The Cupid Effect

  Trudy. The mystery crying woman. I wondered if she existed. I hadn’t seen her. Not in the SCR, not in the canteen, not even in the corridors. The whole thing was so surreal. Possibly a reminder from on high that I shouldn’t be involving myself in other people’s lives?

  I tossed the comb into the bath, which was lined with islands of shampoo foam, and went back to running my hands through my hair, feeling the conditioner squidge and slip through my fingers.

  Saturday night and I was sat here alone, rethinking my life. Ed was out with his mates, Jake was out with other mates. I suspected he was sneaking off to see The Git, but hadn’t said owt. This was a sad state of affairs. I was young, vibrant and nearly thirty and I was getting my pleasure from conditioner and the prospect of watching David Boreanaz be a 250-year-old vampire. And, let’s not forget, said vampire couldn’t have sex because one moment of true happiness would result in him losing his soul and turning bad again.

  Speaking of which, when was the last time I’d had sex? Or even a snog. Or even the hint of a snog. Two months ago? Nope, I’ve been here two months and I’ve certainly not had sex here. Two months before that? Nope, that was Christmas and no action there. Six months. Hadn’t had sex or the sniff of sex in six months. Time really does fly when you’re not getting laid.

  The weird thing was, for someone who loved it as much as me, I hadn’t really noticed. Not till I got here and ninety-five per cent of the people I encountered seemed to be motivated by sex. They all seemed to be at it or trying to be at it or had been at it but were pretending they hadn’t been at it.

  They all served to remind me I wasn’t at it. And, for the foreseeable future, I wouldn’t be at it. I hadn’t even spotted a man I fancied. And that was rare. I could talk myself into liking the most unfanciable of men. Whashisface Tosspot, who I lived with for a year, being the prime example. Not only was he the individual put on earth to make me believe in God, by proving the devil did exist, he wasn’t even good-looking as a compensator. All he had was . . . nope, nothing, can’t think of one thing that he had going for him. Actually, no, he got married nine months after I moved out. That proved that he wouldn’t bother me again. Ah, see, there is good in everyone.

  Part of the not finding anyone else to even fancy, I suppose, was because my last ‘relationship’ with Mr Perfect Penis (PP) had petered out to an open ending, before Christmas. (He’d earned himself that moniker because it was the most perfect specimen of male manhood I’d ever seen. Not that I’d seen that many in my life, it was just huge and belonged to someone who knew how to use it. Despite its size he hadn’t used it like a battering ram.)

  I’d met Mr PP through work friends and I’d been instantly drawn to him. He was so overtly sexual, but didn’t realise it. His dark hair speckled with grey, his dark eyes, his mouth, his body, were all rather unremarkable – on anyone else. On him, that combination turned my head. Unusually for me, I decided there and then that I was going to have him, that night. I spent the whole night talking to him and generally trying to wow him with my sparkling personality. I hadn’t bothered with make-up that day, not even lippie, so had to resort to Plan

  B: my sparkling personality.

  We’d laughed and joked all evening, then I’d invited myself round to his house for coffee. Even then he didn’t get it. Didn’t realise I fancied him. He’d been the perfect gentleman and made me coffee, got me biscuits and offered to order me a taxi home if I was tired. ‘So you don’t fancy me then?’ I’d eventually said when I realised I was going to get sent home without so much as a lascivious look.

  ‘Well, yeah,’ he said, shyly. ‘But, I didn’t think you’d be,’ he looked down at his coffee, ‘well, I didn’t like to assume . . .’

  ‘And there was me thinking I was being so obvious.’ My eyes held his dark eyes. ‘Any more obvious and I would’ve been wearing my knickers on my head.’

  We both burst out laughing, until the laughter slowly petered out. Our eyes met over his coffee cup and we leapt on each other. The cup became a casualty of passion.

  During the night as we cuddled up and laughed in bed, we laughed like we’d been taking drugs, except we hadn’t. Odd things were he-lare-re-us! Like how he’d once got locked out wearing only a towel and it’d taken him ages to wake up his flatmate. Not at all funny unless you were there, but we’d laughed and laughed about it for ages. Going through lots of different ‘what if’ scenarios, like ‘what if’ his flatmate had taken a sleeping pill and hadn’t woken up for ages? ‘What if’ he’d had to walk down to the end of the road to the phone box and reverse the charges? Like I said, he-lare-re-us. I’d been snuggled into his chest and his arms were around me when he’d said suddenly, ‘I want you to know I don’t usually do this kind of thing. Don’t usually meet someone and then go straight to bed with them.’

  ‘Er, me either,’ I replied. I had no problem with going straight to bed with someone. In general, people spent far too much time judging others on trivial things like how soon they slept together. All that mattered was that I was OK with it. At that point of my life, though, I didn’t just leap in to bed with just anyone, more out of a lack of opportunity than anything else.

  We’d walked to work the next day, both shell-shocked that we’d had amazing sex – six, six times in one night – when we’d met five hours earlier. You don’t usually expect quality and quantity when you hardly knew someone, but we’d lucked out.

  Mr PP and I saw each other a couple of times a week for a couple of months, but he had a lot of emotional baggage and I’d decided not to help him carry it. Whashisface Tosspot had helped me see the folly of trying to help a man with his luggage. He was never grateful afterwards – he just found someone else to share his luggage-free life with. Under Mr PP’s workload, his connection to his ex and my new-found ability to not put my life on hold while I waited for him to sort himself out, it’d ended with neither of us ringing or emailing each other.

  Before, I would’ve put it in the lap of fate. If it’s meant to be, it’ll be, I’d think and say, while checking phone, mobile, email several times a minute. With Mr PP, I’d decided that I gave it my best shot, I offered him the best minutes of my shagging life – and if he was too busy or caught up with his ex to get in touch, then there was nothing I could do. That was the thing about giving my best – I could walk away, conscience clear, memory clear. No way I could rework things, rewish things, cling to something that was well past its shag by date. I only wish I’d learnt that sooner. It could’ve saved me a ton of heartache and tissues and humiliating phone calls when I was pissed and lonely.

  Through the stillness of the house, I heard my mobile ringing in my bedroom and dashed for it. I picked up the phone gingerly between my forefinger and thumb, not wanting to get conditioner on the plastic cover, pressed a button to answer it.

  ‘Hi, Ceri, it’s Claudine.’

  I’d given her my mobile number in case she wanted to go out sometime. Which she didn’t because she’d been avoiding me since the last time we went out. She had most likely woken up the morning after we went out and been horrified by what she’d spontaneously told me.

  ‘Hi,’ I husked back. I was still a bit out of breath from the epic dash up the stairs from the bathroom. So much for my gym membership.

  ‘What you doing tonight?’ she asked. She had an edge to her voice. Not upset. Not angry. Hard to put my finger on the exact emotion, but distressed was nearest.

  ‘Erm, washing my hair,’ I replied. She was going to think I was the most exciting woman on earth. Pavlov, hair-washing on a Saturday night. If only she knew I’d been planning on updating the work I’d done on my research study later.

  ‘Oh,’ Claudine replied. ‘So you won’t be, erm, wanting some company then?’

  ‘Is everything all right?’ I replied.

  ‘Of course. Course. I was just, erm, ringing on the off-chance that you were . . . no. No, it’s not all right. It’s all wrong,’ her voice wavered, teetering by the tips of her vocal
cords before falling into an abyss of tears.

  Ah. Not really in the position to be receiving visitors. Especially not ones so gorgeous they gave me – secure and comfortable with my looks and body as I was – bouts of self-doubt. Just walking beside tall, willowy, elegant Claudine made me want to walk on tiptoes to extend my five foot four frame.

  Bad Ceri, bad, bad, bad. Can’t believe you’re thinking twice about letting her come around because you’ve got slicked down hair and no contraptions holding you up and in. Especially when you can make yourself presentable before she gets here. And besides, she’s not coming to look at you, just talk to you. Stop being so bloody vain.

  ‘Do you want to come over? I can’t go out cos I’ve got wet hair and stuff, but come here. I’ve got some nibbles and the boys are out.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ she asked cautiously.

  ‘Course.’

  ‘OK. Thank you. I’ll be there soon.’

  ‘Erm, how soon?’ I was doing mental maths on how long it’d take her to arrive and how much time I’d have to put on a bra and change out of my tatty Judge Dredd T-shirt and Mr PP’s paint-splattered jogging bottoms.

  ‘Um, about two seconds. I’m outside.’

  Few people who I haven’t had sex with have seen me braless. Jess has cos I’ve spent so many nights at her house over the years. Jake and Ed have but only during my bedroom to bathroom stumble if they’re up. Claudine had just become the latest person to see me sans mammarial support. Not that she showed any signs of noticing or caring. In fact, she didn’t seem to notice how unlike me I looked. Unless, of course, I always looked dishevelled and underdressed and everyone expected it.

  I’d braced myself for her to come stumbling in, tears in eyes, body quivering, ready to collapse into sobs. Instead, she’d arrived with four bottles of wine in her arms, ‘I didn’t know which colour of wine you liked so I bought two of each,’ she explained, leaning forwards to offer me the bottles. I took two, led the way into the kitchen. Claudine stood by the worktop near the back door and from her voluminous coat pockets she produced eight cans of beer. ‘I thought you might prefer beer, so I bought that too.’

  While I busied myself with glasses and a packet of tortillas and dips I’d been saving for later, Claudine returned to the living room, to do what she was doing now. Pacing. She stalked backwards and forwards in front of the fireplace with its fake coal fire nestling in its black belly; her reflection catching in the Metamorphosis of Narcissus every time she passed him. She was intent on walking a groove into Ed’s cream fake fur rug. Occasionally she’d stop, sit herself in the sofa under the window, cram a handful of tortilla chips into her mouth, gulp down red wine, then clench her fists as she ground her teeth.

  I said nothing. Not one word during all this. I wanted her to start her way. Even saying something as innocuous as ‘What have you been up to’ could tip her into a dialogue about her weekend instead of her getting to the point.

  ‘Kevin and I had a row,’ she explained after I’d drunk a can of beer, very slowly. She held up her hands, like she was showing me the size of a fish she’d caught. ‘A huge,’ she widened the gap between her hands, ‘huge,row.’

  She picked up her wine glass, knocked back its contents, pushed her hand into her black hair, causing the top to stand on end. ‘About Mel.’

  ‘Oh’ my face said. My mouth didn’t ask any of the questions that were fighting to get out, most prominent being: ‘Did he guess about you and Mel?’

  Claudine sighed. Then sighed again, threw herself back into the sofa. ‘It’s all such a mess,’ she rubbed the make-up off her eyes as she seesawed across them with her fingertips. ‘And it’s all my fault. I just want two men at once, and I . . . Kevin said some horrible things. He was right though.’

  ‘What happened?’ I asked.

  She sagged in her seat. ‘Earlier, Mel rang, asked if I wanted to come for a drink up in town. Kevin and I were only watching telly and I thought, why not. I asked Kevin if he wanted to come and he lost it. I mean, he totally and utterly flipped out. He grabbed the phone off me, told Mel we weren’t going anywhere – except with a lot of swear words – and hung up.’

  Shit. I filled her glass of wine to the top, she needed it. ‘Oh God,’ Claudine began again . . .

  He started ranting on that Mel was always around. That we could-n’t get through one day without Mel’s name being mentioned or him calling up.

  ‘Our weekends are fucking precious, Claudine, we don’t spend any time together during the week and now HE’s imposing on the only time we get together.’

  ‘He’s my best friend,’ I replied.

  ‘I’m your boyfriend. You see more of him than you do of me.’

  ‘No I don’t,’ I said.

  ‘You spend morning, noon and night with him, Monday to Friday. And tonight, the one fucking night we get to be alone together, you want to go out with him. ALWAYS HIM.’

  So I said, ‘He’s my best friend.’ Lame, I know, but I couldn’t think of owt else to say.

  ‘Why do you have to have a man as a best friend?’ Kevin asked. ‘Are you fucking him?’

  I must’ve gone pale cos my whole body went cold. But I screamed back: ‘You bastard.’

  ‘You are, aren’t you?’ That’s why he’s always around, why you light up when he’s around. You’re fucking him.’

  ‘I am not!’

  ‘Well, you never let me near you nowadays.’

  ‘That’s not true.’

  ‘When was the last time we made love, Claudine?’

  ‘A few days ago, I don’t know, I don’t keep score,’ I said innocently.

  ‘Try three months. And even then I could tell you weren’t into it.’

  I nearly fell over, Ceri. I mean, I didn’t know it was three months. Three months? That’s impossible, we couldn’t not have had sex in three months. ‘THAT’S A LIE!’ I said.

  ‘Is it? All I know is, you’re not getting your kicks at home, so you must be getting them somewhere. And my money’s on your precious Mel.’

  ‘What are you saying?’

  ‘I’m saying you and Mel are at it every chance you get.’ He started pointing at me. We were both on our feet at this point. ‘And the pair of you are laughing at me behind my back.’

  ‘You bastard!’

  ‘Whore!’

  I slapped him. He pushed me. And I fell back onto the sofa. He looked so mad, so crazed at that point but also really hurt, then he stormed off upstairs.

  I just sat there shaking. After a few minutes I grabbed my coat and keys and left. He heard me shut the door I guess cos he opened the bedroom window, leant out and started screaming: ‘GO ON, GO OFF TO YOUR FRIEND. GIVE HIM ONE FOR ME!’ all the way down the street until I turned the corner.

  And I ended up here.

  ‘Why didn’t you go round to Mel’s?’ I asked.

  ‘Kevin would love that,’ she replied. ‘Me going round to Mel’s now.’

  ‘You’re not so angry you’d go round to Mel’s and shag him to spite Kevin?’

  ‘No!’ Claudine seemed aghast at the idea. I examined her face, her widened eyes, her turned down mouth. She was aghast at the idea. ‘Of course not.’

  ‘Never even crossed your mind, huh?’

  Claudine’s forehead folded up like finely-corrugated iron as she frowned, then shook her head. ‘No.’

  ‘I would,’ I stated, after a few draws on my beer can. ‘I’d have brought a bumper pack of condoms and would’ve tied him to the bed and rogered him senseless. If I was as angry as you were when you first arrived, Mel would be getting the shag of his life right about now, but that’s just me.’

  ‘I wouldn’t do that,’ Claudine stated simply.

  No, unfortunately, you wouldn’t. ‘Might as well get hung for a cow as a mouse,’ I said.

  ‘Eh?’ Claudine said. That look of ‘you’re a nutter’ was back.

  ‘I mean, if you’re accused of something, why not do it to make it worthwhile getting accuse
d.’

  ‘It was only an argument with Kevin.’

  I nodded. ‘But I thought you said Kevin was nothing compared to Mel? This was your chance; what you’ve been waiting for. If not to leave, then to start an affair. It was what you needed to press play.’

  Claudine was back to downing wine. ‘I only slept with Mel that one time because I was very drunk and the thing between us had reached fever pitch.’

  Should I mention that she’d told me, while looking me in the eye, that she’d almost slept with him? No. No one likes a reminder of their lies and half-truths. ‘Like I said, Claudine, I know very little about very little.’

  She didn’t hear me. She ploughed on: ‘It was Christmas, we were all in a festive mood, Mel and I got a taxi home together like we’d done a hundred times before. We sat so close in the taxi, his leg pressed against mine. As we turned into his road he kissed me on the cheek. Then we looked at each other and we kind of leapt at each other, started kissing properly. Kevin was away, I didn’t want to go home to an empty house . . .’

  ‘Is he a good shag?’ I asked. ‘I always get the impression that Mel would be quite adept at it.’

  Claudine smiled like the cat who got the cream – several times. ‘He was . . .’ big salacious pause, ‘what was that word you used? Adept? He was adept.’

  I grinned back, while my heart sank like a tank in quicksand. Claudine’s answer to that red herring of a question presented me with many, many problems. I didn’t give two figs what Mel was like in bed, it wasn’t as though I’d ever find out, was it? I just . . . let’s put it this way: say I was in her situation and I’d had the biggest row ever with my boyfriend. If my boyfriend called me a whore, accused me of shagging around, I would’ve stormed around to the cause of the row’s house, with booze and condoms, got myself good and drunk, attempted to shag said man, realised I couldn’t do it, burst into tears and passed out, with the strong likelihood of choking on my own vomit. Failing that, I would’ve at least gone round to a good friend’s house and repeated the scenario, minus the condoms and hopefully without the attempted shag bit.