Watching

I watch her. I always watch her. She’s a creature of habit. Every Tuesday morning she comes here, waits for her red haired friend who’s always late. She likes to flick through the magazines, the glossy ones, but she only ever looks at the pictures. She’s always smiling through lips stained with dark lipstick, Damson Cherry (I asked at the boutique). She sips her tea and always adds a second sugar halfway through. That’s when the red head arrives and there’s a flurry of shopping bags, apologies and gossip. They clap and squeal and then whisper. Always whispering.

Can you see?

He needs you to see her. He thinks that if you can see her he might forget? Can you do that? Can you imagine her and give him some peace? It may be tricky because it was dark; she had only been illuminated by a street light on the other side of the road. Curly blonde hair cascaded over the kerb, her neck at a deeply unnatural angle, her once sweet face set in a fearsome grimace. Blood leaked from underneath her and soaked her white mini dress. Can you see?

May’s Day

It really wasn’t May’s day. Her run of bad luck had started in the morning when she’d left Rodger’s breakfast cooking unattended, to answer the telephone, and ended up burning the lot. The worst thing was that it was one of those pesky double glazing sales calls. She kept trying to butt in and tell the loud lady on the other end the house was council rented but it was no use, the loud lady had a ready prepared script and by god, she was going to read it.

Rodger was cross (just lately, Rodger was eternally cross). He snapped at her, the usual barbs fired across the lemon yellow kitchen, she couldn’t be trusted, she was a waste of space, a useless cook, did she really expect him to eat this rubbish? He threw her favourite cup, the one with the cheerful spring daffodils, it smashed against the wall. Her bottom lip trembled as she felt the force of the slammed door and heard the crunch of gravel as the car sped off. A few tears leaked from her eyes as she set to cleaning up the mess.

May grabbed her handbag and left for town, an afternoon of coffee and cake with her oldest and dearest friend, Pauline. Her steps quickened as she spotted the 97 coming around the corner. She wasn’t quite at the stop when it flew by. The driver saw her but he was having a bad day too so, spitefully left her lonely and sorrowful and twenty minutes late.

Pauline wasn’t too chuffed, she had to be at the hairdressers in forty minutes for her monthly cut and blow-dry. What kind of gossip could they have in forty bloody minutes, she’d sniffed. Typically, Pauline chattered non-stop about herself, her children, how clever they are, never thinking to stop and ask how May’s day was going. May didn’t mind though, she never complained, she wasn’t that sort.

She felt a little lost when they parted ways and couldn’t think of how to spend the rest of the snatched afternoon. So she just went home. The return bus ride wasn’t much fun; it was full of school kids, their chewing gum and their obnoxious strings of expletives. She felt exhausted by the time she reached the end of her road.

Rodger’s car was in the drive which it had no place to be at 3.45pm. She hoped he had calmed down and that they could try and have a nice evening. She’d do him his favourite, egg and chips, and she wouldn’t burn a thing. She’d even do fried bread and maybe even a nice crumble for after? He’d like that.

But Rodger was busy entertaining his fluffy secretary, Miss. Nancy Watkins. Miss. Nancy Watkins grasped the kitchen worktop and Rodger had his crumpled work trousers around his ankles, and was reaching a happy conclusion.

It really wasn’t May’s day.

Better late than never?

Jodie’s period was late, and she was totally freaking out. Was her bust bigger? Her bra did feel a little tight. Oh shit, was she showing? Had she put on weight?

She phoned Dee. Dee knew everything about sex and babies and what to do.

‘Dee, I’m late.’ She gasped as soon as she heard the voice at the other end.

‘Shit.’ breathed Dee. Jodie didn’t have to explain, Dee was a woman of the world, and she knew what she meant.

‘I know. Do you think I might be pregnant?’

‘Did you do a test?’

‘No, I haven’t got one’.

‘Well you need to go and buy one. Have you been sick?’ Dee quizzed.

‘No. Yes. I was actually, last week’.

‘Shit. In the morning?’

‘No, late at night’.

‘That’s nearly the morning, Jodie,’ Dee sighed, merrily lighting a cigarette, Jodie heard the tell-tale exhale.

‘I’d had a bottle of wine,’ Jodie remembered, casting her mind back. She hadn’t made it the toilet and had puked all down her new dress that was dry clean only.

‘That’ll be the baby rejecting the booze, they don’t like it,’ Dee said, authoritatively.

‘Shit,’ sighed Jodie.

‘Yeah, mega bummer. Who’s the daddy?’

Jodie thought. Who had she screwed, in the last few weeks?

‘Well there was Darryl from the pub, remember? I did that takeaway guy too,’ Jodie felt utterly miserable.

‘Go buy a test, and ring me back, yeah?’ Dee instructed.

Jodie wrapped her coat around herself, in case she saw someone she knew. They might guess and tell her mother and that would be freaking awful wouldn’t it? She couldn’t keep it, could she? She wasn’t about to start playing happy families with Darryl or …. What was his name? The other one? She couldn’t remember now.

She hesitated outside the door of the pharmacy, and her mother’s neighbour, Mrs. Hall, was in there. Shit. She dived into the first shop, oh for god’s sake; she was in a kid’s clothes shop.

‘Can I help you?’ asked a manicured, well groomed woman.

‘I’m pregnant,’ she stammered, the first thing that popped into her head.

‘Congratulations!’ beamed the pink lipstick mouth. ‘We have some adorable baby clothing just in, please feel free to take a look,’ she pointed in the direction of the pastel coloured area. Jodie gulped, just about managed a peevish smile and sauntered over.

And then she fell in love: with the tiny vests with the poppers, the knitted cardigans, the striped socks made for the teeniest feet. She touched the blankets, stroked the teddy bears and suddenly felt brave and happy and maternal. She touched her stomach and started to cry. She left the shop and floated home on a cloud of joy, stopping at the pharmacy for a test she no longer felt afraid of.

She hummed as she went to the bathroom, sang a lullaby as she peed on the stick, was about to call Dee when she saw it. The red. There was no baby.

Diary of a Sociopath.

My name is Angela, although I prefer Angie as it sounds sweet and benign; like everybody’s best friend. Ultimately, that’s what I aim to be. I’ll be whoever you want me to be, a clone of yourself usually, because secretly, you’re an egomaniac too. It is tricky to maintain the correct balance and I run the risk of creating fury because, let’s face it, I’m a much better you than you know how to be.

January had been quite tedious until I spotted the brunette in the school playground; seemingly popular amongst the other waiting parents, talkative, animated hand gestures guaranteeing attention. She had three small children, all with the same porcelain doll face. I loathed this ridiculous scene every Monday to Friday; the cliques, the inane friendships created on random facts such as your postcode and at what time of year you all had your legs in the air long enough to conceive a child. It was similar to actually being back at school for me, being the bland and faceless shape in the corner that didn’t fit in. But there is a lot to be said, sometimes, for blending into the scenery, you can reinvent your identity many times over and nobody even notices you were there.

I’ve always dressed anonymously, pale, neutral colours, jeans, plain coat; invisibility. Though once I select a potential playmate I transform into her mirror image; I purchased high heel shoes, chiffon scarves, wore wear make-up and perfume. I curled my eye lashes, bought a designer handbag and appeared as much like the brunette as possible.

I started standing closer to this woman, listening in to conversations, developing a flavour of who she was, who she talked to, finding my way in. It was incredibly simple seeing as she appeared to volunteer for every single obnoxious event the school staged. So, baking on Thursdays it was, my son was in the same class as her daughter. She emanated some sort of Mother of the year notion; affectionate and soothing with her children, a frown for every scraped knee, and a kiss for every childish tear. My son knew better than to bother me in this way. I’d had him for an old conquest, my ex colleague Janet who’d been trying for a baby. I timed that one beautifully; they were born three days apart.

I digress, back to the story and my brand new target: Vanessa. So there I was, baking cookies with inept, small children with a kindly smile on my face and twinkles and rainbows in my eyes, when we first met. She loved baking, made birthday cakes from home for internet orders. Naturally, I informed her that this was a coincidence because I too sell fancy cupcakes online. How easy the words trickled off my tongue.

I have no interests, hobbies, job, or time wasting tactics to occupy myself. I just do what I want to do which mainly consists of finding new best friends and seeing how far I can take it. I live off daddy’s money because he believes every word I utter, every imaginary illness and bout of depression I portray. After Mum died last year it’s been a lot more straightforward, there’s nobody standing in my way.

We must go for coffee I tell her, get together and try our hand at selling our home baked wares at the weekends for some extra money? It’s an idea I’ve had for ages, I hear myself saying, but I don’t have much confidence, especially having just lost my mother, I’m full of anxiety and grief and have a heart problem. This could be just the therapy I need. That’s it, right there. I see it; the pity in her eyes, the sad mouth curling downwards, her hand subconsciously resting on her heart. I’m in.

I must say, at our first coffee morning, I was sublime. I squeezed out the impromptu tears, sorrow that my little Alexander didn’t have a father in his life, frustration at deep depression and worry that I could no longer afford to meet our daily needs. By the end, I had her phone numbers, email address and her solemn word that she would find us an event this very weekend, to make some money. I laughed all the way home.

The excitement got to me; I couldn’t wait and phoned her that very night full of gratitude, platitudes and plans. She listened intently and announced that we were booked to supply cakes for a children’s birthday party on Saturday: the birthday cake and 100 cupcakes.

We became friends on Facebook which was immediately helpful as I could see she was married and that her birthday was approaching, all her favourite films, books, actors, everything. It was a fast track friendship, just the way I like them. She was slightly more intelligent than my usual choice, this could have put me off, but I do so love a challenge. Despite her academia, Vanessa was as naïve as they come; after all she’d believed every word so far hadn’t she?

Before I knew it, it was Friday afternoon and I found myself with no cupcakes or the will to make them. I drove down to the fancy bakery in town and bought 100 of the damn things. Vanessa was amazed by “my work” and I happily took credit for the delicately decorated chocolate treats. We were deemed a success by the venue and subsequent orders followed. Vanessa was over the moon, gushing about our teamwork and grateful beyond belief because she couldn’t have done it without me.

Every day we met after that, I’d tempt her with a new sad story over coffee, invite her and the children round for tea, we’d spend hours looking at baking equipment in the shops and planning bigger and better desserts. Clearly this hadn’t been going down so well at home; the fact that she was rarely there wasn’t so appealing to her troublesome husband. The ironing pile reached a new level high; they argued. Occasionally, I would sense Vanessa beginning to try and pull away from my grasp so there was a lot of thinking on my feet and gentle manipulation of her husband’s words to keep up her resolve that she was in the right and perhaps he was hiding something himself to act in this way?

The one thing that I couldn’t quite drag her away from was her children, she’d dash home at every temperature, cough and sneeze, pissing on my day entirely. I needed something bigger to recapture her attention so I told her that it looked as though I might have cervical cancer and that I had to go to the hospital for some tests. That one worked a treat, she cried and cried into her cappuccino and promised to be there for me no matter what.

I had free reign then, I dialled her number at midnight in tears, afraid of what would happen at the tests I had researched on the internet. She agreed to come with me after I lied that my Mum had died after a losing battle with cervical cancer. This didn’t bother me one jot, I used to work at the hospital and still had a couple of contacts there. I just left her in the foyer and visited Pauline and Susan in Human Resources.

Once, after she’d got the children to bed, she phoned, asking if she could pop round for an hour, she sounded upset which thrilled me. I put on Edward Scissorhands (her favourite movie according to Facebook) and managed to fast forward it to the middle of the film before the knock on the door. She weakly smiled at the television and took a seat, her tears were immediate. It was her husband, they were rowing all the time, she could barely stand to be in the same room as him, she found a pair of red lace knickers in his coat pocket and they did not belong to her. Her eyes and nose leaked simultaneously, she smudged mascara on the cuff of her blouse. Whilst I’m sure I effectively conveyed sincerity and sympathy, the giddy butterflies that danced and crashed in my midriff almost had me laughing out loud. I had placed the knickers there yesterday, whilst returning some cake tins that I had borrowed precisely for this reason. I knew there would be fireworks.

I studied and matched Vanessa’s hurt expression and recounted a tale that left me in the same position, this had happened to me, I had no idea he’d been seeing someone else, he left me to be with her, I know how you feel, look, we’re just the same. She cried harder at that, questioning his actions, she thought he loved her, she’s so glad she has me to come to, such a wonderful friend.

The shit hit the proverbial fan later that night. Her husband denied strenuously any knowledge whatsoever of the offensive underwear and, of course, Vanessa didn’t believe him. He walked out, taking as much as he could carry, angry and confused. I didn’t see her on the school run that morning so I’d guessed what had happened. I went round with a large bouquet of white roses (her favourite flower) and a box of chocolates. Her eyes were red, the lids swollen, this was the first time I’d seen her without make-up; temptingly vulnerable.

The children were hungry and wailing; she wasn’t capable of putting cereal and milk into three bowls so I got up and did it, making myself instantly indispensable. Vanessa cried a lot over the next few days and I arrived at 8.30am every morning to walk the children to school and I would sit with her for long lengths of time, listening to her snivels of self-pity; she was broken.

Vanessa’s son and daughters now referred to me as Auntie Angie, an endearing term I had easily manipulated them into using. There was one rather delicious moment at the park when the smallest one fell and grazed her knee, loud sobs echoed and she ran to my open arms for comfort, leaving a vacant Vanessa to view the scene, alone on the bench, another stake in her crumbling heart. She looked straight at me, right in the eye, disturbed and horrified but too feeble to take control. I smiled, stroking the knotted hair of her five year old.

I bought ice creams, accepting the bought affection from them hungrily, wiping their sticky fingers and smeared faces. Vanessa’s bottom lip trembled, she hugged herself for warmth. She couldn’t look at me, her head moved to face my general direction and she asked me who I was. I didn’t say a word. She continued by adding that she didn’t know who I was anymore. Well I’m you, of course, I laughed, just so much better. Her mouth gaped open and she sprang into action, coercing the children to cut short their playtime and come on home. No, she said, Auntie Angie isn’t coming with us. Auntie Angie might not be calling round for a while because we were going to be busy looking for daddy and see if he wanted to come back home. The kids wept, they love Auntie Angie. Auntie Angie smells like Mummy used to smell and she buys them sweets.

Auntie Angie can go fuck herself, Vanessa whispered into the air. Auntie Angie is a fucking sociopath who screwed up her whole fucking life.

The one that got away, it left a bitter aftertaste. Vanessa found her husband and they moved away to start again within weeks. I haven’t let it get to me too much. I went back to the shadows and my jeans and have just spotted a new family; a fresh faced young Mum from down south. I heard her tell the teacher that they don’t know anyone. Well, it’s your lucky day. I’m your new best friend.

Scarlet

You’re happy. With him. You’re in love. It’s beautiful and gorgeous and just so right. Until she sees it. She always sees it. And then she must take it away. She must break it. Destroy it. Spoil it. Steal it. And she will not stop until this is done. Hold on to your heart, she’ll take you on a rollercoaster ride.

I’m talking about Scarlet, eternally young, coquettish smoky grey eyes and ruby lips. You never stood a chance. You may have arrived, hand in hand, but by the end of the evening she will have him eating out of the palm of hers.  He will forget your name; she will wipe his memory of cherished times you shared. One kiss. That’s all it takes. As soon as his mouth touches her pouting red lips, you’re history, a lit candle against a cyclone.

Her hair never ends, like a fairytale princess; it billows and shines like there’s a constant breeze following her. Perhaps there is, there’s something strange, a dark magic, an unearthly quality, a ravishing, aching perfection that just isn’t bestowed upon us mere mortals.

To see her is to want her, take her, consume her, breathe in her musky irresistible scent and mould your body to hers. I’ve seen it happen, I’ve felt the pain. I’ve turned up with a husband whose eyes betrayed me the second he saw her. They fall in drones, at her smooth porcelain skin and voluptuous curves. She collects them, a museum of triumphs. And then they disappear, like they never existed at all. You’re left feeling quite mad, examining his birth certificate just to make sure.

You challenge her and she laughs that sweet laugh. She doesn’t care; she has more lustful fools ripe for the taking. Perhaps your lustful fool?   


 

:

Scene of the crime

She had a thing about murder scenes. It wasn’t especially the gore, or the criminality, it was the drama. She never felt more alive than when she looked at the dead. You’d never guess it to look at her. Lacklustre, level-headed Loretta with her mousy hair scraped into a severe bun, glasses perched on a plain nose, drab long skirt and mohair cardigan. If her colleagues, at the library, ever saw her at home, they simply wouldn’t recognise her.

Loretta had a penchant for recreating the scenarios that titillated her the most. She would pour over the photographs, in the evening, and head to the enormous wardrobe. Forget Narnia, this was even more of a bizarre spectacle. Her favourite part was the shelved section, which contained her collection of wigs, all lengths, perms, straight, black, brunette, blonde, ginger. The hair made all the difference; she became the butchered wife, the unfortunate teenage girl, the heiress killed for money.

The wardrobe was bursting with garments, clothes spanning through the ages were arranged chronologically for ease of selection. The shoes were something else, the 1940’s brown peep toes, and the garish 1970’s mules, so many to choose from.

Her eyes scanned the open book. Tonight she would be Martha the prostitute, found covered in blood, in a compromising fashion. She stood on tiptoe and dragged down the wavy blonde wig. Her fingers briskly swept through the coat hangers, she smiled as they found the red mini dress, delightfully similar to that of Martha’s. Loretta then searched for the black stockings, the ones with the bow at the top of the lace panel. She chose the platform black heels and dressed. She applied eyeliner and smudged scarlet lipstick around her lips. She studied the photo again and created bespoke ladders in the nylon stockings, to match, holes and pulls in precise places.

She grabbed the dark crimson tube and squeezed it on to her neck, double checking, it was all about the detail. Martha had been slashed at the throat so Loretta needed a lot of fake blood to create the perfect image. Once satisfied, she lay down on top of the bed and yanked up her dress to reveal her most intimate parts.

She controlled her breathing until it became so shallow that it was barely there. She heard the front door open, was aware of the creak on each stair but, dedicated, she remained in character. She saw the man above her, heard him gasp. She never even flinched. She felt his trembling hand touch her forehead, witnessed his confusion at her warmth. She maintained the look even at the sound of his zip. She never uttered a word. But her slight smile gave it away and he was full of panic then, stuck a knife in her throat, and reeled in horror as real blood pumped from her body. He ran down the stairs and out of the house. Don’t feel sad. It’s all Loretta ever dreamed of.