Love Me, Love Me Not: An addictive psychological suspense with a twist you won’t see coming. Katherine Debona
placed on a higher rung of the ladder, does it not simply become part of you?
‘It’s what best friends are for,’ I say, and she looks at me with such a pathetic look of gratitude on her face I have to stop myself from picking up the vase of flowers and hurling it at her irritatingly perfect features.
‘But now I’m not so sure,’ she says. ‘Perhaps it’s too much. Perhaps we’ve asked too much of you, especially when…’ She hesitates, uncertainty no doubt a novel experience for her.
‘What is it?’
Sitting forward on my chair, I bite back the temptation to push her answer. Could this be it? Have I done enough to make her question that which she holds most true?
‘I think Patrick’s having an affair.’ She avoids my eyes, the bottom half of her face obscured by the grinning picture of a Cheshire cat on her mug as she continues to drink. I picture the warm liquid travelling down her throat and into her stomach. Little by little the poison administered will unfurl into her bloodstream. But as with everything else already set in motion, such an outcome will take time.
I allow myself a moment to inhale the words she has finally spoken, to let them settle inside of me in the shape of a smile. Patience is a virtue, my mother always said, and I have it in droves.
So it begins.
Narcissus: Rebirth and renewal, but also self-obsession
Oxford, nine years ago
I saw him first.
Sat in the corner of the library with thick-rimmed glasses reminiscent of a certain schoolboy wizard. The sleeves of his jumper pushed up and the bones of his wrist tensed as pen scratched paper.
But he didn’t see me. Not then. Nor as I followed him down the cobbled alleyway that led to the pub. Not as he supped his pint and swapped ideas, hopes and dreams with his chosen friends. He didn’t notice the way I lingered at the bar, my arm a breath from his own as he passed over a crumpled note to the student serving pints.
He didn’t see me at the back of the lecture hall, watching the curl of hair at his neck, the twitch of leg as he listened. He didn’t realise that I overheard his comment about Professor MacGillis’s tutor group. About his joy and fear at having been chosen. A group I knew I was good enough for. A group that would change everything, if only I could find the golden key that would allow me to enter.
‘So all I need to do is keep the water topped up and it will flower, even in December?’ Professor MacGillis peered at the Narcissus’s sculptural tangle of creamy tendrils, moving too slowly for the eye to see. A small gesture of my appreciation, a thank you of sorts for allowing me to join a study group usually reserved for grad students. He made an exception in my case, based both on a recommendation from my own college professor and the fact I had scored the highest results in the university for my first- and second-year exams. Having me as one of his students made him look good; he knew I was worth more to him than the other way round.
‘Plants are like numbers, they follow the rules as long as you know what they are.’ I turned the vase full circle, just to check all was okay. Because I always looked. I always noticed if a root had grown … If a root had grown, a leaf unfurled, a petal’s hue lightened by the sun.
‘And you don’t mind me keeping it?’
‘Not at all. I can always grow more.’
‘It would seem your talents aren’t just limited to numbers, young lady.’ A pat on the hand that lasted a moment longer than was acceptable. A lowering of lids that failed to hide his intention.
There was a letter opener on his desk and I allowed myself to imagine what it would be like if I were to thrust it between his carpal bones, snapping the tendons between his lusty fingers. To register the surprise on his face as it transformed to pain. For him to understand I was not someone he could manipulate into a cliché. I didn’t need his help, nor his desire.
University was a new world, much the same as before but filled with subtle intricacies that allowed me to simply be. I was no longer the geek, the nerd, the girl with all the answers. Instead my ability was praised, revered and I was not alone in my brilliance. But in two years I hadn’t made any real friends. Hadn’t found anyone to fill the hole I thought could only ever be filled by Elle.
‘Professor…’ I began. But then the door to his study opened and the room shifted, air pushed aside as my real reason for being there entered and I scuttled back to my seat. The breath in my lungs started to spasm but I didn’t dare let it go, to turn, to move until I was sure it was him.
A space opposite, a seat not yet taken. Tucked into the corner, half-hidden by a bookcase, I waited as he greeted his classmates in turn, their peaty scent coiling over that of dusty books, stale beer and the Christmas chill that lingered in clothes.
I glanced at my notebook, the lines of my sketch making their way over questions already answered. Then my hand froze above the page as he kept moving around the room, stopping only at the seat next to mine.
‘Is that a cornflower?’ He unwound a bright-red scarf, each circle of his neck covering me with tiny particles of tobacco laced with eucalyptus. I pictured him rolling a cigarette, tongue running along the paper’s edge to keep it in place.
‘You shouldn’t smoke if you have a cold.’
The words escaped before I was ready and I cursed myself for not thinking first. But he surprised me, then as always. He understood me in an instant and, instead of finding me repellent, was accepting and kind.
‘True, but we all have our vices.’ His teeth were crooked and, when he smiled, a dimple sat in each cheek.
I knew all about vices, only mine weren’t the sort you admitted to. Would he like me still if he knew every part of me? I longed for it, for someone to recognise the depths that murmured underneath, willing themselves free. For someone not to care because in a way they understood them too.
The snow in his hair was melting. Droplets of water like miniature globes reflecting back an upside-down version of the world. I wanted to touch them, to taste whatever part of him still clung to the liquid.
‘I’m Patrick.’
‘I’m Jane.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Jane,’ he said, holding out his hand and waiting for me to slip my fingers into his palm.
That was when I became undone. A shifting inside of me at the nearness of him, something that before was missing but now made perfect sense. It came with a hunger, a painful longing that was a world away from the pull I had towards Elle. It was altogether more basal, which made it true.
‘A group of us usually head to The Turf after MacGillis has finished talking about himself. You’re more than welcome to join us.’
I couldn’t reply. All my senses were compounded into the pressure of his skin against my own. All my capabilities, the words I had accumulated over the years, disappeared, because when I looked at him I saw a future never before imagined. A future I had believed wasn’t for someone like me.
He had a mole on the edge of his jaw and I wondered what it would be like to kiss it. His hands, stained with ink, and nails, bitten down to the cuticles, were ones I longed to have trace over every inch of my skin. I watched the way he scratched at the tip of his nose with his pen when he was trying to figure out a problem. I wanted to know each and every one of his mannerisms, tuck them away to be remembered in years to come.
That night, I walked home looking ahead of me instead of down at the cobbled streets. I allowed myself to contemplate what it would