Simon was there – he’d taken the afternoon off work – and he was playing loud music that echoed the pounding inside my head. He gave me a quizzical look. ‘Are you alright, mate?’

I nodded. ‘Yeah, yeah. Fine.’

‘You look like you’ve just witnessed a car crash or something.’

I took a deep breath. ‘Could you turn the music down a bit? I’ve got a really bad headache.’

‘Sure. No problem.’

‘I’m going to go and lie down.’

I went into my room and lit up another cigarette. Now I would have to wait. It was all I could do.

Later

By the time seven o’clock crawled around, I was working on my last remaining fingernail. Emily had told me she’d stop by on her way home. I was sitting here at the computer, playing Solitaire, when the doorbell rang. I heard Simon go to the door, and then there was a light knock on my bedroom door. As I opened it, I took a long, deep breath and muttered a two word prayer.

She was smiling.

That meant Siobhan hadn’t told her she was going out with a psycho. I’d been terrified that the only reason for this visit was so Emily could a) shout at me and tell me I was a bastard and a loser and that she never wanted to see me again, and b) collect the pair of knickers she left here this morning. She wouldn’t want to leave them in the hands of a pantie-sniffing freak like me, would she? (Actually, Siobhan knows I’m more likely to buy underwear than sniff it, but who knows how she might embellish the story?) But Emily was smiling, and that meant that Siobhan hadn’t told her anything. Thank you, God.

Of course, that didn’t mean I was in the clear completely. What if Siobhan and Emily had arranged to meet up again? What if they got really pally and Emily invited her to come out with us? Just thinking about it gave me goose-bumps. So I knew that any reprieve might only be temporary.

‘Hi, sweetheart,’ Emily said, bestowing a firm kiss upon my lips. ‘How was your day?’

‘Oh…okay. Did some writing. Went for a walk. Nothing exciting.’

‘Did you call me earlier?’ She sat down on the bed and kicked off her shoes, wriggling her toes inside her tights.

‘I… yes, I did. I wanted to see if you wanted to meet for lunch, but you’d already gone.’

‘Oh.’ She leaned over and kissed me again. ‘I’m sorry. I didn’t know.’

I shrugged. ‘It’s okay.’ I gave her my most innocent smile. ‘So, did you have a nice lunch?’

‘Hmm. Actually, I was talking about you with someone.’

My blood went chilly. ‘What? Who?’

She hesitated. ‘I hope you don’t mind me telling people about you. I was just telling Sara from work about you and your mum.’

My sigh of relief must have been audible.

‘You don’t mind, do you? You had this really strange look on your face just then.’

‘Did I? I was…trying not to fart.’

It was Emily’s turn to pull a face. ‘Of course I don’t mind. As Oscar Wilde said, there’s only one thing worse than being talked about, and that’s not being talked about.’

‘Ooh, I love it when you talk literary to me. Speaking of which, I took your stories in to show Pernilla.’

Shit – I’d forgotten all about that. But after meeting up with that moron Brian and finding he’d set Kathy’s bloodhound of a friend on my trail and then seeing Emily with Siobhan, the worry about an editor seeing my stories before they’re ready seemed pretty trivial. I said, ‘I was going to talk to you about that.’

Emily nodded enthusiastically. ‘She said she’d try to read them this weekend. I kept telling her how brilliant they are, and she said she’d read them if it was the only way to get me to shut up.’

So it sounded like it was too late to get them back. Oh well. Like I just said, it’s the least of my worries. I’m just thankful that none of the stories are about people falling off of fire escapes, or stalkers. All my stories are set further back in my past: my childhood and my schooldays. This journal is my only piece of contemporary autobiography, apart from a couple of stories about a guy who falls in love with the tutor at his writing class which I haven't let Emily see.

‘Wouldn’t it be great if she liked them?’ Emily said. ‘You might be a real, published writer. Imagine it!’

I did, and smiled.

‘I bumped into a writer at lunchtime, actually.’

My blood temperature plummeted again. ‘What was her name?’

She gave me a look. ‘Her? Why did you say “her”?’

Well done, Alex. ‘I don’t know. I just assumed.’ What a brilliant excuse. That’ll really fool her. I wanted to punch myself.

But Emily didn’t seem that bothered. ‘It was weird, actually. She said she knew me from somewhere. Then we had this odd conversation which ended with her telling me I had something on my teeth. I didn’t really like her, to be honest. I got this bad vibe off her, like there was something wrong with her. Attractive, well-dressed – but a bit strange.’

‘Did she tell you her name?’

‘Well, yes, she did. But when I got back to the office I looked her up on Amazon and couldn’t find her. So I can’t have remembered her name correctly.’

‘What was it?’

‘I told you, I didn’t remember it properly. But I thought it was Jessica Thomas.’

Nothing like Siobhan McGowan, then. But why had Siobhan – and it had definitely been Siobhan; I’m sure I hadn’t hallucinated the whole thing – given Emily a fake name?

There’s something very odd going on. And whatever it is, it certainly isn’t good news for me. I’m sighing as I type this: sighing long and hard. Fuck, if I could turn the clock back, I would never have signed up for that writing class.

Tuesday

I haven’t had a chance to write here since Thursday because I’ve been with Emily most of the time; and when I haven’t been with her all I’ve wanted to do is sleep. This whole thing is sucking away my energy, wearing me down and leeching me dry. Because things have got worse. I don’t know how much more my overworked heart can take.

On Friday, a day I spent working on my new short story and sleeping, Emily called me at six and told me she wanted to go to the pub. ‘I need a drink,’ she said.

‘Why? Have you had a bad day?’

She paused. ‘Do you think I’m fat?’

‘What?’ I was taken aback.

‘Do you think I’m fat?’

‘Of course I don’t.’

I haven’t had much experience of this kind of thing, but I’ve read in numerous men’s mags that you should never ever tell a woman she’s fat. Even voluptuous is pushing it. Apparently, you can’t even say things like, ‘I like women to be a bit curvy,’ without triggering an outbreak of tears, gym membership and ultimately anorexia and death by starvation. So I said, ‘You’re not fat at all. Why on earth are you asking me that?’

She sniffed and said, ‘I’ll tell you later.’

I grabbed my coat and headed out the door, waving goodbye to Si and Nat. It was arctic outside, a chill wind blowing nobody any good. The streets were quiet, sensible people huddled inside with the central heating turned up full. I thought about what Emily had said on the phone and hoped we weren’t going to have a long conversation about her weight. I would rather be running my hands over her flesh than talking about it. The truth is, I guess Emily is a little bit overweight, certainly compared to the whippet-women who populate the magazines she reads. I know I’ve commented on it here before. And the truth is, I really do like her body. Her heavy breasts, her soft thighs. Yum. But I knew I wouldn’t be able to use the words heavy or soft if she was having a body-image crisis.

I got to the pub and went inside, enjoying the smell of many kinds of beer and the warmth from the open fire as I searched for my girlfriend. There she was, sitting on her own in the corner. She had a half-full glass and a bottle of tonic in front of her. I gestured that I’d seen her and bought myself a pint of Guinness. As I waited at the bar, practically licking my lips in anticipation, I touched my own belly. The word ‘six-pack’ didn’t spring to mind.