The Trail Killer

Twenty-five

Two days later, Monday April 7th

Claire glanced up from her marmalade on toast as her housemate, Sharon, came bounding through the kitchen door - an urgent mound of flesh juggernauting straight towards the line of cupboards in search of a clean bowl and spoon fir her morning Frosties.

"Morning, Claire."

"Hey there."

Suddenly remembering, Sharon paused her crash and clatter for a moment, turned a quizzical glance.

"So, how'd it go then?"

Claire wasn't sure how to respond - whether it'd be okay to just let herself go, start bawling her eyes out. In the end she settled for the slightest of shrugs, an emotionally neutral kind of tone.

"Not how I wanted it to go."

It was enough for Sharon to get the message. "You mean...?"

Claire nodded. "He didn't invite me out for a drink to apologise, but to... to dump me."

Sharon slammed her breakfast things down with sufficient ferocity to cause the table to judder. "Always told you he was a bastard."

Claire could only envy her housemate such a talent - that precision bastard-o-meter which was innate to her psyche, some sort of mental radar screen in which unscrupulous males immediately flashed up a bright warning red. It wasn't just Steve she'd had doubts about, but Lee and Jason too. Greg. Dave. Phil. And she'd been right. The whole lot of them, amoeba-like lowlife.

"Said there's nothing he can do about it," Claire continued. "Said he's in love with her."

Sharon had meanwhile ducked her in head into the fridge in vain search of some milk.

"Damn it!" Then, returning to the matter in hand: "Isn't that what he said to you too? That he was in love with you?"

Yes, reflected Claire, he had. And it was precisely this the lesson she still had to learn - that whatever words came slithering out of a man's mouth in the immediate aftermath of sex were to be given the same level of credibility as a five-year-old promising not to raid the sweet jar while your back was turned.

The table juddered once more as Sharon plumped herself down onto the chair opposite. Her right hand delved into the Frosties box like a sanderling's beak into the seashore, extracted a generous fistful. The lack of any milk wasn't going to deny her sugar-coated morning pleasure.

"Plenty more fish in the sea."

Yes, thought Claire. Yes, there were. But that was the problem - there were far too many, in fact. If there was less choice out there, wouldn't it be easier to find some workable kind of compromise? She herself would settle for a man who was only a mere seven out of ten for looks - six and a half, even - just as long as he was reliable and trustworthy, relatively pure of soul.

"I'll get a big tub of ice-cream on my way home from work," Sharon promised. "Some stupid rom-com from Blockbusters. We'll have a nice cosy girls night in."

Claire watched as Sharon's hand continued to plunge feverishly into the Frosties box. Endured the accompanying soundtrack of crackle, squirt and squelch.

Her inelegance, the lack of interest men showed in her - yes, this was something else Claire had begun to envy about her housemate. Life for Sharon must have been like the slow, smooth passage of a canal boat rather than the frenetic up-and-down bounce of a basketball.

Sharon's brow had meanwhile lowered into an incredulous frown as she looked up at the wall clock above them. A mini earthquake then erupted as she scraped back her chair, got to her feet.