by Beth O'Leary
“I didn’t quite say no,” I point out, staring down at my feet. “I said ‘in a couple of months.’”
“That’s still a hell of a lot better than dropping everything and running off with him again,” Gerty says.
There’s a long silence. My throat feels tight. I need to talk about that kiss, I know I need to, but I can’t seem to get there. “Gerty,” I say eventually. “Would you mind if I just spoke to Mo? For a moment?”
There’s another muffled sort of silence.
“Fine, sure,” Gerty says. She is audibly trying not to sound miffed.
“Just me now,” Mo says.
I swallow. I don’t want to talk about this here—I head for the office doors, down the stairs, and out of the building. Outside everyone is moving a little more slowly than usual, like the heat has calmed London down.
“You told me once that my—that me and Justin … took its toll on me.”
Mo doesn’t say anything, he just waits.
“You said that would sink in eventually. And you said to call you when it did.”
More silence, but it’s Mo-style silence, which means it is somehow incredibly reassuring. Like an audio hug. He doesn’t need words, Mo—his arts are beyond them.
“Something weird happened last night. I was—that Ken guy and I kissed, and then we … well, I, I remembered…”
Why can’t I say it?
“I remembered sleeping with Justin after a fight. I was so unhappy.” I’m tearing up; I sniff, trying very hard not to cry.
“How did you feel?” Mo asks. “When the thought came to you, I mean.”
“Scared,” I admit. “I don’t remember our relationship being like that. But now I think I might have just sort of—airbrushed it? Forgotten those bits? I don’t know, is that even possible?”
“Your brain can do amazing stuff to protect itself from pain,” Mo tells me. “But it’ll struggle to keep secrets from the rest of you for long. Has this feeling of remembering things differently happened a lot since you left Justin?”
“Not a lot.” But, you know, a bit. Like there was that note I wrote about not inviting Justin to Rachel’s party, even though I know I did. It sounds crazy but I think Justin might’ve made me believe I’d not invited him, because that way he could be mad about me going? And lately I keep finding things—clothes, shoes, jewelry—that I remember Justin telling me I’d sold or given away. I’d usually put it down to my bad memory, but I’ve had a nagging sense of wrongness for months now, not helped by Mo’s relentless, annoyingly supportive nudging every time we talk about Justin. I am very good at not thinking about things, though, so I’ve just … resolutely not thought about it.
Mo talks about gaslighting and triggers. I squirm uncomfortably, and finally a tear creeps from my bottom lashes down my cheek. I’m officially crying.
“I should go,” I say, wiping my nose.
“Just think about what I’ve said, OK, Tiffy? And remember how well you stood up to him last night—you’ve come a million miles already. Give yourself credit for that.”
I head back inside, suddenly drained. This last day has been too much. Up and down and up and down … ugh. And the hangover is crushing.
By the time I finally finish checking the proofs of Katherin’s book, I’ve filed the nasty Justin thoughts back into their usual box, and I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve also had three packets of Wotsits, which Rachel suggested as the ultimate hangover cure, and which do appear to have taken me from full-on zombie to semi-sentient. So once I’ve dumped Crochet Your Way on Rachel’s desk, I scuttle back to mine to do what I’ve been itching to do since last night: go back on Leon’s Facebook page.
There he is. He’s smiling at the camera, his arm slung around someone at what looks like a Christmas party—there are twinkly fairy lights hung up behind them, and a room full of heads. I flick through his profile pictures and remember looking at these before. I’d not thought he looked at all attractive—and it’s true that he’s too gangly and long-haired to be my usual type. But clearly he is just one of those people who suddenly becomes fanciable in person.
Maybe it was just the initial shock, and the nakedness. Maybe second time round it’ll all be nice and platonic, and I can forget about it and call Ken the sexy Norwegian hermit. Although I can’t face that, not after the way Justin humiliated me in front of him. Ugh, no, don’t think about Justin—
“Who’s that?” Martin says from behind me. I jump, spilling coffee across my scattering of very urgent Post-it notes.
“Why do you always creep up on me?” I ask, snapping the window closed and dabbing at the coffee with a tissue.
“You’re just jumpy. So who was that?”
“My friend Leon.”
“Friend?”
I roll my eyes. “Since when have you been even slightly interested in my life, Martin?”
He gives me an oddly smug look, like he knows something I don’t, or perhaps is just having some intestinal issues.
“What do you need?” I ask, through gritted teeth.
“Oh, nothing, Tiffy. Don’t let me interrupt you.” And he walks off.
I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Rachel pops her head up over her computer and mouths, “Still can’t believe it! Hard-on!” at me, then does a double thumbs-up. I sink farther in my seat, hangover resettling, and decide that I will absolutely definitely never drink again.
30
LEON
Mam at least provides distraction from painfully awkward memory of this morning.
She’s making astonishing effort. And it seems she was telling the truth about being single—no tell-tale signs of man about house (Richie and I got to be very good at identifying them in childhood) and she’s not changed her hair and clothes since last time I saw her, which means she’s not trying to fit to someone else.
I talk to her about Kay. Feels surprisingly good. She nods in the right places and pats my hand, welling up occasionally, then makes me oven chips with nuggets, which all make me feel ten years old again. Not unpleasant, though. Nice to be looked after.
The strangest part is going back to the bedroom Richie and I shared when we moved to London in our early teens. I’ve only been back here once since the trial. Came to stay for a week after that; didn’t think Mam could cope alone. Wasn’t needed for long, though—she met Mike, who was keen to have the place to themselves, so I moved back to the flat.
The room is unchanged. Has the feeling of a shell missing its sea creature. It’s full of holes where things should be: Blu Tack marks on walls for posters long-since taken down, books tipping at diagonals without enough there to hold them up. Richie’s stuff still boxed up from when his old housemates dropped it round.
It takes enormous mental effort not to riffle through it. Would be unnecessarily upsetting, and he’d hate me doing it.
I lie back on the bed and find my mind drifting back to image of Tiffy—first in that red underwear, then padding into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. Second image feels even more unacceptable, as she didn’t even know I was watching. Fidget, uncomfortable. It’s wrong to be so attracted to her. It’s probably a reaction to Kay breakup.
Phone rings. Rising panic. Check screen: Tiffy.
Don’t want to answer. Phone rings and rings—seems to go on forever.
She hangs up without leaving a message. I feel oddly guilty. Richie told me I had to talk to her. But I prefer option of total radio silence going forward, or, at most, the odd note left on kettle or back of door.
Lie back down. Reflect on this. Wonder if it’s true.
Phone buzzes. A text.
Hey. So. Hmm. I feel like we should chat about this morning? Tiffy x
The memory hits me afresh, and I find myself groaning again. Should definitely reply. Put phone down. Stare at ceiling.
Phone buzzes again.
I should totally have started with an apology. It was me who shouldn’t have been there, according to our flatsharing rules. And th
en I went and accosted you in the shower. So yes, I am very, very sorry! xx
Oddly, I feel a lot better after seeing this text. It doesn’t sound like she was traumatized, and also sounds familiarly Tiffy-ish, so is easier to imagine this text coming from the Tiffy I had in my head before I met the real one. That one was sort of … not irrelevant, exactly, but in the “safe space” in my head. Person for talking to, without pressure or implication. Easy and undemanding.
Now Tiffy is definitely not in safe headspace.
I muster the courage to start a reply.
Don’t apologize. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry—it’s already forgotten.
Delete this last part. Clearly this is not true.
Don’t apologize. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry—am happy to put it behind us if you are. Leon x
Send, then regret the kiss. Do I normally put a kiss? Have no recollection. Scroll back up thread of last few messages and find that I am entirely inconsistent, which is probably best outcome. I settle back on the bed and wait.
And wait.
What is she doing? She normally replies fast. Check the time—eleven at night. Could she have fallen asleep? Did seem like she was out late last night. Finally, though:
Let’s forget all about it! I promise it won’t happen again (the barging in OR the sleeping in, that is). I hope Kay didn’t totally flip out about me breaking the flatshare rules…? And, you know, accosting her boyfriend in the shower … xx
Deep breath.
Kay and I broke up a couple of weeks ago. x
Reply is almost instant.
Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I did think something might be wrong—you were all quiet in your notes (more so than usual, I mean!) How are you holding up?
Think about it. How am I holding up? Am lying in bed in my mother’s flat, fantasizing about naked flatmate, all thoughts of ex-girlfriend briefly but genuinely forgotten. Is probably not entirely healthy, but … better than yesterday? I go for:
Getting there. x
There’s a long pause after this one. Wonder if I should have said a bit more. Not that that’s ever put Tiffy off before.
Well, this might cheer you up: In my hungover state I walked into the printer at work today.
I snort. A beat later, an image of printer appears. It’s enormous. Could probably fit four Tiffys inside it.
Did you not … spot it?
I think I just lost the ability to stop walking at the necessary moment. I had just come off a call with my gorgeous bricklayer-turned-designer, though, so …
Ah. You must’ve still been weak at the knees.
Probably! It’s been that sort of day xx
Stare at this one until phone screen times out. That sort of day. What sort of day? Weak-kneed sort of day? But why—because she …
No, no, won’t be because of me. That’s ridiculous. Except … what did she mean, then?
Hope this isn’t going to be how I am whenever communicating with Tiffy now. Is absolutely exhausting.
31
TIFFY
My dad likes to say, “Life is never simple.” This is one of his favorite aphorisms.
I actually think it’s incorrect. Life is often simple, but you don’t notice how simple it was until it gets incredibly complicated, like how you never feel grateful for being well until you’re ill, or how you never appreciate your tights drawer until you rip a pair and have no spares.
Katherin has just done a guest vlog on Tasha Chai-Latte’s page about crocheting your own bikini. The Internet has gone mental. I can’t keep track of all the influential people who have retweeted her—and because Katherin hates Martin, every time she freaks out or needs help with something, she calls me. I, who know nothing about PR, then have to go to Martin and feed back to Katherin. If this was a divorce and I was their child, social services would be called.
Gerty rings me as I’m leaving work.
“You’ve only just left? Have you asked for a raise yet?” she asks. I check my watch—it’s half seven. How have I been at work for almost twelve hours, and yet achieved so little?
“No time,” I tell her. “And they don’t do raises. They’d probably fire me for asking.”
“Ridiculous.”
“What’s up, anyway?”
“Oh, I just thought you might want to know I’ve got Richie’s appeal moved forward by three months,” Gerty says airily.
I stop dead in my tracks. Someone behind me walks into me and swears (stopping abruptly in central London is a heinous crime, and immediately gives the people around you permission to kick you).
“You took his case?”
“His previous barrister was appalling,” Gerty says. “Really. I’ve half a mind to report him to the bar standards board. We’ll have to find Richie a new solicitor, too, especially since I’ve gone over this one’s head and royally pissed him off, but—”
“You took his case?”
“Keep up, Tiffy.”
“Thank you. So much. God, I…” I can’t stop smiling. “Has Richie told Leon?”
“Richie probably doesn’t know yet,” Gerty says. “I only wrote to him yesterday.”
“Can I tell Leon?”
“That’d save me a job,” Gerty says, “so go for it.”
My phone buzzes almost as soon as I hang up. It’s a text from Leon; my heart does a funny little twisty spasm thing. He’s not messaged me or left me a note since we texted at the weekend.
Heads up: enormous bunch of flowers for you in foyer from your ex. Not sure whether to ruin surprise (good or bad surprise?) but if it was me, would want to be pre-warned x
I stop dead in my tracks again; this time a businessman on a scooter runs over my foot.
I’ve not heard from Justin since Thursday. No call, no text, nothing. I had just about convinced myself that he’d taken what I’d said seriously and wasn’t going to contact me, but I should have known better—that would have been entirely out of character. This, though—this is much more like it.
I don’t want a big bunch of flowers from Justin. I just want him gone—it’s so hard to get on with getting better when he keeps popping up all over the place. As I march up to our building, I press my lips together and prepare myself.
It really is an enormous bunch of flowers. I’d forgotten how rich he is, and how inclined to spend money on ridiculous things. For my birthday dinner last year he bought me an insanely pricey designer gown, all silver silk and sequins; wearing it felt like going out in costume as somebody else.
Stuck in amongst the flowers is a note that reads, To Tiffy—we’ll speak in October. Love, Justin. I lift the bouquet and check underneath it for a proper note, but no. A note would be far too straightforward—a giant, expensive gesture is much more Justin’s style.
This has really annoyed me, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve never told Justin where I live. Or maybe because it’s so flagrantly disregarding what I asked of him on Thursday, and because he’s made my “I need a couple of months” into a “I will speak to you in two months’ time.”
I stuff the flowers into the ornamental plant pot I usually keep my spare wool in. I was waiting for Justin to do this—to turn up with his explanations and his expensive gestures and sweep me off my feet again. But that Facebook message, the engagement … he tipped me over the edge, and now I am in a very different place from the last time he tried to get me back.
I slump down on the sofa and stare at the flowers. I think about what Mo said, and how despite myself I’ve been remembering things. The way Justin used to tell me off for forgetting stuff, how confused it made me feel. The half-excitement, half-anxiety every day when he came home. The reality of how my stomach lurched when he put his hand on my shoulder and snapped at me to go for a drink with him at the pub on Thursday.
That flashback.
God. I don’t want to go back to all that. I’m happier now—I like living here, safely hidden away in thi
s flat which I’ve made my own. In two weeks’ time I’ll be at the end of my lease here—Leon’s not mentioned it, so I’ve not brought it up, either, because I don’t want to move out. I’ve got money, for once, even if most of it is paying off my overdraft. I’ve got a flatmate who I can talk to—who cares if it’s not face-to-face? And I’ve got a home that actually feels like it’s exactly 50 percent mine.
I reach for my phone and reply to Leon.
Bad surprise. Thanks for the heads up. We now have a lot of flowers in the flat xx
He replies almost instantly, which is unusual.
Glad to hear it x
And then, a minute or so later:
About the flowers in the flat, not the surprise, obviously x
I smile.
I have some good news for you xx
Perfect timing—on coffee break. Hit me. x
He doesn’t get it—he thinks this is small good news, like I cooked a crumble or something. I pause, fingers hovering over the keys. This is the perfect thing to cheer me up—and what’s more important, the ins and outs of my old relationship, or the reality of Richie’s case right now?
Can I call you? As in, if I call you, can you pick up? xx
The reply comes more slowly this time.
Sure. x
I’m hit with a very abrupt and intense wave of nerves, and a flashback to Leon, naked, dripping wet, his hair pushed back from his face. I press the call button because there is now no other option but to do it, or to come up with a very weird and elaborate excuse.
“Hey,” he says, his voice a little low, like he’s somewhere he has to be quiet.
“Hi,” I say. We wait. I think about him naked, and then try very hard not to. “How’s the shift?”
“Quiet. Hence the coffee break.”
His accent is almost exactly like Richie’s, and completely unlike anyone else’s. It’s like South London had a fling with Irish. I sit back on the sofa, pulling my knees up and hugging them close.
