Weâ€™ve come a long way, D and I. In a few weeks time Iâ€™ll be taking him up the aisle. Iâ€™ve wanted to do so for such a very long time. The bright new future can begin, and we can safely forget about the day that I discovered my new boyfriend was a gay serial killer.
Well, discovered isnâ€™t quite the word. (Hello officer). Letâ€™s say â€˜Strongly suspectedâ€™.
It was the morning after the night before, and he had to go to work. Up until that morning, my experiences had consisted of sweaty nightclub fumble, stagger back to his place, roll around wondering when heâ€™d ask me to move in, attempt to discuss the new curtains and slipcovers weâ€™d buy, and wonder whether weâ€™d be married in the summer or autumn.
Next morning, poked in the ribs by a bony finger. Open a rheumy eye to gaze on the face of something from the works of Lon Chaney, and be told â€˜I gotta go to work. The bus stopâ€™s at the end of the street.â€™
Happy days. Not.
This morning, I wake to the sound of running water. A kettle boils happily in the distance. A radio is playing â€˜Better the devil you knowâ€™ by Kylie, and the my face and body are being warmed by the sun shining through a crack in the curtains. My first thought: Iâ€™m still asleep.
I open one eye. Heâ€™s just coming into the room, a towel wrapped around his waist. â€˜Iâ€™ve got to go to work,â€™ he says, and my heart sinks. â€˜Do you want some tea?â€™
I sit up. â€˜Yeah, thanks. Iâ€™m on holiday today.â€™
â€˜You said. Last night,â€™ he calls back from the kitchen, where the lidded bath continues to fill with water for his ablutions. â€˜What are your plans today, then?â€™ he asks, coming back into the bedroom with two mugs of tea and a plate of toast.
â€˜Do you want to meet up tonight?â€™
This is only a one night stand. Youâ€™re breaking hearts. Youâ€™re doing the dumping for once. Think of a distraction.
â€˜Your bathâ€™ll overflow.â€™
â€˜Iâ€™ve had mine,â€™ he smiles uncertainly at me, â€˜Thatâ€™s for you. Iâ€™m running a bit late.â€™
â€˜Sorry,â€™ I jumped out of bed.
â€˜Tonight?â€™ he asked, the smile faltering a little.
â€˜I canâ€™t.â€™ I genuinely couldnâ€™t; I had some stuff to attend to and that Friday night was my only chance.
â€˜Iâ€™m going to see Madonna.â€™
I saw the twinkle in his eyes blink out then back on. But when it came back on, it was a little sadder than it had been; a little more forced. â€˜O.K. No problemâ€™
â€˜What about Sunday?â€™ I asked, forgetting that I was supposed to be in training to be a harsh manwhore.
â€˜Sunday would be great.â€™ The smile beamed out. â€˜What dâ€™you want to do?â€™
â€˜We could go to the pictures,â€™ I suggested.
â€˜Oh,â€™ he said, â€˜I wanted to see Misery.’
You must remember that movie. It was the one about the obsessive who kidnapped and enslaved a writer sheâ€™d fallen in love with, graduated from obsessive to psychotic to barking at the frigging moon, cut his foot off with a hammer, and had her face smashed in by said (understandably peeved) writer at the end. Not really a first date movie. Unless your name is Charlie Manson.
â€˜Not my thing,â€™ I said, â€˜but weâ€™ll find something.’
We made plans, and he kissed me quickly on the lips. â€˜I have to go, Iâ€™m really late.â€™
â€˜But I havenâ€™t bathed,â€™ I said, grabbing my clothes.
â€˜No rush,â€™ he smiled, â€˜Youâ€™re on holiday. Just pull the door behind you when youâ€™re done.â€™
And he was gone.
So, as soon as heâ€™d left the flat, I did what anyone in my position would do: I searched the place for something to explain why he was so weirdly nice: A box containing 220 copies of â€˜Dianeticsâ€™, a bagload of crack, a notebook with the words â€˜Nice Boys Donâ€™t Kill And Eat Their Tricksâ€™ written againandagainandagainâ€¦
Nothing. Til I opened the wardrobe.
to be continued…
Eighteen days to go…