The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  Mrs. Wilson: Oh, yeah. Bloke on the far right. His hood is down, and he’s not putting on the walk there, but look at how his shoulder drops with each step of his left foot. Look how he rubs his shoulder—the same gesture as the bloke in the off-license makes before he pulls out the knife.

  Mr. Turner: We are here to examine an appeal against Mr. Twomey’s conviction. What is the relevance of implicating an unidentifiable bystander?

  Judge Whaite: I see your point, Mr. Turner. All right, Ms. Constantine—do you have any further questions which are pertinent to the case at hand?

  Ms. Constantine: None, my lord. I hope perhaps we can return to this discussion at a later date, should this case be reopened.

  Prosecution lawyer, Mr. Turner, scoffs into his hand. Gerty turns a freezing cold glare on him. I remember how Mr. Turner intimidated Richie at the last trial. Called him a thug, a violent-minded criminal, a child who took whatever he wanted. I watch Mr. Turner pale under Gerty’s gaze. To my delight, even robed and wigged, Mr. Turner is not immune to the power of Gerty’s dirty looks.

  I meet Richie’s eye, and, for the first time all day, crack a genuine smile.

  * * *

  Step outside in the break and switch on my phone. My heart’s not exactly beating faster than usual, just beating … louder. Bigger. Everything feels exaggerated: When I buy a coffee, it tastes stronger; when the sky clears the sun is stark and bright. Can’t believe how well it’s going in there. Gerty just doesn’t stop—every single thing she says is so … conclusive. The judges keep nodding. The judge never nodded first-time round.

  I’ve imagined this too many times, and now I’m living it. Feels like I’m inside a daydream.

  A few messages from Tiffy. I go to tap out a brief reply, palms sweaty, almost afraid writing it down and sending will jinx it. Wish I could call her. Instead I check Tasha Chai-Latte’s Facebook page—Tiffy says she’s filming the book launch. There’s already a video on her page with thousands of views; looks like it’s from the launch, judging by the vaulted ceiling in the holding image.

  I watch, settling down on bench outside the court building, ignoring the gaggle of paparazzi waiting there for the chance of shooting someone they might get paid for.

  It’s Katherin’s thank-you speech. I smile as she talks about Tiffy. From what Tiffy says, editors never get much credit, and designers even less—I can see Rachel beaming as she takes the stage with Tiffy.

  Camera jolts. Someone pushing through to the front. As he jumps up onto the stage I realize who it is.

  Sudden awful, guilt-inducing urge to leave courtroom and go to Islington. Sit forward, staring at the tiny video playing out on my screen.

  Video cuts after she’s said yes.

  Surprising how truly terrible it feels. Perhaps you never know how you feel about someone until they agree to marry someone else.

  61

  TIFFY

  Justin pulls me off the stage to the wings. I go with him, because more than anything else I want the noise and the lights and the crowd to go away, but as soon as we’re through the curtain I yank my hand from his grasp. My wrist sings out in pain; he was holding on tight. We’re in a narrow, black-walled space to the side of the stage, which is empty aside from a black-clad man with a walkie-talkie and lots of cables around his feet.

  “Tiffy?” Justin says. The vulnerability in his voice is completely contrived, I can tell.

  “What the fuck do you…” I begin. I’m shaking all over; it’s hard to stand, especially in these high heels. “What was that?”

  “What was what?” He reaches for me again.

  Rachel bursts through the curtain behind us, kicking off her shoes. “Tiff—Tiffy!”

  I twist toward her as she runs into me, letting her hold me tight. Justin looks down at us both, eyes narrowed a little—I can see he’s calculating something behind those eyes, so I turn my head into the thick mass of Rachel’s braids and try very, very hard not to cry.

  “Tiffy?” calls someone else. It’s Mo. I can’t work out where he is.

  “Your friends are here to congratulate you,” Justin says benevolently, but his shoulders are stiff and tensed.

  “Mo?” I call. He appears from behind Justin, through the curtains that separate us from the main backstage area; his jacket is gone and his hair is mussed like he’s been running.

  In a moment, he’s at my side. Behind me I can hear Katherin valiantly trying to bring the subject back to Crochet Your Way on stage.

  Justin watches the three of us. Rachel still has hold of me, and I lean into her as I look up at Justin.

  “You know I didn’t say yes,” I say flatly.

  His eyes widen. “What do you mean?” he says.

  I shake my head. I know what this is—I remember this feeling, the nagging sense of wrongness. “You can’t make me believe something that I know isn’t true.”

  There’s a flicker behind his eyes—maybe he’s thinking, I already have, plenty of times.

  “Not anymore,” I say. “And do you know what it’s called, when you do that? It’s called gaslighting. It’s a form of abuse. Telling me things aren’t the way I can see them.”

  This knocks him. I’m not sure Rachel or Mo will notice it, but I watch him take the hit. The Tiffy he is familiar with would never have used words like “gaslighting” and “abuse.” Seeing him waver sends a rush of fearful excitement through me, like the feeling when you stand close to the edge as the train rushes by.

  “You did say yes,” he says. The light from the stage creeps between the curtain behind us, leaving a long stripe of yellow across the shadowy lines of Justin’s face. “I heard you! And … you do want to marry me, don’t you, Tiffy? We belong together.”

  He tries to reach for my hand. The whole thing is so obviously a performance. I pull back and, quick as a flash, Rachel reaches out and slaps his outstretched hand away from me.

  He doesn’t physically react. When he speaks, his voice is light and wounded. “What was that for?”

  “You don’t touch her,” Rachel spits at him.

  “I think you should leave, Justin,” Mo says.

  “What is this all about, Tiffy?” Justin asks me, voice still gentle. “Are your friends upset with me because we were broken up?” He keeps trying to move closer, just in inches, but Rachel has hold of me tight, and with Mo at my other shoulder, we’re a unit.

  “Can I ask you something?” I say suddenly.

  “Of course,” Justin says.

  The sound guy in black glances at us in irritation. “You’re not meant to stay back here,” he tells us, as the crowd outside bursts into noisy applause.

  I ignore him, my eyes on Justin. “How did you know I’d be here today?”

  “What do you mean? This event was advertised all over the place, Tiffy. I could hardly use the Internet and miss it.”

  “But how did you know I would be here? How did you even know I was working on this book?”

  I know I’m right. I can see it in the shiftiness in his eyes. He eases a finger under his collar.

  “And how did you know I would be at that book launch in Shoreditch? And how did you know I’d be on that cruise ship?”

  He’s unsettled; he scoffs, giving me the first unpleasant, disparaging look of the evening. That’s more like it—that’s the Justin I’ve begun to remember.

  For a moment he’s caught in indecision, and then he opts for an easy smile. “Your mate Martin has been giving me tip-offs,” he says sheepishly, like a naughty boy caught pinching things. Sweet, mischievous, harmless. “He knew how much I care about you, so he’s been helping to get us back together.”

  “You’re joking,” Rachel blurts. I glance at her; her eyes are flashing and she looks more terrifying than I have ever seen her looking before, which is really saying something.

  “How do you even know Martin?” I ask in disbelief.

  “Quiet!” the sound guy hisses. We all ignore him.

  “We met at your wor
k night out, remember?” Justin says. “Is this important? Can’t we go somewhere quieter, just the two of us, Tiffy?”

  I don’t remember the work night out. I missed most of them because Justin never liked going, and didn’t like me going to them without him.

  “I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Justin,” I say, taking a deep, shaky breath. “And I don’t want to marry you. I want you to leave me alone.”

  I have imagined saying this lots and lots of times. I always thought he’d look wounded, perhaps step back in shock or raise a hand to his mouth. I imagined him crying and trying to pull me closer; I’d even been afraid he might try to get hold of me physically, and not let go.

  But he just looks perplexed. Irritated. Maybe a little pissed off, like he’s been terribly misled somehow, and it’s all been rather unfair.

  “You don’t mean that,” he begins.

  “Oh, she does,” says Mo. His voice is pleasant, but very firm.

  “She really, really does,” Rachel adds.

  “No,” Justin says, shaking his head. “You’re not giving us a chance.”

  “A chance?” I almost laugh. “I went back to you over and over. You’ve had more chances than I can count. I don’t want to see you. Ever again.”

  He frowns. “You said in that bar in Shoreditch that we could talk in a couple of months. I stuck to your rules,” he says, stretching his arms out. “It’s October, isn’t it?”

  “A lot can change in a couple of months. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of … remembering.”

  There it is again—a flicker of almost fear behind his eyes. He reaches for me one last time, and this time Rachel slaps him across the face.

  “Couldn’t have put it better myself,” Mo mutters, and he pulls the two of us farther back into the mess of cables and darkness as Justin stumbles backward, eyes wide with shock.

  “You. Out,” the irate sound guy says firmly to Justin, clearly identifying him as the root cause of all the noise. He steps forward, forcing Justin farther back.

  Steadying himself, Justin holds out a warning hand to the sound guy. He glances over his shoulder to find the exit and then turns back to find my gaze.

  For a moment I lose the sense of Mo and Rachel beside me and the sound guy in here with us. It’s just me and Justin’s broad, tuxedoed body in this cramped, dark space, and I feel desperate, like I’m running out of air. It’s only a second or two but it’s somehow worse than everything that’s just happened put together.

  Then Justin backs out between the curtains into the backstage area, with a rush of noise, and I melt shakily into Rachel and Mo. He’s gone. It’s over. But he’s left that desperate breathlessness behind him, and as I grasp at Rachel and Mo’s arms with clammy fingers I feel a sudden, sickening fear that I won’t ever be able to shake him, no matter how many times I see him walk away.

  62

  LEON

  Can’t think. Can’t anything. Somehow find my feet and get back to the courtroom, but the daydream feeling has morphed into an aura of unreality around everything. Mechanically, I smile at Richie. Notice how bright his eyes are, how hopeful he looks. Fail to feel anything.

  It’s probably the shock. I’ll recover shortly and get my head back into the hearing. I can’t believe anything has managed to distract me from this. Feel suddenly furious with Tiffy, choosing today of all days to dump me and go back to Justin, and can’t help but think of Mam, how she’d always go back to those men no matter what Richie and I said.

  Some part of my brain reminds me Mam didn’t want to be with those men. She just didn’t think she was allowed to be anywhere else. She didn’t think she meant anything if she was on her own.

  But Tiffy wasn’t on her own. She had Mo, Gerty, Rachel. Me.

  Richie. Think of Richie. Richie needs me here, and there’s no fucking way I’m losing him again. Too.

  Gerty is summing up. Just about manage to listen—she’s so good you can’t help but follow her argument. Then, with peculiar lack of fanfare, it’s over. We all stand. Judges leave. Richie is taken back to wherever it was he was brought from, with a wistful backward glance. We walk through the court building in silence, Gerty tapping away at her phone, Mam cracking her knuckles incessantly.

  Mam looks sideways at me as we reach the entranceway.

  Mam: Lee? What’s wrong?

  Then Gerty gives a little gasp. Hand to mouth. Glance over, dull-eyed, and notice that she is watching the video play out on Facebook.

  Gerty: Oh my god.

  Mam, on alert: What’s happened?

  Me: Tiffy.

  Mam: Your girlfriend? What’s she done?

  Gerty: She wouldn’t.

  Me: She would. You know people do. Go back. It’s hard to leave what you’ve known. Not her fault. But you know people do.

  Gerty’s silence says enough. Suddenly more than anything I need to get away from here.

  Me: We won’t get a verdict over the weekend, will we?

  Gerty: No, it’ll be next week. I’ll call when—

  Me: Thanks.

  And I’m gone.

  * * *

  Walk and walk. Can’t cry, am just dry-throated and aching-eyed. I’m sure that some of this is fear about Richie, but all I can think about is Justin, arms out, yelling “she said yes” to the whooping crowd.

  Play out every scene. The endless notes, Brighton, the night eating rocky road together on the sofa, the trip to Holly’s party, kissing against the Aga. My gut twists at the memory of how her body would go cold when she thought of him, but then I harden myself. Don’t want to feel sorry for her. For now, just want to feel betrayed.

  Can’t help it, though. Can’t stop thinking of the way her knees would shake.

  Ah, there we go. There’s the tears. Knew they’d turn up eventually.

  63

  TIFFY

  The smell of lilies is suffocating. Mo’s holding the bouquet beside me as we huddle there in the darkness, the blooms pressing close to my dress, staining the fabric with pollen. As I look down at the marks on the silk, I notice I’m shaking so much the full skirt of my dress is quivering.

  I don’t remember exactly what Justin said as he left. In fact, I already feel like I don’t remember a lot of the conversation that just happened. Perhaps it was all a surreal daydream, and I’m actually still standing out there in the crowd, wondering if Katherin will mention me in her thank-you speech, and whether those little roll things on that canapé tray are duck or chicken.

  “What … what if he’s still right there?” I whisper to Rachel, pointing toward the black curtains Justin left through.

  “Mo, hold this,” Rachel says. I think “this” is referring to me. She disappears through to the backstage area while on stage Katherin says goodbye to the audience to resounding applause.

  Mo dutifully holds my elbow. “You’re OK,” he whispers. He doesn’t say anything else, he just does one of those hug-like sort of silences that I love so much. In the world on the other side of these dark curtains the crowd is still clapping; muffled, here, the sound is like heavy rain on tarmac.

  “You really can’t be back here,” the sound guy insists in exasperation as Rachel re-enters. He takes a step backward when she turns to look at him. I don’t blame him. Rachel has her battle face on, and she looks bloody terrifying.

  Rachel sweeps past him without answering, lifting her skirts to step over the cables. “No crazy ex in sight,” she tells me, returning to my side.

  Katherin bundles in suddenly from the stage; she almost walks into Mo.

  “Gosh,” she says, “that was all rather dramatic, wasn’t it?” She pats me in a motherly sort of way. “Are you all right? I’m assuming that fellow was…”

  “Tiffy’s stalker ex-boyfriend,” Rachel supplies. “And speaking of stalking—I think we need to have a few words with Martin…”

  “Not now,” I beg, grabbing hold of Rachel’s arm. “Just stay with me for a minute, all right?”

  H
er face softens. “Fine. Permission to hang him by the testicles at some later time?”

  “Granted. Also, ew.”

  “I can’t believe he’s been telling that … that scumbag where you are all the time. You should press charges, Tiffy.”

  “You should certainly file for a restraining order,” Mo says quietly.

  “Against Martin? Might make work awkward,” I say weakly.

  Mo just looks at me. “You know who I meant.”

  “Can we leave this … dark … curtain-room now?” I ask.

  “Good idea,” says Katherin. Discreetly, out of Rachel’s sight, the sound guy nods and rolls his eyes. “I’d better go and mingle, but why don’t you lot take my limo?”

  “I beg your pardon?” Rachel says, staring at her.

  Katherin looks sheepish. “It wasn’t my idea. The Butterfingers PR team got it for me. It’s just sat outside. You can take it, I can’t be seen dead getting driven around in one of those, they’d never let me back into the Old Socialists’ Club.”

  “Thanks,” Mo says, and I briefly surface from the fog of panic to marvel at the thought that the head of PR voluntarily shelled out for a limousine. She is infamously tight on budget.

  “So now we just need to get out. Through the crowd,” Rachel says, her mouth set in a grim line.

  “First, though, you need to call the police and report Justin for harassment,” Mo tells me. “And you need to tell them everything. All the other times, the flowers, Martin…”

  I let out a half groan, half whimper. Mo rubs my back.

  “Tiffy, do it,” Rachel says, handing me her phone.

  * * *

  I move through the throng like I’m somebody else. People keep patting me on the back and smiling and calling to me. At first I try to tell everyone in turn—“I didn’t say yes, I’m not getting married, he’s not my boyfriend”—but either they can’t or they don’t want to hear me, so as we get closer to the door I stop trying.