Bit bloody late for that now.

Oh God, what have I done?

I’ve lost it. I’ve lost my precious book, the one I was so proud of, the one I really thought would establish me as a serious novelist. What have I done? What have I done? What have I done?

Later. Had a bath. Had a long, long cry. My eyes are stinging and my eyelids are so puffy that they look like two little millefeuilles. I cried even more than I did at Kathy’s funeral, and to be honest this hurts far more. I feel bereaved, bereft. It’s done now though. No going back.

And to top it all off, I’ve got the bloody writing class tonight. I can’t hack it. I don’t think I’ll go.

The phone rang again. As I plodded across the sitting room to answer it, tipping a fed-up Biggles off my lap (thank God for Biggles, I’d be so lonely without him). I was really hoping that it would be a friend, a shoulder to cry on rather than a cat. I didn’t have the energy to phone anyone myself, but it would have been nice to know that someone was thinking of me for once. Paula, or Jess or even Phil.

It was, of all people, Alex. He spoke in a hurry, gabbling quietly and nervously: “Hello Siobhan, it’s Alex Parkinson here. I’m really sorry for the delay but I just wanted to let you know that I’ve left a cheque at college for the money I owe you, I know you’ll be teaching the class tonight. I didn’t want to post it in case it got lost, and I know that you don’t want me near your house again, so anyway I left the cheque at reception. Sorry, again, for everything. Bye.’

And he was gone, before I could even get a word in. I slammed the phone down in a rage. He’d been in love with me, and what – he couldn’t even bear to talk to me now? Why are people so fickle and untrustworthy? (Still, at least he didn’t ask me for the clothes back. I’ve got quite attached to them now. And they wouldn’t fit his fat girlfriend anyway.)

Oh bugger, that means I’ll have to go to class tonight after all. I’d forgotten what a nice voice he’s got. It’s gentle – weirdly enough, for a freak like him. Wonder what he and Emily get up to in bed? I wonder if he ever thinks about me when he’s screwing her – surely he must still find me attractive. I mean, you can’t just switch off your feelings for someone, can you?

I still can’t fathom what he sees in Emily. She’s so – brockety-looking, as Mum would say. It fascinates me, and infuriates me. I want to know what she has that I don’t. I can’t bear it – I’m going to have to go and find out, now that I know where she works.

Midnight

Well, that’s the last time I’m ever going to teach a writing class. What a day – both strands of my career now in tatters.

It was the usual sorry excuse for a group, only four of them left now. I got them to do an exercise - writing a story using each letter of the alphabet in turn – and while they were busy with that, I slit open the envelope which the receptionist had given me. The same receptionist who handed me the review that Alex had wrapped in that lovely ribbon; it seems so long ago. I hoped that Alex would at least have written me a nice card or something, perhaps another of his Klimt specials – but no. It was empty apart from a folded cheque for £324.98, the right amount. But as I scrutinised it, I saw something which made me so angry that I could’ve punched the wall – he hadn’t signed it, the stupid, stupid prick. Now I’m going to have to send it back to him, and it’ll probably take for ever for him to return it… I wonder if he did it on purpose? Perhaps smug little Emily thought it would be a good idea, a hilarious way to wind me up. I bet that’s it.

When I looked up, the four of them were staring at me and I realised that I may have been growling to myself, just a little bit. ‘Right,’ I snapped. ‘Time’s up, who’s going to read their story first?’

Brian’s hand crept up like a slug climbing a wall. I nodded and he began to stammer his way into the mess of words he’d written, something like : ‘A Bayonetted Cavalryman Died Emptying Fireworks,’ or some such crap, until I couldn’t bear it any longer.

‘Brian,’ I said, more harshly than I should have. ‘Stop. That makes no sense. I asked you to write a story, not to fit a random collection of words together. It’s writing, not typesetting, for pity’s sake. And there’s not even any such word as ‘bayonetted’. You’re not even using real words!’

‘Actually,’ said Barbara nervously as Brian scratched and shuffled like a schoolboy. ‘I’m sure ‘bayonetted’ is a word. I’m sure I’ve seen it.’ She turned to the other two. ‘Haven’t you seen it written down? I have.’

That was when, I’m afraid, I really lost it.

I stood up and roared at them. Screamed. Can’t remember the exact words because it’s all a bit of a haze, but suddenly it all got too much for me: Patricia’s rejection, Alex’s rejection, Alex playing tricks on me with the cheque. Everything. Even Kathy’s absence tore at my heart. We could’ve been friends, and she’s gone. I have nobody.

Their faces! It was almost funny. I slammed my fist down on the desk, wanting to stop but not being able to. I recall shouting something about ‘not wasting any more of my time with you losers’ (oh, the shame) and ‘the only one of you with any talent was Kathy’ (not true: Alex and Jane are both tolerably proficient writers, but I was too far gone to mention it). And finally, predictably, with Alex’s useless cheque burning a hole in my bag, I snatched up my jacket and stormed out shouting ‘I QUIT.’

Like I said – the end of my career in all ways.

Chapter 24

Alex

Thursday

Waking up this morning, still drowsy, I heard Emily say, ‘I’m going to take these in with me.’ I think I must have grunted ‘okay’ or ‘hmm’; I don’t remember. I was still trying to cling to sleep, attempting to bury myself in my dreams, away from all the anxiety about Kathy and her crusading chum. Over the last few days that’s all I’ve wanted to do: lose myself. In sleep. In sex. In Emily.

I heard the front door shut and, a little later, woke up.

Since reading the story about Kathy’s friend, I’ve been living in a state called High Anxiety, a place bordered by Trembling Paranoia and Abject Terror. God, I don’t want to go to prison. Just thinking about it gives me the shits: Gruel for breakfast. The long hours of screaming boredom punctuated only by gang bangs in the shower room, some twenty-stone monster with halitosis having taken a liking to my pretty ass. A monster who’d call me Alexis and make me his bitch.

Or maybe I’ve seen too many American prison movies. And maybe I have nothing to worry about. After days of flinching every time I heard a police siren, nothing has happened. Nobody knows I was with Kathy that night. Okay, people saw us in the pub, but who’s going to link me to Kathy? It’s not as if my photo is on police files somewhere; no-one’s going to leaf through a book of photos and suddenly gasp, having seen my mug shot, ‘That’s him, officer. And come to think of it, he did look like the kind of guy who’d push a woman to her death.’

And here’s a note to the police – if they ever arrest me and force me to tell them the password: I’m innocent! Okay? I didn’t push her – she slipped.

Maybe I should relax. Let Kathy’s mate run around trying to convince the cops that she was pushed. They’ve already decided that it was an accident. They won’t want to reopen the investigation without hard evidence. I’m safe.

Safe as houses with dodgy fire escapes.

But anyway, having convinced myself that my ass was not at risk for the time being, unless Emily had any kinky plans for it, I peeled myself off the sheets and went to the kitchen to hunt down breakfast. The house was freezing, condensation on the insides of the windows, the tap water icy. I splashed some on my face, which jolted me into life and made me remember Emily’s parting words.