The Cupid Effect (10 page)

The hairs on the back of my neck tingled suddenly as though someone had stroked ice-cold fingers across the base of my skull. My head snapped round and my eyes connected with the man who looked like brush strokes on a page. Unusually for me, my eyes didn't immediately rip themselves away, they were startled still. Startled by the way he was blatantly staring a hole into my head. He had his head slightly to one side, studying me as though I was something he'd just discovered under his microscope.

Worse, he didn't even stop, now I was facing him. He continued to stare away like it was the most natural thing in the world to watch a woman who'd caught you watching her. I offered a very small, very nervous smile; he didn't. He carried on staring for a few more seconds, then looked away, leaving an air of faint disapproval as he did so.

What the hell was that all about?
I thought as my whole body burned in indignation at being so closely scrutinised. He'd probably even studied the huge flea bite that was developing on my neck.

I didn't dwell on it for too long though. I had to listen to Claudine's tale . . .

‘After that night, you know, the night we got naked and physical, everything about our lives changed. Mel . . .' She paused, drank deep from her drink, then swished what was left around the bottom of the large wine glass. ‘Mel says he loves me. And that he's in love with me.' She sighed, glanced at me, was probably surprised to find my face interested but impassive. I was, in the main, unshockable. Not even
Jerry Springer
had thrown me – it may have disgusted me, but not shocked. I'd heard it all before – literally.

‘I don't know what to do. It's been, what, four months since it happened, but I don't know what to do. I keep thinking about it, but it's not any clearer.'

I knew what I had to ask now. It was in my script. I could do this listening, confessor thing from any level of consciousness. There was a set way to coax these stories out of people, not that by this point they needed much coaxing. They just needed me to follow my script to get them to tell me everything. And the question next on my list wasn't: ‘How do you feel about him?' It was . . .

‘What's your boyfriend like?'

‘Kevin? Oh. Um. He's one of the best blokes you'd ever want to meet. He's great. Really great.' Claudine twirled her glass between her fingers again. Then sighed. Then sighed even deeper. ‘But he's not Mel.'

‘I see,' I said.

Time for a little assessment of the situation. OK. Kevin isn't Mel. Mel says he's in love with her. Mel's no longer with his wife. He isn't seeing anyone special. A fair summation of what she'd told me, no? The question on my lips now was, of course: ‘So why don't you leave?' Not that I'd ask her outright.

‘I don't leave because it's not that simple.' I didn't need to ask. ‘You don't just walk out on a life. Not when we've been together for four years. I mean, most women struggle for some kind of commitment from their boyfriends. I didn't. It was Kevin's idea for us to move in together after two years. We bought our house, we've built a life together from scratch, we've been happy together for ages. You don't just walk out on that.'

‘I see,' I said.
You wouldn't be the first, you wouldn't be the last
, I thought.

The world is chock-a-block with people – male and female – who've walked out on a marriage, family, kids, friends, jobs on a whim. On a look. Let alone a near-shag and a confession of love both offered and felt. Not that I was advocating leaving (I'd never advocate anything I haven't done myself and even then, just cos it worked for me, doesn't mean it'd work for anyone else), it simply seemed . . . it came across that Claudine was, to all intents and purposes, waiting for something.

‘It's not like Mel's putting pressure on me. I get the impression he'd wait for as long as it takes.'

‘What about you? How long are you prepared to wait?'

‘Wait?' Claudine replied. ‘Wait for what?'

‘Sorry, my mistake,' I said, started gulping down my drink at the rate of knots.
That was a question I should've thought, not said.

‘No, no, tell me. Say what you meant.'

‘I'm probably wrong, so don't take what I'm about to say as anything other than my opinion.' I sighed, silently.
I am a big-mouthed old slag
. ‘When you were talking just then, I got the impression that you were waiting for the answer to present itself. We all do that when we're in the middle of something big, but it's as though you've pressed pause on the whole matter and are kind of waiting for someone else to press play and sort it out. Unless Mel's going to make it up with his wife, or Kevin finishes with you out of the blue, that's not going to happen. The remote control is firmly in your grip. But, like I said, that's just my opinion. My last relationship that lasted longer than three weeks was two years ago. I know very little about very little.'

Claudine swirled her wine a bit slower and stared into her glass, as though hypnotising herself.

I often did this to people after a blurt session. I often made them think about something so deeply they checked out of the conversation and became sad. Upset that there was something they could be doing but weren't. An option that was staring them in the face that they couldn't see. It was all right for me, I could come out with these theories, because it wasn't my life. I could see what to do clearly if it wasn't my life. Couldn't everyone? One step removed you had twenty-twenty vision.

However, the result of my clear-sightedness sat opposite me, swirling pale wine around her smeared glass, looking so forlorn, she probably qualified to have her picture beside the entry for ‘forlorn' in
The Oxford English Picture Dictionary
.

If there was one thing I shouldn't do, it was offer my opinion. I was getting better, though. Better at not saying everything I thought, even if others had started it by telling me far too much, way too soon. There was a time when I would've said all that stuff about people leaving on a whimsy to Claudine, thereby totally alienating her. Whilst now, there was only about seventy-five per cent alienation going on – if you factored in the lunch thing.

‘What would you do?' she asked me.

‘Me?' I replied.

Claudine nodded vigorously. ‘In my situation, what would you do to “press play”?'

‘To be totally honest, Claudine, I don't know. I don't have all the facts, because I wasn't there. I don't know how Mel acted afterwards, how he's acted since. I don't know if Kevin's noticed a change in you, if you've been off with him or trying too hard. Like I said, I've not got all the facts so I don't know what I'd do.'

I'd actually forgotten what a mind terrorist I was. I came wandering in, lobbing confusion grenades left, right and centre and then when I was asked how to disarm them, I shrugged and said, ‘dunno mate'. I should be locked up.

‘Thanks Ceri,' Claudine said as I stumbled out of the taxi an hour or so later. ‘Thanks for listening, you were a great help.'

‘Any time,' I slurred.

She grabbed my cuff before I reeled away from the open door and fell into the house. ‘Don't tell anyone what I told you,' she said, frantically searching my face for understanding.

‘About what?' I replied.

‘Me and Mel,' she said.

‘I know. I was being funny.'

‘Oh. Ha ha. That wasn't very funny.'

‘No, I guess not. Bye.' I shut the car door before she took that the wrong way too.

chapter eight

Copying

Apparently, photocopying was an ordeal round these parts.

Either you spent hours camped out in the photocopying room situated in the furthest, darkest corner of the social sciences department, waiting your turn to watch lights flash back and forth, back and forth, back and forth, back and forth; battling with toner and collating and getting the book to lie flat enough to get a good copy. Or, you took it to the reprographics department and had them do it. Because that's what they were there for. They worried about getting good copies and stapling and other stuff like that. Our department just paid for it.

The whole reprographics department was situated just opposite the library, had swing doors and a photocopied, laminated sign outside that said: REPROGRAPHICS in block capitals. The whole demeanour of the place said, ‘Don't come hither. And if you do, expect to be insulted'. Sally had warned me about them. Said to not go there if I was sensitive. But I wasn't sensitive. I could handle most things, I was a South East Londoner. You didn't survive ‘Darn Sarf' if you were sensitive.

I headed down there the day after I'd been out with Claudine and did not feel well. Every step reminded me I did not feel well. In fact, how I was still standing was a mystery. How I'd got out of bed in time and got to the bus stop and managed to stay upright long enough for the 731 to arrive I'll never know. At one point last night it'd looked like I wasn't going to get to bed. . .

I'd opened the door after Claudine's cab pulled away, trying to be quiet and normal just in case the boys were asleep. Still going for the quietness, I moved to shut the door, but it sprang out of my hand and slammed.

‘Shhhh!' I hissed to it, bashing my finger against my lips. ‘Shhhhhh!'

‘You all right there, Ceri?' a voice asked.

I leapt around to look at him. Jake.
Uh-oh. Landlord. Act normal. Don't want him to evict you
. ‘Fine,' I said, trying to stand up straight. Never mind I smelt like a beer mat and swayed like a blade of grass in a gale.

‘Do you want a cup of tea or something?' he asked.

I shook my head violently. ‘No. Thank you. No. No thank you.'

I seem to remember him looking confused. ‘OK,' Jake replied. ‘Did you have a good time?'

‘I went to the gym,' I said. My arms started making running movements. ‘I ran on the treadmill.'

‘It's midnight. Must've been a long run.'

I nodded enthusiastically. ‘Twenty minutes.'

Jake frowned. ‘Right.'

I pointed to the stairs. ‘I'm going to bed now.'

‘OK. Night.'

‘Night.'

‘Oh, Jake, Jake,' I called urgently, even though he hadn't moved at all.

‘Yes?'

‘Thank you. I really like living here.'

‘I'm glad.'

‘No, no, really. It's a nice room and it's so cheap and you and Ed seem like nice blokes and I don't even think you'll smack me over the head and drag me out over the carpet that does-n't show up blood stains cos I used some of your milk. Not that I have. I don't really drink milk, but I don't think either of you would. Thank you. Good night.'

I started up the stairs, then realised how mad I must've sounded. So, on the top step of the first flight of stairs, I turned around and went tearing down them, practically ran into the kitchen where Jake was filling the kettle.

‘I'm not really mad,' I said, loudly.

Jake jumped so much he almost dropped the kettle. ‘Sorry?' he asked.

‘I'm not mad. When I first looked around you asked me if I was a weirdo and I'm not. I'm in love with Buffy The Vampire Slayer's ex-boyfriend Angel, and I'm addicted to
Star Trek
but I'm not a weirdo.'

‘OK, I'll take your word for it.'

‘Good night.'

I went happily skipping off to bed after that.

And woke up red-eyed, shaky and with a thirst that could not be quenched by water alone. I'd stopped off in the canteen on the way in this morning to get water and had nearly passed out at the food smells. The week-old oil that had been used to fry that morning's hash browns, clung to the air. Even the cereal smelt enough to make me want to hurl. And, on top of that, I had three sets of tutorials to do
and
see Jake later.

First things first: photocopying for the next morning's lecture.

The wire-mesh windows of the reprographics swing doors were obscured by paper so you couldn't see in as you reached out and pushed open the right door. The room was brightly-lit, a waist-height wood counter separated the world from the department. High shelves seemed to go on and on as you approached, stacked with piles of photocopying, reams of paper, lots and lots of different colours. It was like walking into a library of paper.

‘Hi, I'd like these photocopied forty times for tomorrow,' I said to the woman behind the counter. I even managed a smile with my dry, furry mouth.

The woman looked up slowly from the book she was making notes in and gave me a partially-hidden sneer that suggested that I hadn't actually asked for photocopying. I had, in fact, informed her that her biological mother and biological father were close blood relatives.

Time crawled on as she looked me up and down from behind her large, plastic-framed Deirdre Barlow glasses. Once she'd appraised me, she opened her mouth, which had been so clenched it was almost caving in on itself, and sneered, ‘Photocopying has to be brought in at least fifteen days in advance.'

‘Fifteen days?' I said.

‘Fifteen days.'

Do you see this face? It is suffering. It does not need to be told it has to wait fifteen days for something it needs tomorrow.

Sally had warned me. ‘
Show no weakness
,' she'd said. ‘
They do not understand weakness. They do not respect niceness. They chew up nice people until they are mulch, then they spit you out and stamp on you
.' I knew all this, but I still said, ‘Can't I get it done sooner?' in a pathetic, ‘be nice to me' voice.

She sighed with her whole body.

‘I do not have time to explain everything to you. You should know all this if you're a lecturer.'

‘How? By subscribing to the college's psychic newsletter? Or by simply putting my head against the reprographics sign outside and letting it seep in by osmosis,' I replied.