How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(29)

Real Gatsby stuff.

I’d dive through the skirts and heels of the women, all mingled in together, and feel giddy from their perfumes. Even my mother would make an effort when there was a party and wear one of her incredible dresses.

‘You look like a princess,’ I remember telling her once as she danced me around her bedroom in a clumsy waltz while she was getting ready.

‘No, honey, I’m the queen and you’re the princess. My perfect little princess.’ And she’d cover my face and head in kisses.

I loved these moments with my mother, but they always felt like I’d stolen them from somewhere I wasn’t supposed to be. They never lasted long either. Usually, a day or so after the last guest had gone home, she’d take to her room again, refusing to come out or let me in. I’d sit by her door. Like a live-action version of Frozen.

The guests were always delighted to see me, lavishing attention and kisses on me before I was ushered off to bed by the nanny. I remember thinking how incredibly happy grown-ups were at parties. It was only as I got older that I realised it was because they were all drunk or high.

My dad was always the life and soul of the parties. I remember his big laugh echoing around the rooms of our house. His laugh made me feel safe. My father. My protector.

I don’t want to think about this shit anymore. I check the time on my phone and it’s 2.40am so I head to the bar area and pour myself a massive shot of vodka. Then I go back to my bedroom and pop three zopiclone out of the blister pack on my nightstand and into my mouth. I wash them down with the vodka.

I wake up the next morning, late, my head throbbing from nightmares and the various drugs and drinks I’d used to knock myself out. The memories from my childhood are still swimming around in my head, gurgling around in the pit of my stomach.

I crawl out of bed and head to the en suite where I throw up in the toilet. There was a time when being violently sick would make me feel cleansed, better, but now it does nothing, except make me need to brush my teeth four times. I’m restless and I urgently need a distraction from this feeling.

I go to the kitchen and make myself the strongest black coffee imaginable, before I open Tinder on my phone. Maybe disembowelling a sex offender is what I need to cure this particular hangover.

I’ve already picked out a couple of contenders. But just as I’m about to message one of the unlucky matches, an iMessage notification pops up.

It’s from Charlie. My stomach does something. It’s sort of similar to the anxiety I’ve been feeling since the message from The Creep last night, but a more pleasurable version. Are these those butterflies I’ve heard people talk about? I shake the thought away and open the message.

Hey Kitty, really hope I come across as cool and not too keen and stalky, but I was wondering if you’re busy tonight? I’ve got tickets for the launch of an art exhibition I’ve been involved in. It’s a charity thing but I think you might find it interesting x.



I’m pleased at the lack of text speak in his message and suddenly remember that with all the stalker drama, I’d totally forgotten to check Charlie out on social. I scroll to the Instagram app and type his name into the search. There are a few Charlie Chambers but it doesn’t take long to find him. He’s very clearly the best looking of the bunch, his profile picture a candid black-and-white shot of him laughing. Those dimples. I just want to stick my finger in them. He’s only got around 2,000 followers, which is basically none.

Annoyingly, his page is private. Having a locked account is something that is totally unheard of in my world and usually means you’ve done something so humiliating, which has made it onto the sidebar of shame on MailOnline. I very much doubt this is the case with Charlie though and consider the possibility that he’s actually a private person.

I know I’m meant to wait like at least an hour before I reply to him, but I think fuck it.

I text him back.

Hey! It just so happens that I’m free tonight. Exhibition sounds fun. Anyone I would’ve heard of?



The little dots that tell me he’s replying appear straight away.

Absolutely not! It’s very much an art student vibe so don’t expect too much. And. Are you willing to slum it east :0)



Oddly, his use of the smiley face emoji just makes me smile instead of wanting to throw myself right off my balcony.

Me: How east are we talking?

Charlie: Lewisham?

Me: That I can do.



I’m glad he can’t see my grimace through the texts.

Charlie: Good. I was worried you might melt like the Wicked Witch if you left SW3.





22


LEWISHAM, SOUTHEAST LONDON

We arrange to meet at the venue, which is a pop-up gallery in a shopping centre. I try to stifle my inner snob as my car drops me off outside the building, which is like something from Ken Loach’s nightmares, quite frankly. There are groups of teens loitering around the front, but these aren’t the glossy and groomed teens that I get accosted by in SW3. There’s a smell of damp and weed hanging in the heat. I hop from foot to foot, unsure what to do with myself and am relieved when I see Charlie walking towards me. I’m a little unnerved at how vulnerable I feel in my nude Louboutin flats and red Ted Baker skater dress.

He looks gorgeous in a pair of dark jeans and a black linen shirt, with the sleeves rolled up. It’s a bit rubbish for men when it’s this hot. I mean, what are their choices? They either have to sweat it out in jeans or look like they’re on a fucking 18–30 holiday in shorts and vests. And don’t even get me started on men in sandals. Some things just shouldn’t be seen out in public and hairy toes are one of them.