How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(11)

8


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

Later that night I pour myself a glass of wine and settle down on my favourite sofa – blush pink, Sweetpea & Willow – with my phone. I’m setting up my own Tinder account to find this Joel. Maisie’s right – she does deserve an explanation. Even if it’s painful, it’s closure. She’ll be able to move on. Being left in limbo hurts more than anything because there’s always this part of you that clings on to the false hope that they’ll come back.

And false hope is worse than no hope. That’s what I read on Refinery29 anyway.

I can’t lie, I get a kick out of making Fantasy Kitty.

Is this how men feel when they’re scattering their breadcrumbs? I use one of my sexiest photos as my main image.

It’s a black-and-white shot. I’m wearing a low-cut black bustier from Victoria’s Secret. I’m looking over my left shoulder, smiling at someone off camera. It’s a secret smile, a hint of something only I know, my face barely visible. It’s a few years old now, taken by my last boyfriend, Adam.

Technically, Adam was my first boyfriend too. He took this photo while we were in one of the guest rooms of a private members’ club in Soho. Adam had been doing a reading from his novel – he was a ‘dazzling’ author, ‘one to watch’, etc. – to a crowd of red-faced, enthusiastic ticket-holders, mostly female, mostly literature students.

He was bubbling with exuberance when he came offstage. He whizzed around talking to everyone, more of a social missile than a butterfly. When he eventually wore himself out, he found me upstairs in the room we’d been given, sulking, holding back tears I’d refused to cry.

‘Babe,’ he tried. Brushing the tiniest wisps of kisses on my neck, my shoulders, down my back until my skin betrayed me and shivered with the pleasure.

‘You ignored me all night,’ I’d said.

‘Kitty, my angel, I was working. You know I hate all that shit.’ He ran a finger along my bare shoulder and collarbone. ‘Obviously I would have much preferred to be up here with you. Is that the underwear I bought you? You look incredible.’

‘Adam, I’m angry. You knew I wouldn’t know anyone there. I felt such an idiot.’

‘Well, can you put your anger on hold for a few minutes while I photograph you? You’re more exquisite than I’ve ever seen you. I want to keep this moment. I want to know this moment, when you were perfect, when I’m old and everything is chaos.’

I was putty. I was ridiculous.

He took five photographs on his expensive camera before we drank Champagne and fucked for hours.

This one was the best one by far. I’d clearly forgiven him at that point.

It was a great night in the end. But back to now. I take a few deep breaths to ground myself.

I choose words that a man like Joel would fall for. He cannot know that I’m the hunter here. He needs to believe he’s in control. There’s also a chance he’ll remember me from the night out, so it’ll be interesting to see how that plays out.

Kitty, 29, London

<occupation> Influencer

<location> SW3

<about me> Hi I’m Kitty and I’m new to online dating so please handle me gently. Freshly single after discovering I like my men how I like my coffee – able to keep its dick out of other women.

Apparently, I have daddy issues.

But I don’t even know my dad.



Humour, but also enough to suggest my extreme vulnerability. Because nothing attracts hideous fuckboys quite like a woman with low self-esteem.

I should know.

It doesn’t take me long to find him. I’ve barely even hit publish and scrolled through some very questionable profiles when I see him.

Joel.

Six-foot-two, according to his profile, but memory tells me five-foot-ten in real life. That stylised beard that says ‘cock’ rather than ‘cool’. His hobbies – aside from ghosting – are golf, cricket and rugby. ‘More watching than playing these days. Lol.’ I can’t understand what Maisie sees in him. His profile pic – which is actually of him, so at least he hasn’t got a secret wife or girlfriend or both – is clearly supposed to be a candid shot of him laughing at something off camera.

It screams staged.

‘Hey, look at me. Look how happy and fun I am. Look how much better your life could be if you date me.’

Maisie’s red-rimmed eyes and complete distress all caused by this ordinary man fill my brain, and I swipe right.





9


JOEL’S HOUSE, GREENWICH

As predicted, it took less than a nanosecond for Joel to match with me. And initiate a conversation that made me wish I’d never been born. But I played along like a nice girl. Which is why I’m here now, pulling into a driveway in Greenwich, about to meet the man who broke my best friend’s heart.

I check myself in the rear-view mirror – I’m not sure why, it’s not like I’m here to impress this tool – and climb out.

I ring the bell and the door opens within a second or two. He’s keen. No letting me stand on the doorstep, with time to get anxious. In fact, he’s probably been keeping watch behind the net curtains. Jesus, Maisie, there’s your first screaming red flag. He greets me with a smile and arms wide open, like we’re old friends having a long overdue catch-up.