How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(22)

Obviously, that’s not what I say.

‘I’m not looking,’ I say. ‘I’m happy being single. Less drama.’ And no one asking awkward questions like ‘where have you been? Why aren’t you answering your phone? Is that a human finger in your purse?’

Hen looks at me with something like pity on her face.

I don’t like it.

‘Babe,’ she says. A lecture is coming. ‘You’ve not had a proper relationship since Adam.’

‘Yes, I am aware of that, Henrietta. Maybe it’s because I don’t want one.’

‘I know he hurt you, but you can’t live your life like Miss Havisham just because of one douchebag.’

‘He was an uberdouche to be fair,’ Tor says.

‘Miss Havisham is a terrible analogy in this situation,’ I say. ‘We were stupid young. It wouldn’t have lasted anyway.’

‘It might’ve without that bitch Saskia always hanging around him like some book groupie,’ Maisie says.

‘Do you not think you should put yourself out there now though?’ Hen asks. ‘We know how much you loved him but, well, you’re not getting any younger.’

‘I’m on Tinder actually,’ I say, hoping it will shut them the fuck up. Honestly, I love these women with what I imagine sisterly love feels like, but there are occasions when I picture cutting their fingers off one by one.

Maisie’s and Tor’s faces light up.

‘Why didn’t you tell us?’

‘Because your preoccupation with my sex life is extremely unhealthy. And weird.’

‘You need to get laid,’ Hen says. ‘There’s already rumours going round that you were born with no vagina.’

The women at the next table ask for their bill.





17


CHELSEA EMBANKMENT, SW3

I don’t usually let their words get to me but, as I’m walking home, sweating my tits off, I start thinking about boyfriends. Would it really be that bad to have one? Are there any good points? There’s the sex and, as much as I love my Womanizer, it isn’t great at hugging after coming. Also, it’s quite a normal thing to have, isn’t it? A boyfriend, I mean, not a state-of-the-art sex toy. Like Louis Vuitton luggage. Or veneers. And having something as normal as a boyfriend would be a useful cover for my hobby. It might even stop The Creep creeping if he thinks there is someone on the scene. The more I let the idea sink in, the less awful it seems. But who? I think about the men in my inner social circle and immediately dismiss each of them. Too conceited to actually spend any amount of time with without wanting to slice their throats open and watch them bleed out. Plus everyone has pretty much slept with everyone else so whomever I pick would piss off one of my friends.

Adam did break my heart, that’s no secret. He did a really good job of it too. But what I did to him was so much worse. It wasn’t even intentional. And it would be nice to have someone to snuggle under a blanket on the sofa with in the evenings. Someone to watch the True Crime channel with me. Actually, that could be a bit triggering. Maybe I could get into box sets like a normal human? That’s what it comes back to really, the need for some kind of normality.

But, I need someone different. Someone new. Someone kind and normal who doesn’t tell sexist jokes and make me want to peel my own skin off. Oh, and cheat for months with a little bitch. But where would I find someone like this out of a bad romcom? Definitely not an app. Even the thought of going on an actual real date from Tinder makes me want to hide in bed with a bottle of wine. But where else do people my age find love if it’s not through dating apps or people they know? It’s like looking for a unicorn on a council estate.

It’s dark now and I pick up my pace, grateful for the Shun in my bag. I look around and spot a girl – well, a woman – over the other side of the street, next to the river. She’s sort of level with me and is walking even faster than I am. I can just about make out that she’s got her heels in her hand and is scuttling along barefoot. I look a bit further down the road, and imagine my shock (none) when I see a man skulking after her. It’s like I’m watching footage of the night I was (almost) attacked.

‘Hey,’ I call out to the woman as I cross the road towards her. ‘I’ve been trying to find you.’

She looks confused as I start walking alongside her, slipping my own shoes off to keep pace.

‘You know there’s a guy following you, right?’ I whisper.

She nods. ‘Yeah, he was trying to chat me up in a bar and I kept telling him no, but he wouldn’t leave me alone.’ There are dried tears that have left stripes in her foundation.

‘Okay, cross the road with me. I literally live in that block there. I’ll call you an Uber and wait with you ’til it comes. All right?’

She looks at me gratefully and I try to take her hand to cross the road, like we’re old buddies. But something stabs me in the palm.

‘Ouch.’ The brief flicker of pain makes me wince.

‘Keys. Sorry.’ She shows me her hand, keys between her fingers, the standard weapon for a woman walking alone at night. I link my arm through hers instead.

‘Fucking arseholes,’ I hiss as I open the Uber app and book a car. ‘What’s your name? For the booking?’

‘Claire,’ she says.