The Cupid Effect

  I’d lectured before, but that had been on the understanding I wouldn’t see those people again. I’d be like hundreds of guest lecturers they’d encounter in their lives: transitional, flibbertigibbety. Nothing more than the sum of notes on the page, a voice on a tape recorder, a name in a handbook. It was like a one-night stand. You tried to enjoy it while you were there, but you could be someone else, flamboyant, tarty, even dominant because you’d never see them again. It didn’t matter how you behaved because it was only ever going to be for a few hours. Whereas I’d be expected to bond with this lot. I had to leave my phone number, answer their calls, reveal more and more of who I was. Form some kind of lasting relationship with them over the coming year.

  I was about to be found out as the fraud I was. I didn’t know jack about anything and I’d sure as anything couldn’t impart it, ensure it entered other people’s minds and stayed there long enough for them to write about it in essays and exams. I was going to be publicly ridiculed. Laughed and pointed at in the street. Tarred and feathered, branded a liar and cheat then sent packing through the streets of Leeds with my rucksack on my back.

  OK D’Altroy, back away from that panic. Calm down. If you don’t calm down you’ll start getting sweat patches all over your lovely white top and then it’ll be see-through. They’ll all be able to see your bra . . .

  OH MY GOD, WHAT THE HELL HAVE I DONE!

  I should be sat in London, reading about make-up, I thought. This thought was swiftly followed by Run away! Very fast. Just leave everything where it is and leg it.

  I smiled at each and every one of them, waiting until almost all the seats were occupied. Most of them talked with each other until a natural hush, then a silence fell upon the room.

  Ms Money flipped shut her phone.

  OH MY GOOD GOD.

  All right, smile. Smile, goddamn you. Now open your mouth, say: ‘Hi.’

  Expectant faces gazed upon me as though I was about to impart the meaning of life, the universe and everything. That I was going to explain it wasn’t, in fact, forty-two, but ninety-eight – and I had proof. Or maybe they thought I was going to give them next week’s lottery numbers. Whatever it was, each face was so expectant my voice dried up as I croaked, ‘I’m Ceri. Ceri D’Altroy. It’s written on th—’

  The door slammed open, and ‘I’m sooooo sorry,’ a voice cried out from nowhere, as a woman hurried in. ‘I’m so sorry I’m late. The bus didn’t turn up. I ran all the way here from the bus stop.’

  She rushed off to her seat across the room, no one blinked, she obviously did this all the time. I, meanwhile, having leapt in shock, leant with one hand on the desk, the other hand clutching my chest, and breathed like I’d been running.

  The class weren’t sure whether to laugh or be scared.

  I laughed. Couldn’t help myself when I’d tried so hard to get the lecturer look right and it all fell apart when someone made me jump. The room erupted into uneasy laughter with me, until we all relaxed into normal laughter.

  OK, this is better. I can work with laughter. Didn’t they always say you should start a presentation or speech with a joke? And you don’t get much funnier than old lecturer lady having a coronary cos someone comes late. ‘All right,’ I said, feeling my body relax a fraction, ‘as I was saying, I’m Ceri. Ceri D’Altroy. I’m taking over Eva’s teaching for the rest of the year. I’ll be teaching you the history of psychology as well as taking tutorials and doing all the other things that Eva did and I don’t know about yet.

  ‘On the sheets in front of you, I’ve written out a brief rundown of the modules as I see it. Before we get into a more detailed discussion about what you should have done as told to me by Gwen and what you’ve actually done, I wanted to get something clear.’

  I took a deep breath. ‘I’m here to help you learn. If you don’t want to do the reading or prepare stuff for tutorials, that’s fine with me. I’m not your parent or God, I can’t make you do it. But, what you do or don’t do will be reflected in your marks. And, to be very honest, I’ve got my degrees so feel free to piss about, make excuses, not do your work. I’m not open to bribes so it’ll only hurt you in the end. I really hope, though, that you get into the learning stuff and if not enjoy it then at least understand the History of Psychology.’

  This all sounded very cool and very laid-back, I’d fancied myself as a cross between Robin Williams in Dead Poets’ Society and Miss Jean Brodie in her prime. Experienced, but ‘down with the people’; friendly, but worthy of respect. Which was clearly why I delivered my speech with sweat trickling down my back, making the white v-neck top cling to me.

  Thankfully, I’d stopped short of writing it down before prattling it off – prat probably being the operative part of that word – because I’d be triply sad if I had to read my cool and laid-back attitude to the class. An audience of faces gazed back at me. It was still to be seen if my speech had worked, but for now, no one looked as though they were about to leave. Which, when it came down to it, was the important thing.

  chapter six

  Ed’s World

  ‘Someone called for you,’ Ed, my new flatmate, said, with only his head stuck around my bedroom door. His long blond hair hung like grease-sodden chips around his thin face, his eyes watched me like I was an alien species.

  I’d been living here a week and was still becoming acclimatised to the houseshare experience, so spent a lot of time in my bedroom, reading, working on seminar stuff or watching TV. I didn’t want to get in their way, what with being new girl in the house and all.

  Ed and Jake, my two flatmates, seemed nice. From what I remember of being a flatmate, though, a week wasn’t enough to tell. Most flatmates were fine, friendly and fun – until you borrowed a splash of their milk and suddenly you’d been bashed over the head and buried before you could say ‘carpet that doesn’t show bloodstains’.

  I hadn’t done the housesharing thing since I left Leeds, six years earlier. I’d lived with Whashisface Tosspot for a year when I was in London, but that was different, I felt at home there. It was ‘our place’. When I bought my own place and our relationship finally ended, I’d had over two years of being able to walk around naked, if I so wished, and as it turned out, I did so wish, quite often. I was no weirdo naturalist/naturist/flasher, it was simply easier to know I could roll out of bed and answer a call of nature or put on the kettle without scrabbling about for a dressing gown. Especially since I lived on the first floor and most of my windows were obscured by trees. That’d all changed the day I went to fill the kettle wearing only a pair of black knickers and a casual glance to my left, out of the six-foot sash window, had shocked me twice over.

  Shock one: The creepy man who lived downstairs had cut down all the trees that obscured the view of my windows.

  Shock two: A queue of people at the bus stop below were staring open-mouthed at my floppy tits and black tanga briefs.

  I’d developed a closer relationship with my dressing gown after that.

  Flashing the neighbourhood not withstanding, I enjoyed living alone. I could leave the bathroom door open to hear the stereo or TV when I was in the shower; I could talk to myself out loud all the time, and I didn’t have to rely on other people to pass on my messages.

  At the time of Ed’s appearance with my message, I was curled up in bed, watching an episode of Angel on video.’ (This, of course, meant drawing the curtains, putting on my side lights, changing into my pyjamas, surrounding myself with junk food and beer. Watching Angel was like taking part in a ritual. Ed was privileged, I was usually out to callers when it started.)

  ‘Oh? Who?’ I said to Ed, having pressed the mute button on the TV remote.

  ‘A bloke. Dan? Um . . . Derek? Drew? Yeah, Drew. Said he’d call you back later or you should call him back when you’d stopped, er,’ colour rose in Ed’s cheeks, ‘stopped, er, creaming yourself over, er, Angel.’

  ‘The git!’ I replied. Was too outraged to be embarrassed by my outing by my so-called ma
te. Ed was obviously going to find out about the man in my life at some point, he wasn’t meant to be told that said man only existed in the nineteen-inch world of my telly so soon into our living relationship.

  ‘When did he call?’ I asked Ed.

  Ed coloured some more, his eyes shifted about. ‘Um, this afternoon. Meant to, uh, write you a note but couldn’t find a pen. Then I forgot. Sorry.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. Come in,’ I shifted up to make room on the bed for him to sit, ‘if you want.’

  Ed pushed open the door, came in, perched himself on the very edge of the bed, only a fraction of an inch of his butt was on the bed. Ed was doing a PhD in English at The Met and he was into heavy metal. His clothes suited his hair and his heavy metal reputation: dirty blue jeans, black T-shirt with a lurid, heavy metal band picture on the front. Over the top he wore a red and black lumberjack shirt. But, under the dirt and grease, under the clothes, he was the cutest boy. Young and untouched by life. It showed in his clear green eyes, his smooth skin and the contours of his face. He just needed a wash and blow-dry all over.

  Ed glanced at my TV screen, smiled when he saw what I was watching. ‘Is he your boyfriend? This Drew bloke,’ Ed asked, refocusing on me.

  ‘No,’ I replied. ‘Just an old mate. That’s a mate I’ve known for a long time, not a mate who’s old.’

  I was rewarded with one of Ed’s blank stares. They were a natural miracle: his clear green eyes would glaze over, his face would become flat as he stared at you. Maybe he was computing something behind that look or maybe he was wondering if he should make a run for it. ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ he asked, coming out of his stare.

  ‘No, I’m currently between relationships and boyfriends. What about you? Are you seeing someone?’

  He nodded grimly. ‘No.’

  I inhaled deeply.

  Ed was on the verge of confessing something deeply personal to me. He was going to do to me what people had done to me on buses, trains and in cafés and pubs for years: invite me into their world. Drag me into their life; their innermost secrets.

  On one level, it was flattering, I was trustworthy enough to know people’s secrets. But on almost every other level it was bizarre. Perfect strangers giving me flashes of their hearts. Telling me things they didn’t even tell their best mates. It was also exhausting because I couldn’t just listen, walk away. I had to listen, then I had to give my opinion, advise, get involved. Hence my Commandments. Hence walking around without making eye contact. It was easier all round to appear miserable and moody than to start getting involved.

  At this point in the night, though, I was too tired to fight it. I had to go with it. Take one giant leap into Edness. And besides, he’d earned the use of my ear, by bringing my bags upstairs on the day I’d moved in. I’d just not get involved. Listen. No involvement. I could do that.

  ‘Complicated is it?’ I prompted.

  ‘No. Not really. It’s quite uncomplicated. I love her, she doesn’t know I’m alive.’

  Your typical stalker scenario, then.

  ‘She’s doing a drama MA at The Met too. Her name’s Robyn. You might’ve seen her. She’s been on telly and stuff, she’s so beautiful.’

  Definitely your typical stalker scenario, then.

  ‘But it’s more than that. She’s so funny. I’ve spoken to her, I’ve spoken to her loads. She’s almost a friend. She’s really nice, and clever, and interesting a—’

  ‘You really don’t have to justify your feeling for her to me. You like her, that’s all that matters,’ I interjected before he ran out of adjectives. For an English student his vocabulary was distinctly third rate.

  Ed’s whole persona relaxed. ‘Most people I tell think she’s just wank material cos she’s so beautiful.’

  ‘I believe you like her. But, can I just say, even if she was just wank material, that’s OK too. Some of my best relationships have been based solely on physical attraction. That’s how these things happen sometimes. Not that your thing with, er,’ shite, what was her name, what was her name, ‘Robyn! is like that.’

  Ed, who now he’d unburdened his soul obviously felt more at ease with me and in my room, rested back on his elbows, turned his head upwards and stared wistfully at the ceiling. ‘She’s perfect.’

  I wanted to say that no one is perfect; to label someone as perfect was to set yourself up for disappointment when the one fatal flaw in their character that proves them to be imperfect makes an appearance. One look at Ed’s face was enough to tell me he didn’t want to hear that. Most people didn’t want to hear it. They’d much rather get their expectations up, then have them dashed.

  ‘She reminds me of this line from a song, “I feel so lucky loving her, tell me what else is magic for?”.’

  He was quoting Robert Palmer. Ed, heavy metal Ed, was quoting Robert Palmer. I’d underestimated his feelings for this woman. No one reached for Robert Palmer lyrics unless they were more than knee-deep in the mire of love.

  Without warning, my heart started to race. Really pound, hammering and hammering against my rib cage. The sound filled my ears and made me quiver slightly. This was what Ed was feeling for this Robyn one. The emotions he felt ran deep, that was obvious. Robert Palmer had been the first clue to how he was feeling. How he looked now, the expression on his face, was the next clue.

  Beyond his limited vocabulary flowed unfathomable seas of emotion. She made him smile, inside and out. He wanted to make her laugh, he often thought of something and wanted to call her to tell her about it. Sometimes he’d lie on his bed, replaying their conversations, enjoying the fact that he’d spent time with her, not knowing that hours had passed while he lay there. She made his heart beat faster by just entering the room.

  And his lust. She wasn’t just wank material but . . .

  Every cell in my body pulsated with his passion. I was suddenly, inexplicably turned on. I hadn’t felt like this in a long time. Not even when I’d last had sex, it wasn’t like this. Every part of me burnt with lust. A cold shower wasn’t going to cure this. How Ed got through the day with all this pumping through him I didn’t know. Watching Angel now would be a bad idea – I’d probably end up dry-humping the TV screen.

  If anything, Ed was understating his feelings. Maybe he just didn’t have the right words to explain how much he felt. Well, with me he didn’t need to. Sitting next to him told me how he felt.

  ‘So, she doesn’t know you’re alive, what are you going to do about it?’ I asked.

  Ed froze for a few seconds, then his head creaked around to face me. ‘Do?!’ He’d screwed up his face. ‘Do?!’

  ‘Are you going to ask her out?’

  ‘Don’t think so,’ he scoffed.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘Erm, possibly because she goes out with actors and businessmen, she even went out with a duke once. Those are the kind of men she goes out with – famous, important men, not people like me.’

  My legs ached from sitting cross-legged. I prised my lower limbs apart, stood up a little shakily because they weren’t used to being contorted like that and shook them out to get the blood circulating again. ‘How do you know she doesn’t go out with people like you if you’ve never asked her out?’ I asked Ed.

  ‘I just do,’ he said with the conviction of a man who knew someone was totally out of his league.

  ‘What if she doesn’t go out with people like you but actually goes out with you.’

  ‘She wouldn’t.’

  Seeing as I was in love with someone who happened to be a 250-year-old vampire that lived only in my telly, I didn’t think of anyone as out of my league, so didn’t see why Ed, when he knew this person, should think like that. I mean, if I knew I was going to end up with said vampire, then why shouldn’t he at least ask this woman out?

  ‘There’s this expression us old folk use,’ I said, staring at Ed. ‘It goes something like, “Faint heart never won fair lady”. Be a coward about this and you’ll be dreaming about you and her u
ntil you read about her wedding in Hello. Besides, the worst that can happen is she’ll say no.’

  ‘No, the worst that can happen is that she laughs in my face, tells me to piss off then emails all her friends and they laugh at me too. Or she could publish my picture on the Internet with a transcript of our conversation, so the whole world will laugh at me,’ Ed replied.

  ‘Or she could say yes and turn out to be a total cow, which’ll mean all this time you’ve loved her from afar has been wasted on some silly bint. That’s the worst that can happen.’

  ‘No, the laughing thing is definitely the worst.’

  He had a point. I took my seat back in the bed, covered myself with the duvet again. ‘I know how you feel.’

  Ed smirked. I’m sure he thought I had no idea what love of the unrequited sort was all about. He’d be surprised. My unreturned affections hadn’t been exclusively aimed at fictional TV characters.

  ‘No, really I do,’ I reassured Ed. ‘I spent over nine years in love with someone and, it’s a long, loooonnnnggg story, but the short of it is, I’m between relationships. And, sometimes, I mentally kick myself when I talk to him. Or he leaves messages with my new flatmate.’

  ‘Ohhhh . . . Drew! He’s Drew?’

  ‘Yes. He’s Drew.’

  Drew and I had been in the same psychology classes and I’d had a major thing about him since we were assigned to work together on a project in first year. We’d become friends after that assignment, but despite us being very close friends, I’d never really known how he felt about me. On the one hand, we’d spend hours on the phone often talking about sex (some of our conversations were so pornographic they bordered on phone sex), we’d sit too close, hug for too long, stare too much. He’d often turn up at the house I shared with three other people with a six-pack of beer and a video and we’d cuddle up in my bedroom and watch it. On the other hand, nothing happened. Ever. Not during college, not after college. I sometimes got the feeling that he was thinking about kissing me, thinking about taking our relationship to the next level, particularly when we were lying on my bed watching something he’d taped, but it was all just think with him. He never did anything. I did consider kissing him, of course, but I was never sure how it’d be received. You see, if there was one thing I’d learnt about men, it was that if they liked you enough, nothing, except possibly an act of God – and even then it was a close-run thing – would stop them making a move. So, why did Drew never just lean down and cover my lips with his, even when his arms were holding me close to his chest? Because he didn’t like me enough, was the short answer.