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Authors: Guillaume Musso
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then?’
‘What goes around comes around. You got a pretty good look at me last night.’
‘But you’re in my house!’
‘Oh, come on! You’re not going to get all upset just because I saw your little friend, are you?’
‘My what?’
‘You know, your pecker, your little winkle.’
Little? I thought indignantly as I pulled the quilt tighter round my waist.
‘I’m only saying that out of affection, mind you, because, to be honest, there’s nothing little about—’
‘OK, you’ve had your joke!’ I interrupted. ‘And if you think you can win me over with flattery…’
She offered me a cup of coffee.
‘Are you capable of speaking to someone without yelling at them?’
‘And who gave you permission to wear that dress?’
‘Don’t you think it suits me? It belongs to your ex, doesn’t it? I don’t really see you as the cross-dressing type.’
I collapsed into a chair and rubbed my eyes, trying to get myself together. Last night, I had naively hoped that the girl might be nothing more than a hallucination, but unfortunately this was clearly not the case: she was a real-life woman, the spitting image of the first-class nuisance I had created in my books.
‘Drink that coffee before it gets cold.’
‘I don’t want it, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? You look like death warmed up.’
‘It’s your coffee that I don’t want.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t know what kind of crap you might have spiked it with.’
‘Surely you don’t think I want to drug you?’
‘I know what crazies like you are capable of.’
‘Crazies like me?’
‘Yeah. Nymphos who are totally convinced that the actor or writer they are obsessed with is also in love with them.’
‘Me, a nymphomaniac? Now you really are confusing your sick fantasies with reality, pal. And if you think I’m obsessed with you, you’re even more stupid than I thought.’
I kneaded my temples as I looked up at the sun dominating the horizon. My back hurt and all of a sudden my headache had returned, only this time it had decided to attack the back of my head.
‘We’re going to stop this once and for all now. You’re going to go home before I have to call the police, OK?’
‘Look, I can see that you don’t want to face up to the truth, but—’
‘But?’
‘I really am Billie Donelly. I really am a character from your books and, believe me, that is as terrifying for me as it is for you.’
Speechless, I took a gulp of coffee, then after a brief hesitation I finished the cup. The brew may well have been poisoned, but, if it was, the effects were not immediate.
I still wasn’t going to let my guard down. I thought of a television programme I had seen as a child about John Lennon’s assassin, who had apparently been motivated by the idea that by killing the musician he would win some of his victim’s celebrity for himself. Granted I was no Beatle, and this woman was a little prettier than Mark David Chapman, but even so I knew that many stalkers suffered from psychotic illnesses, and that at any moment they could become violent. For this reason, I was at my calmest and most reassuring as I tried reasoning with her again.
‘Look, I think that maybe you’re a little…disturbed. It happens. We all have our bad days, right? Maybe you lost your job recently, or someone you love? Maybe you just broke up with your boyfriend? Or you’re feeling rejected and resentful? If that’s the case, I know a very good psychologist who could—’
She interrupted my pep talk by waving a prescription written by Dr Sophia Schnabel in my face.
‘As far as I can tell, you’re the one who needs a shrink.’
‘You went through my things!’
‘Affirmative,’ she replied, refilling my coffee cup.
I was completely baffled by her behaviour. What was Imeant to do now? Did I call the cops or the men in white coats? From what she’d said, I was willing to bet she had a criminal record or a history of psychological problems. The
‘What goes around comes around. You got a pretty good look at me last night.’
‘But you’re in my house!’
‘Oh, come on! You’re not going to get all upset just because I saw your little friend, are you?’
‘My what?’
‘You know, your pecker, your little winkle.’
Little? I thought indignantly as I pulled the quilt tighter round my waist.
‘I’m only saying that out of affection, mind you, because, to be honest, there’s nothing little about—’
‘OK, you’ve had your joke!’ I interrupted. ‘And if you think you can win me over with flattery…’
She offered me a cup of coffee.
‘Are you capable of speaking to someone without yelling at them?’
‘And who gave you permission to wear that dress?’
‘Don’t you think it suits me? It belongs to your ex, doesn’t it? I don’t really see you as the cross-dressing type.’
I collapsed into a chair and rubbed my eyes, trying to get myself together. Last night, I had naively hoped that the girl might be nothing more than a hallucination, but unfortunately this was clearly not the case: she was a real-life woman, the spitting image of the first-class nuisance I had created in my books.
‘Drink that coffee before it gets cold.’
‘I don’t want it, thanks.’
‘Are you sure? You look like death warmed up.’
‘It’s your coffee that I don’t want.’
‘Why?’
‘Because I don’t know what kind of crap you might have spiked it with.’
‘Surely you don’t think I want to drug you?’
‘I know what crazies like you are capable of.’
‘Crazies like me?’
‘Yeah. Nymphos who are totally convinced that the actor or writer they are obsessed with is also in love with them.’
‘Me, a nymphomaniac? Now you really are confusing your sick fantasies with reality, pal. And if you think I’m obsessed with you, you’re even more stupid than I thought.’
I kneaded my temples as I looked up at the sun dominating the horizon. My back hurt and all of a sudden my headache had returned, only this time it had decided to attack the back of my head.
‘We’re going to stop this once and for all now. You’re going to go home before I have to call the police, OK?’
‘Look, I can see that you don’t want to face up to the truth, but—’
‘But?’
‘I really am Billie Donelly. I really am a character from your books and, believe me, that is as terrifying for me as it is for you.’
Speechless, I took a gulp of coffee, then after a brief hesitation I finished the cup. The brew may well have been poisoned, but, if it was, the effects were not immediate.
I still wasn’t going to let my guard down. I thought of a television programme I had seen as a child about John Lennon’s assassin, who had apparently been motivated by the idea that by killing the musician he would win some of his victim’s celebrity for himself. Granted I was no Beatle, and this woman was a little prettier than Mark David Chapman, but even so I knew that many stalkers suffered from psychotic illnesses, and that at any moment they could become violent. For this reason, I was at my calmest and most reassuring as I tried reasoning with her again.
‘Look, I think that maybe you’re a little…disturbed. It happens. We all have our bad days, right? Maybe you lost your job recently, or someone you love? Maybe you just broke up with your boyfriend? Or you’re feeling rejected and resentful? If that’s the case, I know a very good psychologist who could—’
She interrupted my pep talk by waving a prescription written by Dr Sophia Schnabel in my face.
‘As far as I can tell, you’re the one who needs a shrink.’
‘You went through my things!’
‘Affirmative,’ she replied, refilling my coffee cup.
I was completely baffled by her behaviour. What was Imeant to do now? Did I call the cops or the men in white coats? From what she’d said, I was willing to bet she had a criminal record or a history of psychological problems. The
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