Read Online Killing Cupid by Mark Edwards, Louise Voss - Free Book Online Page B

slagged her either, so I suppose I didn’t need to feel guilty. I invited the anger back. ‘Don’t worry, I’ll try him at home,’ I said, about to hang up.
    ‘He’s not at home,’ Diane said, sounding half-puzzled, and half-impatient; sort of, what part of ‘on holiday’ do you not understand? ‘He’s gone to Portugal.’
    Suddenly the hand I was holding the phone with began to shake a bit. I’d been chewing gum at the time, and shock made it slide towards the back of my throat, giving me a moment’s panic. I had to suck it back into my mouth again. I grabbed it and pulled it out of my mouth, then rolled it around between my finger and thumb, feeling it change consistency, becoming harder and smoother, like a small lump of fear personified, sticking to my skin.
    ‘When, exactly?’ I asked, having a weird feeling that the gum was still in my throat, choking me.
    ‘They – I mean, he flew out yesterday morning. He rang me from the airport.’
    ‘They? He went with Lynn?’
    There was a silence.
    I sagged against the back of the sofa, nearly dropping the phone. I didn’t give a stuff that he and Lynn appeared to have got back together – let them baby-talk their way around the Algarve, Philly-willy and Lynny-winny– but my mind was racing, and even while part of me was in denial and trying to figure out why he was still ringing me and hanging up from Portugal, with Lynn there too; or how the flowers could have turned up on my doorstep today…. another more cognisant part of me realized where the fear was coming from.
    Because if Phil went to Portugal yesterday, he couldn’t have left the lilies. And if he didn’t leave the lilies, then he most likely didn’t send the card. Or make those silent phonecalls.
    But if it wasn’t Phil . . .
    Who the hell was it?
     
    I don’t know. Maybe it’s my hormones. I’ve got that weird, slightly unreal feeling that I sometimes get with PMT, like I’m inhabiting a parallel universe, one not dissimilar to this: but hazier, more painful. More frightening. A universe where I want to curl up and sleep and let someone look after me. I keep losing things, too. I lost my keys again, turned the place over looking for them (although ‘turned the place over’ isn’t really the right expression. ‘Picked up, looked, and replaced neatly’ would be more apposite. Dr. Bedford said I have issues with cleanliness and tidiness. I disagree. I think it’s more to do with growing up in a big messy household that nobody could ever find anything in. I never could stand that, even as a little girl).
    But the weird thing about the keys was that I’m sure the first thing I did when I realized they were missing was to check the front door, and they weren’t there. I suppose I was a bit distracted, trying to stop Biggles from running out into the street again, but I definitely checked. Went back upstairs, cleaned out the fridge, fed Biggles, checked again to make sure – and there they were, dangling from the lock. It was bizarre. And that was when I found the flowers.
    I’d been thinking what a wuss Phil was, to leave the flowers and run away without telling me that my keys were sticking out of the front door – I mean, anyone could have let themselves in!
    But the horrible truth is that it wasn’t Phil. Someone else must have seen those keys. Someone else. The same someone who sent me that card, telling me he wanted to fuck me? The same person who keeps calling and hanging up. When I thought it was Phil it was just irritating. But now . . .
    Oh God. What if I’m not alone now? What if someone’s standing behind one of my doors, perhaps this one…?
     
    I’m all out of breath. Have just run up and down the stairs with the poker, opened all the doors, looked in all the cupboards. Put on Combat Rock at full blast – The Clash make me feel brave. Biggles is disgusted with me. He was chasing up and down the stairs after me with his tail out like a brush. At first, being