How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(2)

‘Of course you can!’ I say, beaming the smile that my millions (yes, millions) of followers know from Instagram-me. But the smile does seem to squash down the furious banging of irritation that’s started inside my head.

The girls squeeze in tight next to me – on the seat for two – waving their iPhones in our faces, swiping through filters with the sleight of hand of a magician. I can tell without even looking that they’re both posing and pouting trying to make themselves look sexy. Those ‘likes’ do provide an intense dopamine hit. I get it.

But I want to shake them.

Violently.

They’re probably no older than fourteen but, with make-up learned from YouTube, easily look ten years older. Do teenagers not go through an awkward phase any more? I feel a mix of pity and envy creep over me, prickling my flesh like a thousand tiny microblades. Their skin is so dewy and smooth, it’s ethereal. I have to stop myself from reaching out and stroking it.

Because that would be weird.

‘I totally ordered some of that skinny tea stuff you endorsed last month,’ Girl One says.

It takes a moment to realise she’s talking to me. What tea? She clearly reads the confusion on my face, which is something of a triumph considering how much Botox I’ve had pumped into it. And no, Botox isn’t completely vegan friendly, but something has to give.

And it’s not going to be my face.

‘You did a detox. With tea!’ she gushes, blonde hair with brown eyes almost weighed down by fake lashes. ‘You said it felt like a physical and spiritual cleanse. And you lost like five pounds in a week.’ She sighs, like she’s found nirvana.

Her eyes are shining like patent Louboutins, staring at me in the same way I stare at the New Arrivals page on Net-a-Porter.

I feel sick.

‘Oh God, no. Don’t do that,’ I say. ‘It’s not for girls as young as you. And OMG, where have you even got anywhere you could lose five pounds from?’ Possibly, eyelashes. But no. I don’t care how much the skinny teadox morons are paying. I will not kick-start eating disorders in girls. No. ‘You know, just bottled water with a squeeze of lemon is better for a colon cleanse.’

They stare at me a bit longer and I am wondering if I’m going to have to explain ‘colon cleanse’ while some of the finest SW3 residents eat their avocado toast around us. But they’re more interested in their content for social media than me. Girl Two, cheekbones I’d pay someone with a syringe for, snaps a few more selfies. Then she asks me to take a couple of ‘candids’. Jesus Christ. Then suddenly One shrieks and grabs Two by the arm.

‘We need to go, or we’ll miss the best stalls on Portobello,’ she says. ‘You know what Jynx is like if we’re late. Thanks soo much for the photos, Kitty. It was great to meet you.’

They smile their goodbyes and bustle out. Two holding her phone high, recording their journey to meet whoever Jynx is for her Insta/TikTok/Snap. I watch as they sashay down the road, oblivious to the men turning towards them as they pass, watching their slinky hips as they walk.

I sigh, deeply. I’ve helped create an unstoppable monster.

An older lady sat nearby gives me a look. It’s probably time I went home, away from people.

My drink is cold and miserable now so I order another coffee to take away and start the short walk back to my apartment block on Chelsea Embankment. My phone pings with a notification from Instagram telling me I’ve been tagged in a post.

‘Ran into this absolute stunner in #greenspears. What a babe. #KittyCollins #Chelsea #SuchASweetie.’

Several more notifications come through as followers of the girls – whose names are Eden and Persia, of course they are – respond.

‘OM-ACTUAL-GOD’.

‘Squeal! You’re so luuuuuuucky!!!!!!’

‘Was she super nice????’

‘What does she smell like?’

I turn my phone off.

This is beyond tedious.





2


KITTY’S APARTMENT, CHELSEA

By the time I reach my building, I’ve walked myself into a ferocious mood. It pains every bone, as my heels click-clack over the expensive marble floor, and I muster a smile for the on-duty concierge. I have to, though, it’s part of my ‘brand’. No one wants to follow a surly, spoiled bitch on Instagram. Luckily, it’s Rehan on today, one of my favourites. He stands to greet me.

‘Sit down, Rehan,’ I say, mock-scolding him. ‘I’m not the bloody queen.’

He does a big grin. ‘Maybe not, but you the princess in my tower for me to protect.’

I give a little giggle and an eyeroll. Not feminist at all, but he likes it. And I need him to like me.

‘It’s looking to be a beautiful day already.’ He peers past my shoulder and squints into the sun, which is already beating down an uncomfortable heat despite it not even being 10am. I don’t share his enthusiasm about the current heatwave, which is making me irritable and sweaty. My T-shirt is already clinging to my underarms and I wish I’d ordered something iced from the coffee shop.

I nod in agreement. ‘Glorious.’

Rehan summons the lift for me and I step inside.

‘Of course, you are the brightest sunshine around here, Miss Kitty.’

Then the door closes, shutting him out. I let the fake smile slip from my face and massage my cheeks with relief. Why is just going out for coffee so much effort?