How to Kill Men and Get Away With It(3)

The elevator takes me up to my penthouse apartment. Yes, it sounds spoiled and entitled but it was actually a leaving gift from my mother before she fled to the South of France with her toy boy after my dad went missing.

It’s not a bad little sweetener for being abandoned, I guess.

Like all the other promising young women who live around here, I have money. Or rather my family has money. Lots of it. My great-grandfather was Christopher Collins – better known as Captain Collins – founder of Collins’ Cuts, the reconstructed meat products you see in every freezer and supermarket in the country. Dead animals aren’t exactly the most glamorous way to make money but thanks to the turkeys, cows and pigs of the UK, my family is stupidly rich. Although there’s only really myself and my mother left now.

So aside from the social media stuff, I don’t have a lot to do, and that existential void has been insidiously expanding into my life wanting more and more of my attention. I try to fill it with activities like ‘normal’ people. Two hours of yoga and one hour of either weights or cardio with my personal trainer each day. I travel and stay in exclusive resorts. Sometimes for free if I plug them enough on my stories or whatever. I go to parties and launches and drink Champagne and watch other people do drugs in the loos. I leave the parties with eligible men and have drunken, soulless sex. I post stories on social media giving make-up tips, trying diet and workout routines, showing how to pull your knickers just the right way to make your legs look long and your butt thick, and praising products I’ve never even tried. That is my existence.

And I hate myself for it.

I mean, truly loathe.

So why don’t I stop?

Who knows? A combination of daddy issues and the instant dopamine hits from those likes and comments. I’ve never been one to be able to wait for gratification. Even my ?250-an-hour therapist couldn’t get to the bottom of that.

I spent last weekend in Marbella with my friend Maisie (607k followers), where I’d tried out the new La Perla swimwear they’d sent from their upcoming collection. I uploaded the pics last night. My favourite photo is of me in a sunset-orange bikini, staring out to sea. The colour of the two-piece makes my tan pop, my hair is the right amount of beachy and the pose makes my breasts (natural, thank you) look about as perfect as non-surgically constructed boobs can.

Perfect boobs. Perfect life. I guess that’s my ‘brand’.

I open Insta on my MacBook and start scrolling through the new comments, taking a long sip of my coffee. But it feels strange and wrong in my mouth, and I gag on it.

Dairy.

I take the lid off and look inside the paper cup. The liquid is thick and disgusting, riddled with fat and cow hormones. I take some slow, deep breaths as I resist the urge to throw it against the wall and ruin the expensive Janine Stone paint job that was finished only last month.

When I’m calm, I turn my attention back to Insta and my followers. They’ll make me feel better.

‘Wow. You are so beautiful Kitty. Inside and out.’

‘Such a gorgeous view ’

‘Eres simplemente impresionante.’

‘LOVING the beachwear, Kits! When’s it in shops?’

‘Wish I could’ve rubbed the sunscreen on your back babe. Lol.’

‘Perfection.’

‘Just beautiful babes. Enjoy!’

‘Hi Kitty! We’d love to send you some of our weight loss coffee to trial. Could you check your DMs please? Lots of love!’ etc.

I scroll through several pages of comments, picking my way through the ‘LOLs’ and tsunami of emojis, before I catch sight of something that turns my bones to raw ice.

‘I’d love to watch the pattern you’d make as you bleed out over that white sand. After I cut your throat.’

He’s back.

He’s calling himself something different this time but it’s undoubtedly him. The creep who spent most of the last year sliding into my DMs. His profile picture gives him away. It’s the one he used before: a warped image of a naked female torso, string wrapped around her like she’s a topside of beef. Headless, no limbs.

I sigh.

Having a stalker is a classic sign you’ve reached peak influencer status, but why can’t I have a nice one who sends things? Nice things. Why do I have to have one of the weirdos who fantasise about using my blood as lube while masturbating?

I slam my laptop shut and pace around the kitchen, wondering if I should call the police and tell them. They were useless last time though and I don’t want to spend hours in a grotty police station going over it all again. Again.

Instead, I call my go-to crisis-friend Tor (850k followers).

‘Brunch?’ I ask when she picks up. ‘The Creep’s back.’

‘Ouch. Okay. Bluebird in an hour?’





3


BLUEBIRD CAF?, CHELSEA

‘The thing here,’ Tor says as she sinks her (third?) mimosa. Her voice is getting high and loud as it always does when she’s en route to Drunk City. ‘Is that I think you handled it perfectly last time. Don’t stop doing you, babe. Don’t let him see you’re scared.’

‘I’m not scared,’ I say.

‘Well you should be,’ she tells me pointedly. ‘He could be dangerous. Definitely report him.’

‘What’s the point? They’ll only tell me to block him. Then he’ll set up another account and do the exact same thing again. And honestly? He’s probably just a very sad man, living in his mum’s box room. In Croydon.’