She made an appreciative noise as his picture enlarged on her computer screen. Not bad, not bad at all. Definitely a contender. She smiled as she lit a cigarette, putting her feet up onto the desk and leaning back in the swivel chair. Florence’s profile was proving popular. But then that was only to be expected. This guy was quite attractive though: thick, dark hair with the lightest first smatterings of salt-and-pepper grey around his hairline, good teeth, neat and straight – a must for boyfriend/potential baby-father material – and icy marine eyes, neither blue nor green but somewhere in-between. He was smiling, looking relaxed in a V-neck white T-shirt which showed off a light tan; it was probably a holiday snap, she decided. The ease of his smile and the hint of sexuality behind his eyes suggested that a woman had taken it…

His profile said he was forty-one, slightly older. She was looking for someone with a bit of experience, someone who knew his way round a relationship with a woman, someone with marriage and fatherhood credentials. The various dating and hook-up sites that she’d been using were the perfect hunting ground – such fun getting to be whoever you decided, so… liberating. She had procured Daddy Bear on Sugarpop.com, a site solely dedicated to older men looking for younger women to fuck and spoil – no harm in that, at least not for her. It was mutually beneficial as far as she could see. It had been fun phishing for victims, creating a new and different persona for each one of them. It had proved quite lucrative too, both sexually and fiscally. The men she’d come into contact with had been carefully selected for their usability, whether for sex, dining out, receiving gifts and trips, or in Daddy Bear’s case – committing murder. She marvelled at how easy it was to have her every desire and whim fulfilled simply by using a few choice words and a decent profile shot. These internet dating sites were a veritable smorgasbord, a chocolate-box selection in which she’d taken her pick. She was careful not to stay on any of them for too long however; as soon as she’d ensnared her chosen victim, rinsed them of whatever particular need she required at that time, she would delete her profile and join another, careful not to leave a trail. But now she wanted an actual boyfriend, a much more discerning task. He had to be loyal, clean-cut, a nine-to-fiver; the type of guy who was as happy with a pizza on the couch on a Saturday night as he was in a crowded trendy bar… someone to go on weekend breaks with, date nights to the cinema and trips to the supermarket with. A regular guy, the perfect ruse. And this dude, forty-one, from London, certainly seemed to fit the bill. She composed a short message:

‘Hi there, thanks for the wink, I’m flattered to receive attention from such a good-looking guy – few and far between on this site, that’s for sure, lol! I’m Florence, I’m thirty-two and single, obviously (!) and I’m training to be an actress (Theatre Studies, mainly) for my sins, though I assure you I’m no drama queen. I don’t get much free time but what little I do have, I’d like to spend getting to know someone. Could that be you? If you’d like to meet for coffee sometime then message me back. Flo x’

She re-read it quickly and feeling that it struck the balance between friendly, funny and complimentary, she fired it off.

‘Florence’ lit another cigarette. She was bored and restless and decided to knock Kizzy up. Their relationship had been developing rapidly. Kizzy had even given her a key to her apartment, entrusting her with it should she ever lock herself out again. Poor old damaged, downtrodden Kizzy, so trusting. Her caring, nurturing nature made her so gullible, she was looking forward to killing her and putting her out of her misery. She rang the bell. There was no answer and she felt a little deflated – she must be at work. She heard Kizzy’s cat, Esmerelda, meowing behind the door. It was a whiny, mangy old thing with sticky eyes and bad breath, but Kizzy adored it. ‘He got the house, I got the cat!’ she’d laughed as she’d said it, like she was somehow resigned to having been so royally fucked over. Loser. She decided to let herself in anyway. It was cold inside Kizzy’s flat and there was a warm biscuity smell of cat’s piss lingering in the air. Esmerelda seemed pleased to see her, winding herself around her legs and purring. She roughly pushed the hapless animal away with her foot. She hated cats, this one in particular. It was just like its owner: needy and overly affectionate. Wretched thing was probably hungry.

She padded into the kitchen and opened the fridge, helping herself to a glass of rosé from an open bottle. She turned the radio on. It was playing The Verve’s ‘Bitter Sweet Symphony’ and she cranked up the volume – she liked this tune and began to sing along ‘it’s a bitter sweet symphony this liiiife…’. She rifled through Kizzy’s mail; it was boring, nothing but bills, oh but hang on, there was a letter from her GP. It was an appointment to see her therapist. There was a prescription slip next to it for Diazepam.

Sipping on her wine she walked into Kizzy’s bedroom, all pink floral curtains, a matching duvet and valance, stupid wooden signs that spelt out pathetic affirmations like ‘sweet dreams’ and ‘home sweet home’ – as ‘girlie’ as it gets. It looked like the bedroom of a love-struck teenager. But then she knew Kizzy believed in love, really believed in it. They’d discussed it a few times.

‘I’ve always only ever wanted that kind of love where, you know, you meet that one special person and they just know, you know? They know that it’s just you and them against the world… together… A soulmate, unconditional love, where you don’t know where you end and they begin… invisible threads that bind you… two minds and hearts intertwined… Love that knows no boundaries… the kind of love where that other person walks into a room and your heart skips a beat, even thirty years after you first met, one heart, one mind… Do you know what I mean, Danni-Jo?’

She’d nodded as she inwardly sneered. Poor, deluded old Kizzy. No wonder she’d been abused all her life; she had co-dependency written through her like a stick of rock. She had no idea this ‘kind of love’ did not and never would exist in hers or anyone else’s lifetime and that her beliefs belonged only to the abused, the used and the hoodwinked. Such beliefs were pathetic, futile and idealistic. People lied about love; society lied, your parents lied, the films and songs and poems in birthday cards… lies, lies, lies. Love was simply a concept to hurt and manipulate people with. But the heart will swallow anything when it’s hungry, will tolerate such treachery and pain just for this so-called emotion. But why should it? Love is not supposed to hurt. Real love doesn’t, or so Kizzy thinks.

This was simply not a truth that Danni-Jo believed in. For some people ‘love’ manifested itself through pain and murder and hate. She hated Kizzy for having all these honest, positive, clean beliefs. Even after the atrocities this woman had endured at the hands of ‘love’, she still believed in it. How could she? Kizzy was insane. She was ill. She must be if she believed anyone would ever love her in that way. She was nothing more than a fantasist; eternally let down by her unrealistic beliefs. She needed to be put out of her misery, she really did. It had been and it would always be a lifetime of disappointment for Kizzy, despite her eternal optimism. Optimism. It could only lead to no good. Kizzy had not yet reached her own depths of despair; of that she was sure. And she didn’t want Kizzy to: she would die with the idea of a forever love. A beautiful love that lasts forever. She deserved that. It was better that way for Mummy Bear.

But first, Esmerelda.

There was nothing of note in the bedroom, so she left it with a bad taste in her mouth. Taking the arsenic from the vial, she walked through to the living room, where the small kitchen area was, and opened the fridge. There was a tin of Whiskas cat food in the inside draw, half-full. She screwed her nose up as she took it out, the fishy stench turning her stomach as she sliced a quarter of it into the cat bowl, adding the arsenic and mixing it up with her own hands before replacing it. Esmerelda purred gratefully around her calves as she went to work on the cat bowl. She really was hungry, poor thing.

‘Bon appétit, Esmerelda,’ she said, as the cat’s wet nose poked through her legs.