Killing Cupid by Mark Edwards, Louise Voss

write about class on Wednesday night – I was too freaked out by what happened afterwards.
    It went well, I think, I’m really getting a good picture of their strengths and weaknesses. We did another sensory exercise and they were all much more attentive this week, now they know the drill. Not nearly so much fidgeting and scratching.
    Speaking of fidgeting and scratching, Brian wasn’t there, for the second week in a row. I feel somehow uneasy about his absence – I mean, I know it’s not school and he’s free to come and go as he pleases without a note from his mum – but what if he’s too embarrassed to come in because it was him who sent that card?
    Anyway, Kathy read out another really excellent piece of writing. Last week’s exercise was about the character and their reaction to noise, and she’d done a brilliantly funny thing about roadworks. Her descriptions were so vivid that I knew instantly where she was talking about – they’ve been digging up the road by the park for ages – so when we got chatting afterwards, I asked her if I was right. Turns out that I was, and she only lives a few streets away from me.
    We ended up walking home together, and just as we got to the George V, I mentioned what a great pub it was, and she said, ‘I know, it’s my local. I live across the road here. Shall we, then? I’m parched.’
    Before I knew it we were inside the pub, looking around for an empty, non-sticky table, and draping our coats over the back of two spare armchairs.
    ‘It’s funny,’ I said, feeling momentarily flustered, like I’d suddenly been asked out, ‘but I’ve had to turn down two invitations out for drinks with other students, on the grounds that it’s against college regulations.’
    She laughed. She’s pretty when she laughs – her eyes crinkle and her chin goes really pointy. I always feel so fascinated by lesbians. I instantly start wondering if they fancy me, and then feel affronted when they don’t. I suppose that’s how most men are, around pretty women. I like the idea of a ‘lesbian experience’, although I’m not sure I’d have the nerve to go through with it.
    ‘Male students, I take it. Well, not difficult to guess which ones, since we only have the two.’
    I tried to bluff it out, pretending that I’d meant the students were from other classes I’d taught, and not this one. It would have been a bit indiscreet. But I’m sure she wasn’t fooled.
    We got comfortable in the two big tatty armchairs near the fireplace with our drinks – vodka and tonic for me, Jack and coke for her, and, just for something to talk about, I started telling her about the underwear delivery. I was laughing, saying how batty I’ve been lately, but she looked at me a bit strangely.
    ‘There’s no way you could have bought that off the Web without noticing,’ she said.
    ‘Well, I must have done. It’s on my credit card.’
    ‘You would have to have typed in your address, approved the amount, entered your card details, and then the site would almost certainly have confirmed your purchase with an email afterwards. They do that, to stop fraud.’
    ‘Then how…?’
    She shook her head. ‘I’ve got no idea. Unless you really are losing your marbles.’
    Yeah, thanks Kathy.
    I sighed, tempted for a moment to pour out my heart about all the other weird things which had happened over the past two weeks, but instead we drifted into a conversation about writing, and then publishing – Kathy used to have an agent, but the agent dropped her after failing to find a publisher for her first novel – so we had a lot in common. I told her about the TLA fiasco, and she sympathised, which made me feel worse. There was a time when people were impressed that you’d been published, not sympathetic. I can’t stand being a has-been.
    I was about to say goodbye and go, when Kathy got up. Her legs in jeans were inches away from me, and I suddenly wondered what she’d do if I pressed my face into her.