The Cupid Effect

  ‘You must have done something.’

  ‘I haven’t! I’ve never even spoken to the man, but every time I see him at college or in the street or in the pub, he just stares at me.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘And you’ve never spoken to him?’

  ‘Nope. I just turn around and there he is,’ I opened my eyes wide, ‘glaring at me. I don’t know why.’

  As if he had a radar for people staring at him, SM looked up.

  Jess and I both jumped back, clinging to each other. We got ridiculously silly and ran back to the trolley, both of us shaking and giggling.

  ‘But why is he always staring at me?’ I asked, when we were sure that he hadn’t clocked us and stopped giggling.

  ‘Hmmm,’ Jess said, thoughtfully. ‘I don’t know. You’re this striking woman with this presence wherever she goes, and two of the biggest, natural breasts known to man, I haven’t got a clue why he stares at you.’

  ‘Even when you’re being nice you’re a sarcastic cow.’

  ‘Something to do with being nearly fifty, I think.’

  ‘I didn’t mean it like that.’

  ‘Yeah, yeah.’

  ‘Can we get back to the matter in hand? Staring Man. It’s really disturbing.’

  ‘I’ve told you before, disturbing things happen when you’re around.’

  ‘But why does he stare at me? Those big eyes staring at me from this blank face. It gives me the willies.’

  ‘Ceri, sweetheart, I’m sure that’s all he wants to give you.’

  My eyes almost leapt out of my head. ‘JESSICA BREAKFIELD! I can’t believe you just said that.’

  Jess shrugged. ‘It’s true. Him, man. You, woman. He wants to, what’s that phrase you youngsters use? Oh yes, roger you senseless.’

  My eyes widened and my mouth fell open. ‘Filthy mind.’ I took over the trolley-pushing duties. ‘Filthy mind.’

  I pushed the trolley down the aisle, towards the long line of narrow checkouts. ‘Filthy, filthy mind.’

  Jess lit a cigarette against the strong breeze in the car park, then stood smoking it by Fred’s car, while I pushed the trolley back and went to retrieve my pound coin. I was still reeling from her filthiness. My best friend wasn’t meant to say things like that. That was one of the advantages of having a best mate who was older than you, they didn’t say such things. Having thought that, Jess and I were of a similar mind, and I did have a tendency to let my imagination run free when it came to sex.

  Especially, when it came to Angel . . . I stood patiently behind someone as they struggled to retrieve their pound coin from the trolley contraption while I contemplated Angel. I often wondered what it’d be like if he gave me the willies. Well, I knew, from the detail and the vividness of my imagination what it’d be like. Fantastic. One of those nights you’d never forget. Even when you were eighty-nine you’d drag it up from your memory and hold it up to scrutiny. And every time, you’d get those chills and tingles down below. Oh yes, one night with Angel would be like one night in heaven. A bad pun, but so tru—

  ‘This thing’s broken,’ the man in front of me said. My knees involuntarily weakened at his voice. It was deep and warm, like sinking into a hot bath after a hard day; like snuggling down in front of a real fire when it’s snowing outside. His voice made all my body tingle with pleasure. (I really was rather sexually frustrated, wasn’t I? I was getting excited over a voice!)

  I looked up at the source of the voice. He looked back at me. We both started at who we were looking at. Staring Man.

  I ripped my eyes away, my face and body suddenly aflame. This was the closest we’d ever been. And after what Jess had said about him wanting to give me the willies, my body started to burn with embarrassment. My knees had gone weak when I heard his voice. Him, the man who obviously disliked me. Waves of red-hot mortification crashed down on me all over again.

  ‘This thing’s broken,’ he repeated. His voice still had the same effect on my knees, even though I knew it was him.

  ‘Oh,’ was all I could think to say as I looked back at him. I suppose I’d never thought he had a voice. He seemed to glare at me more than anything else, so I knew he had eyes and a face. But not a voice. I’d also now worked out that he had a thing about Mel. It was abundantly clear. He’d been giving me evils because he fancied Mel. He’d seen me leave the party with Mel, so was pissed off about it. Then, he’d seen me hugging Ed, jumped to the conclusion that I was doing the dirty on his Mel. I’d be the same if, say, I thought Fred was doing the dirty on Jess. Then in the SCR, he’d seen me acting all normal with Mel and probably thought I was some two-faced slut who was going to break his precious Mel’s heart.

  ‘I suppose we should go find someone to report it to,’ he said.

  ‘But that would mean queuing and talking to someone who will invariably decide that my need for my pound back gives them licence to patronise me,’ I observed, even though I was still rather overcome by this ill-meeting. All we needed was a spot of moonlight and I’d be well within my rights to start quoting Shakespeare.

  ‘True,’ he replied.

  ‘Do you have a hairpin or a nail file? I’ve got a mean trick to get pound coins out of these contraptions, no probs. It’s a South Londoner thing.’

  ‘Really?’ His eyes doubled in awe. He was impressed.

  ‘No,’ I replied. I’d not have said it if I thought he’d be that impressed. ‘I just say things like that,’ I explained. ‘I can’t help myself.’

  ‘Oh, right. Kind of like Lieutenant Barclay?’

  My heart stopped. ‘You reference Star Trek,’ I breathed. My heart started beating again, but I was suddenly breathless with admiration and awe. It was always a genuine shock and moment of true kinship when I met someone who wasn’t me or Jess, who could drop Star Trek into a normal conversation. If he didn’t hate me and fancy Mel, I’d be seeing him in soft focus, hearing romantic harp music and melting in his arms, right about now.

  ‘You know my references to Star Trek.’ He sounded equally surprised and impressed. We let a moment of silence pass between us as we formed a bond of mutual admiration.

  ‘Are you DS9 or Voyager?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m Next Gen. But Voyager’s second.’

  Anyone listening to us would think we were talking in code, unless they watched Star Trek. Star Trek: Next Generation (my favourite); Star Trek: Voyager (my second favourite); Star Trek: Deep Space Nine (I’d grown to love it over time); and then of course there was the original series, but not necessarily the best.

  SM raised his eyebrows. ‘I’m a bit torn. Voyager’s good, but then, so’s Next Gen. I think, though, I prefer DS9.’

  ‘Most men do cos a lot of it was war games and politics. I had a bit of a DS9 marathon once and really got into it. I can’t help liking old Avery Brooks either.’

  ‘What, Mr Hawk himself ?’ SM teased. ‘You like all that wearing shades at night stuff ?’

  ‘You did not watch Spenser: For Hire,’ I said, aghast. God, maybe I dismissed those harp players and the soft-focus visuals too quickly.

  ‘I did too!’ SM replied, not one hint of embarrassment. ‘I’ve even got a few episodes on tape.’

  ‘Me too!’ I replied. ‘But despite Hawk being in DS9 I, er, can’t give up my love for a spot of Will Riker and Jean-Luc. And Worf.’

  SM’s face broke into a huge grin, softening his chiselled features. He was really quite attractive – but that was probably a lot to do with us having such a big thing in common. Television. ‘I like a bit of Worf myself, but I was glad he and Deanna didn’t get together in the end. I can’t abide Deanna Troi.’

  ‘Me either!’ I laughed.

  ‘Have you seen Enterprise yet?’

  I shook my head. ‘Nope.’

  ‘Me neither,’ SM replied.

  ‘Can’t say I’m that keen on the idea, but I’m sure it’ll insinuate itself into my affections like all the others did.’

  ‘T
rue,’ he said.

  We let another moment of Star Trek-induced admiration pass in silence.

  ‘So, how long have you known Mel?’ I asked, groping for the only other subject we had in common, hoping to bond there, too.

  SM looked down at the trolley he had his hand on, started fiddling with the lump of metal that held on tight to his pound coin. I’m right, he does have a thing about Mel. And this is my chance to show him Mel and I are just mates. That I’m not trying to muscle in on his territory.

  ‘Not long. Well, since I started at All Souls, about two years ago. He’s a good bloke is our Mel.’

  Our Mel. ‘Yeah, I really like him, h—’

  ‘Oi, D’Altroy, what are you doing?’ Jess’s voice cut in. I jumped slightly, then turned around. She was leaning out of the driver’s window of her car, looking rather impatient. By standing there, trying to ingratiate myself with what was, essentially, The Enemy, I was lengthening the time between cigarettes for her.

  ‘Hey,’ SM said, ‘how about I give you a pound and you give me a pound then it’ll seem as though we’ve got our pounds back from the trolleys.’

  ‘Good plan,’ I said. I rummaged into my jeans pocket and handed over a pound coin.

  ‘Got change for a fiver?’ he said, holding out a five pound note.

  I looked at him, unimpressed.

  ‘Only joking,’ he said, with a smile, then took a pound coin out of his jeans pocket and gave it to me.

  ‘See you around,’ I said, then scuttled around the metallic blue Mondeo and got in.

  ‘Yeah,’ he said. Staring Man started off across the car park towards, I presumed, his car.

  ‘So,’ Jess said as she pulled out the car park onto the road, ‘hates you, does he?’

  ‘Thanks to you, missus, he still does. I was just about to tell him that Mel and I were just friends, so he knew I wasn’t trying to get off with his man, and you came along tooting your horn and shouting your mouth off.’

  ‘I did not toot my horn. Besides, I think the only horn going on around here came from him – and it wasn’t for Mel.’

  ‘JESSICA BREAKFIELD!’ I screamed. ‘WHAT HAS GOT INTO YOU?’

  ‘Nothing for a while, actually.’

  ‘OH MY GOD!’ I screeched, then clamped my hands over my ears, ‘DON’T YOU DARE SAY ANOTHER WORD UNTIL WE GET TO MY HOUSE.’

  chapter twenty-four

  Bruiser

  ‘What the blinking hell happened to you?’ Craig said as I wandered into the Senior Common Room.

  Being Craig, he said this so loudly, most people in the SCR looked up, double-took at me.

  After taking a deep breath, I replied: ‘I walked into a door.’

  How did that sound? Exactly. Had someone said that to me, I would’ve looked the same way as Craig and most of the people in the common room who were openly paying attention were looking at me then: Yeah, right. Who were you fighting with, why were you fighting and do they look worse or better than you?

  Some of the faces around the room went back to conversations they were having, the notes they were reading, the coffee they were drinking. Some of the faces carried on openly staring at me. I didn’t blame them, I’d got it on the bus into work, I’d got it in the street, I’d got it wandering through the corridors, I’d got it in my lecture first thing this morning. Anyone would think people hadn’t seen a woman with a huge, great bruise on her face before.

  Craig frowned very hard at me and my reply.

  ‘I did,’ I said. I carried my paper pile and my body, then slumped into the seat I always sat in. The tan leatherette seat would soon have a groove in the shape of my butt, I sat there so often. I noticed people who were sat there when I came in, moved. I probably unintentionally glowered at them for being anywhere near my seat. I liked that seat. It gave you a good view of most of the room, the dining/kitchenette area and both doors.

  Gwen was sat next to my favourite seat, but I didn’t care. If it was a toss up between the seat and her, or any other seat and not her, I’d take my seat. It was a fair pay-off.

  Craig, the man I supposedly subliminally incited to have sex, followed me from his area of the SCR, sat himself down on the table opposite me.

  ‘What happened, babe?’ he asked. First time he’d ever called me babe. I recognised his softened tone, his brotherly expression. They were subliminally saying, ‘Tell me who it was and I’ll go get them for you.’

  I did look a fright, though. Even I had to admit it. I’d worn my glasses – the cursed glasses – to take the edge off the vicious bruise that currently resided on my left cheek. I’d been surprised by its severity – and I’d been there when I’d been bashed in the face. What with my skin being such a dark brown, I thought it wouldn’t be so bad. But this bruise was darker than my skin, tinged with black and purple and yellow. I’d baulked at myself in the mirror. Spent a lot of time trying to find angles to stand from that didn’t make it look so bad. I did indeed look as though I’d been on the wrong end of a prizefighter’s rage.

  Gwen was staring at me too with maternal concern. Nice though it was that they all cared, their concern was misplaced. I’d got double the amount of affection and care and attention from Jake. Again, trying to coax out of me what really happened.

  ‘Do you really want to know what happened?’ I asked Craig, tiredly.

  Craig nodded.

  ‘And do you promise you’ll believe me, no matter how obscure the story?’

  Craig nodded again. His whole face was frowning with concern.

  ‘I walked into a door. Or, rather, a door swung into me. I was coming out of a sweet shop down in Headingley and someone coming in at high speed smacked me in the face with the door. It was all rather embarrassing cos I stumbled backwards, reached out to steady myself and pulled down a free-standing rack of greetings cards with me. I don’t know if you can imagine it, me, lying on the floor, under a rack of cards, writhing in agony on a Saturday lunch time, but it is truly my idea of hell. And then, to add insult to injury, literally, I woke up Sunday with a mind-splitting headache and this huge bruise on my face.’

  ‘Really?’ Craig said.

  ‘Yes, Craig.’

  ‘Sure?’

  ‘Positive, Craig.’

  Craig still eyed me suspiciously.

  I sighed. ‘Thank you for your concern though, it’s really touching.’

  ‘OK, but if you need to talk . . .’

  ‘I’ll come find you. Thanks.’

  With one last suspicious look, Craig got to his feet and went back to his life. I’d be telling this story for ages. I wondered who’d be the first to bring up the fact that where there’s blame, there’s a claim. I knew exactly who I’d be suing.

  I was going to get stuff photocopied. In reprographics.

  Since that encounter with Deirdre Barlow Glasses woman I’d done what other people did and camped out in the photocopying room and did it myself. Anything to avoid a row. Today, I didn’t have the energy or time. I needed far more doing than normal and to be honest, why should I stand there breathing in fumes and getting Repetitive Strain Injury from pushing buttons when she and the rest of her ‘gang’ were paid to do it?

  This time, I’d got Sally to get me the forms in advance and I’d filled them all in. All I had to do was take down my load, explain what needed to be done and to put them on ‘Urgent’, which meant I could get them done in forty-eight hours. ‘Emergency’, which would cost the department more, would be done in twenty-four hours. Deirdre Barlow Glasses hadn’t explained that to me, had she?

  Standing outside, I read REPROGRAPHICS (they’d changed the colour of the sign from orange to yellow because that was the kind of krazy with a ‘k’ type of people they were), took a deep breath and pushed open the swing doors. I even managed to put a smile on my face. Try not to annoy the people who can screw you over, was one of my many mottos. Great. The woman on duty behind the counter was, of course, Deirdre Barlow Glasses.

  ‘Hi,’ I said. ‘Could I
get these done on urgent?’ I had my sweetest voice at work as I showed her my bundles, each with clearly marked instructions on Post-Its.

  Her face remained like stone. Without moving any other part of her body, her arm reached out and retrieved a stack of forms from their envelopes on the wall beside her and slid them across at me.

  ‘I’ve already filled in the forms,’ I said, still smiling. I dumped the books on the counter, plucked off the forms and handed them to her.

  She looked at them as though I was offering her a turd.

  ‘They’re the wrong forms for an urgent request. You’ll have to fill these in. And make sure you’ve got the right budget code.’

  Deep breath. Stay calm. She can screw you over. ‘OK,’ I said, took the forms. ‘Can I borrow your pen?’

  ‘We don’t lend out pens. We have this problem with getting them back. Or not, as is usually the case.’

  ‘Good thing I always carry one, then, isn’t it?’ I replied and pulled one from my pocket. ‘Wouldn’t want me walking off with your million-dollar pen.’ That bit I said in my head.

  I heard the swing doors open behind me and moved to one side to let the person coming in take their chances with the photocopying bitch from hell.

  ‘Hi,’ the male voice said. ‘I’ve come for my stuff.’

  My knees weakened at the voice.

  ‘Ticket?’ the woman demanded.

  ‘Here we go,’ he replied. ‘I brought it in three days ago.’ My knees did that melting thing again. I glanced up to see who it belonged to.

  The man glanced sideways at me. Again, we both started at who we were looking at. Staring Man. I should’ve known by the effect he had on my knees.

  I ripped my eyes away, my face and body suddenly aflame. I put the pen back to the sheet, but my hand was shaking. I couldn’t even write properly because I knew, KNEW he was staring at me now. I could feel his eyes on the side of my face. I lowered my head even more, twisted my neck slightly so all he could see was the back of my head. I could still feel it though: I could feel his gaze, steady and unwavering, burning holes into the back of my black hair.

  ‘We haven’t finished your photocopying,’ Deirdre Barlow Glasses said. ‘You’ll have to come back.’