest my diary on my knees, and keep my hands dry, I can carry on scribbling quite effectively. I adore big, deep, hot baths but unless you’re reading a book or listening to the radio, it’s such dead time, and writing this bloody diary is so time-consuming. I think I’ve spent as much time writing about Alex and the ‘situation’ as I have talking about it, ie. HOURS. I wish I spent half as long writing fiction. I’ve got three novels’ worth of words in my last two diaries alone. Shame my life is normally so boring – a confessional memoir would be a piece of cake, if I had anything worth confessing…

I can hear Biggles scuffling around in my bedroom – bless him, he never comes near the bathroom when I’m in it. He thinks I’m going to wash him. He hasn’t quite been himself since the wall fell down. The woman in the car told Doreen next door that she’d had to swerve to avoid a black and white cat that ran out in front of her. I wonder if he’s suffering from post-traumatic stress syndrome? Perhaps

What’s that noise?

Chapter 14

Alex

Sunday (Continued)

I panicked, looking around the room, my instinct telling me that I had to hide. In a corner of my mind an image was illuminated: me, sitting on the bed; Siobhan coming home, smiling as she saw me, saying, ‘Hi, darling’, kissing me softly. But that was for the future. Right now, I needed to get out of sight. But where? Under the bed? No, there was no space. Behind the curtains? They were too short, and there was no balcony. The wardrobe was the only possible place. Watched by Siobhan’s cat (‘Don’t tell,’ I mouthed silently), I opened the wardrobe and slipped inside, crouching on the solid oak floor. It was like being inside a massive speaker, my heart providing the bass beat.

I strained to hear what was going on in the world outside the wardrobe. At first I couldn’t make out a thing above my thudding pulse, but then I heard a creak and several quick footsteps. Siobhan (oh, my Siobhan) was coming up the stairs. I pressed my ear against the wardrobe door. She was heading in my direction – the tread of her pretty feet moving towards me. Here she came, right into the bedroom. I had a moment of amplified horror: had I remembered to put the diary back on the bedside table? Yes – yes, I had. Thank God. I heard her stop and say something to the cat: ‘Something something Biggles.’ Well, now I knew what he was called. Quite cute, though perhaps reflecting a dodgy taste in literature…what the hell was I doing, mulling over the quality of Siobhan’s cat’s name? She was still standing in the bedroom, and I was terrified that she was going to open the door – not because I didn’t want to see her, but I thought it might harm our relationship if she found me crouched in her wardrobe.

But she moved away out of the bedroom. Where had she gone? A few moments later my question was answered: I heard the shudder of pipes, the rush of water. She was running the bath. I took a deep breath.

Right now, just down the hall from me, in a room where I had only recently stood, she would be taking her clothes off, throwing them on the floor, dipping a hand into the water to test its temperature. Maybe pouring a little oil into the water, or some bubbles. Oh God, she might even be shaving her legs or armpits. Or would she do that in the bath? I’ve never lived with a woman, never shared a bathroom with any females apart from Mum and Annette, and I never had any desire to watch them in the bath. I used to sometimes fantasise about dropping a few piranha fish into the water when Mum was in there, but that was where my mother/bathroom interests finished.

The taps stopped running; the water tank continued to clank for a while, then suddenly fell silent. The bath must be full. She would be stepping into it now, her toes breaking the surface of the water, then one ankle, and she would step in, slowly lower herself into the hot, oily liquid, her skin flushed pink by the heat… Oh, Jesus. I could picture her body; I knew what it would look like: bottom like Kylie; stomach like Angelina Jolie; breasts like Halle Berry. Flawless skin, maybe a constellation of freckles on her shoulders. Her eyes would close as she sank into the water.

What was she thinking about?

Was she thinking about me?

One of Siobhan’s dresses was hanging in front of my face. I pulled it closer, against my mouth and nose, breathing in her scent…then snapped out of my erotic reverie. This was my chance to escape. While Siobhan was in the bathroom, I could get out of the house. As long as the bathroom door was shut.

I opened the wardrobe door as quietly as I could, blinking at the invasion of light. Slowly, I eased my way out of the dark space and stood up. I looked over towards the bedside table – the diary wasn’t there! I checked the bed. I lifted up Biggles to make sure it wasn’t under him. He wasn’t pleased, and swiped at me, his claws scratching my hand. I had to bite my lip to stop myself from crying out. I watched the scratches turn red and sucked my skin. Biggles closed his eyes and went back to sleep, and I realised Siobhan must have taken the diary with her.

The bedroom door was open and, looking down the hall, I could see – oh thank you God – that the bathroom door was shut.

I crept down the hall.

The bathroom door had a panel of frosted glass which had steamed up from the inside. I stood just before the door. I trembled. The woman I loved was beyond that layer of glass, naked… a woman who wants to be fucked by a man with a dick like a truncheon. I didn’t know if I would quite measure up to that, but I knew this: Siobhan was as frustrated as me; she was in need just like me. And I knew – I know – that she and I could help each other, could find what we’re looking for in each other’s arms; in each other’s beds.

I stepped in front of the bathroom door and tried to look through the glass. All I could see were vague shapes, misty shadows that fed my imagination. I could hear splashing, rippling water.

My hand hovered over the door handle. All I had to do was turn the handle and push, and there we would be ...

Siobhan would turn and smile, raise an eyebrow. Pick up the soap and hold it out to me. ‘Don’t be shy, Alex. Why don’t you come over here and wash me...’

I pulled my hand away from the door handle. I couldn’t do it.

I walked past the door and went straight down the stairs – and as I descended I stumbled, missing a step, having to grab the bannister to stop myself from falling. My foot went bang on the next step.

I went rigid. I could see the front door below me. Above me, I heard a loud splash, the sound of a body emerging from water. Siobhan must have heard me. She would be frightened, wondering what the hell that noise was. Oh God, I didn’t want to scare her; I hated to think of her being afraid. A wave of sickness crashed over me. This was a mistake. What was I doing here? It was all wrong. And I realised that I needed to do what I had come here to do initially: I had to talk to her.

I continued to the foot of the stairs. But instead of going out of the front door, I turned right and went into the living room. I sat down on the sofa and waited, sick with trepidation.

A minute later I heard movement on the stairs: she was coming down, slowly, my angel descending towards me. I combed my fingers through my hair, breathed into my cupped palm to make sure I didn’t have bad breath.

I didn’t have to wait long.

She appeared in the doorway just after I’d checked my breath for the third time. She was looking towards the kitchen at first, but then she turned her head towards me.

She jumped, clapping a hand over her heart. Her mouth formed an O, her eyes an umlaut above it. I tensed, expecting her to scream or at least cry out – but she remained silent… for a few seconds. Then she said, ‘Alex.’