The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  Katherin’s limo is parked around the corner. It’s not just a limo—it’s a stretch limo. This is ridiculous. The head of PR must be about to ask Katherin to do something very important for very little money.

  “Hi, excuse me?” Rachel says to the limo driver through the window, in her best sweet-talking-the-barman voice. “Katherin said we can have this limo.”

  A lengthy conversation ensues. As probably should be the case, the limo driver is not about to just take our word for it that Katherin has let us take the car. After a brief phone call to Katherin herself, and the return of Rachel’s battle face, we’re in—thank god. I’m shivering like crazy, even with Mo’s jacket over my shoulders.

  Inside is even more ridiculous than outside. There are long sofas, a small bar, two television screens, and a sound system.

  “Fucking hell,” Rachel says. “This is absurd. You’d think they could pay me more than minimum wage, wouldn’t you?”

  We sit in silence for a while as the driver pulls away.

  “Well,” Rachel goes on, “I think we can all agree today has taken an unexpected turn.”

  For some reason that tips me over the edge. I cry into my hands, leaning my head back onto the plush gray upholstery and letting the sobs rack my body like I’m a little kid. Mo gives my arm a compassionate squeeze.

  There’s a buzzing noise.

  “Everyone all right back there?” calls the driver. “Sounds like someone’s having an asthma attack!”

  “Everything’s fine!” Rachel calls, as I wail and wheeze, struggling to breathe through the tears. “My friend has just been cornered by her crazy ex-boyfriend in front of a crowd of a thousand people and manipulated into looking like she would marry him, and now she is having a perfectly natural reaction.”

  There’s a pause. “Crikey,” says the driver. “Tissues are under the bar.”

  * * *

  When I get home I call Leon, but he doesn’t pick up. Beneath all the roaring, blinding craziness of the day, I’m desperate to know more than he gave me in the last text: Things going well at court. How well? Is it over? When will Richie get a verdict?

  I so badly want to speak to him. Specifically, I want to cuddle up against his shoulder and breathe in his gorgeous Leon smell and let him stroke the small of my back the way he does and then speak to him.

  I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Justin. The fact that he put me in that position, in front of all those people … What did he think, that I’d just go along with it because it was what he wanted me to do?

  Maybe I would have once, actually. God, that’s sickening.

  The fact that he reached out to Martin to keep track of me takes the whole thing to a new level of disturbing—all those strange meetings that he made me feel crazy for thinking were anything other than coincidental. All carefully planned and calculated. But what was the point? If he wanted me, he had me. I was his—I would have done anything for him. Why did he push me so far, then keep trying to get me to come back? It’s just … so bizarre. So unnecessarily painful.

  Rachel couldn’t come back to my flat with us—she’s babysitting her niece tonight, going from looking after one crying snotty mess to another—but Mo has promised me he’ll stay with me, which is so lovely of him. I feel a bit guilty, because the truth is, right now it’s Leon I want.

  It almost surprises me how clear that thought is. I want Leon. I need him here with me, nervously fidgeting and lopsidedly smiling and effortlessly making everything feel brighter. After the madness of today, it strikes me with new force that if nice-scary is sometimes scary-scary as I learn to do this whole relationship thing again, so bloody what? If I give in to that fear, if I let it hold me back with Leon, then Justin really does win.

  And Leon is so worth a bit of fear. He’s so worth it. I reach for my phone and call him again.

  64

  LEON

  Three missed calls from Tiffy.

  Can’t talk to her. Don’t want to hear her explain herself. I’m still walking, god knows where—maybe round in circles. I do seem to be seeing a lot of very similar Starbucks. It’s all poky and Dickensian, this part of London. Cobbles and pollution-stained brick, tiny narrow strips of sky overhead between grimy windows. You don’t have to walk far to end up in the shiny, pale blue world of the City, though. Turn a corner and find I’m face to face with myself, mirrored in the glass headquarters of some accountancy firm.

  I look terrible. Exhausted and crumpled in this suit—suits have never looked good on me. I should have tried harder to smarten up; might have reflected badly on Richie. Already got Mam to contend with, whose idea of smart is slightly higher heeled knee-high boots.

  I pause, surprised by the viciousness of that thought. Cruel and judgmental. I don’t like that my head could come up with it. I’ve come a long way to forgiving Mam—or I thought I had. But right now the very thought of her makes me angry.

  I’m just an angry man today. Angry that I would settle for being happy just to have judges listening to my brother’s case, when he should never have been led in there by a prison officer in the first place. Angry that I was caught up worrying about showing Tiffy how I feel, and didn’t do it in time, and got outdone by a man who gives her nightmares, but certainly knows his way round a big romantic gesture. Nobody doubts how Justin feels now. No danger of that.

  I’d really thought she wouldn’t go back to him. But then, you always think that, and they always do.

  Look down at my phone: Tiffy’s name on my screen. She’s texted me. I can’t bear to open it, but can’t handle the temptation, so I turn my phone off.

  I think about going home, but home is full of Tiffy’s belongings. The smell of her, the clothes I’ve seen her in, the negative space around her. And eventually she’ll come back from the launch—the flat’s hers for tonight and the weekend. So that’s out. Can sleep at Mam’s, obviously, but oddly seem to be just as furious with her as with Tiffy. Besides, can’t stand the thought of sleeping in mine and Richie’s old room tonight. Can’t be where Tiffy is, can’t be where Richie isn’t.

  I have nowhere to go. Nowhere’s home. Just keep walking.

  This flatshare. I wish I’d never done it. Wish I’d never opened my life up like that and let someone else walk in and fill it up. I was doing fine—safe, managing. Now my flat’s not mine, it’s ours, and when she’s gone all I will see is the absence of rocky road and books about bricklayers and that bloody stupid paisley beanbag. It’ll be another room full of what’s missing. Just what I didn’t want.

  Maybe I can still save her from a life with him. Yes to a proposal doesn’t mean they’ll definitely get married, and she could hardly say no, could she, with all those people staring. I feel a dangerous surge of hope, and do my best to quash it. Remind myself that there is no saving of people—people can only save themselves. The best you can do is help when they’re ready.

  Should eat. Can’t remember when I last did. The night before? Already seems like forever ago. Now that I’ve realized I’m hungry, my stomach growls.

  Swing into Starbucks. Walk past two girls watching Tasha Chai-Latte video of Justin proposing to Tiffy. Drink tea with lots of milk in it, eat some sort of overpriced toastie with lots of butter in it, and stare at the wall.

  I realize, when barista clearing the table gives me curious, pitying look, that I am crying again. Can’t seem to stop, so I don’t make myself. Eventually, though, people are noticing, and I want to be moving again, alone.

  More walking. These smart shoes are rubbing raw at the skin of my heel. Think longingly of the worn-in shoes I wear at work, the easy way they fit, and within fifteen minutes or so it’s clear I’m not just walking now, I’m walking somewhere. There’s always room for another nurse in the hospice.

  65

  TIFFY

  Gerty’s calling. I pick up, hardly thinking about it—it’s reflex.

  “Hello?” My voice sounds strangely flat, even to me.

  “What the fuck is
wrong with you, Tiffany? What the fuck is wrong with you?”

  The shock makes me cry again.

  “Give me that,” Mo says. I look up at him as he takes the phone off me, and breathe in sharply when I see his expression. He looks really angry. Mo never looks angry. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” he says into the phone. “Oh, yeah? You watched a video, did you? And it didn’t occur to you to ask Tiffy what happened? To give your best friend the benefit of the doubt before you scream down the phone at her?”

  My eyes widen. A video? Shit. What video?

  And then it dawns on me. Tasha Chai-Latte, filming the whole thing. Martin organized that, presumably, which means Justin would have known about it. No wonder he was so keen to make sure everyone caught my “reply” to his big question—he needed it for the camera.

  Martin also saw me and Leon together in the castle in Wales, right after Justin had had his suspicions raised when he’d dropped round to my flat and found Leon in his towel.

  “Mo,” I say urgently. “Ask Gerty where Leon is.”

  * * *

  “Call him again.”

  “Tiff, his phone is still off,” Mo says gently.

  “Again!” I say, pacing back and forth from the sofa to the kitchen. My heart is beating so hard it feels like there’s something trying to work its way out between my ribs. I can’t bear the thought of him seeing that video and thinking that I’m engaged to Justin. I can’t bear it.

  “His phone is still off,” Mo says, my mobile to his ear.

  “Try calling from yours. Maybe he’s screening my calls. He probably hates me.”

  “He won’t hate you,” Mo says.

  “Gerty did.”

  Mo narrows his eyes. “Gerty has a tendency to be judgmental. She’s working on it.”

  “Well, Leon doesn’t know me well enough to know I’d never do this to him,” I say, twisting my hands together. “He knows I was really hung up on Justin, he probably just thinks—oh, god.” I’m choking up.

  “Whatever he thinks, it’s fixable,” Mo assures me. “We just need to wait until he’s ready to talk. He’s had a tough day, too, going to court with Richie.”

  “I know!” I snap at Mo. “I know! You think I don’t know how important today was for him?”

  Mo doesn’t say anything. I wipe my face.

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t snap at you. You’ve been so great. I’m just angry with myself.”

  “Why?” Mo asks.

  “Because … I bloody well dated him, didn’t I?”

  “Justin?”

  “I’m not saying what happened today was my fault, I know it doesn’t work that way, but I can’t help but think—if he’d not got to me, if I’d been stronger … we’d never have ended up here. I mean, bloody hell. None of your ex-girlfriends try to make you marry them and then use that to break up your current relationship, do they? Not that you have a current relationship, but you know what I mean.”

  “Um,” Mo says.

  I look up at him, wiping my eyes again. I’m doing the kind of crying that means your eyes never really get dry, they’re just leaking nonstop.

  “Don’t tell me. You and Gerty.”

  “You guessed?” Mo says, looking uncomfortable.

  “Rachel did. Her radar is much better than Gerty’s, though don’t tell—actually, do tell her, who cares about hurting Gerty’s feelings?” I say savagely.

  “She’s calling now,” Mo says, holding out my phone to me.

  “I don’t want to speak to her.”

  “Shall I answer?”

  “Do what you like. She’s your girlfriend.”

  Mo gives me a long look as I sit down on the sofa again with shaking legs. I’m being childish, obviously, but Mo getting together with Gerty at this particular moment feels like he’s siding with her. I want Mo on my side. I want to scream at Gerty. She had the chance to tell Leon I would never do something like that to him, that he should check in with me before believing anything, and she didn’t.

  “She can’t find Leon,” Mo tells me after a moment. “She really wants to speak to you, Tiffy. She wants to apologize.”

  I shake my head. I’m not ready to be done feeling angry just because she wants to apologize.

  “She’s argued for a legal call with Richie when he gets to the prison,” Mo says, after a pause to listen. I can hear Gerty’s voice on the other end of the phone, tinny and panicked. “She says she’ll tell him what really happened, so he can use his phone call to try Leon on his mobile—you can call any number on your first-night call. He probably won’t be in and processed until late, maybe even tomorrow morning, but it’s still our best hope of getting the message out to Leon if he doesn’t come home.”

  “Tomorrow morning?” It’s only late afternoon.

  Mo looks pained. “I think it’s our best option for now.”

  It’s ridiculous, really, that a man in prison with only one phone call is a best option for getting hold of someone.

  “Leon’s phone is off,” I say dully. “He won’t answer.”

  “He’ll see sense and turn it back on, Tiffy,” Mo says, phone still at his ear. “He won’t want to miss a call from Richie.”

  * * *

  I sit out on the balcony, curled under two blankets. One of them is the Brixton throw that usually lives across our bed—the one Leon tucked me up under that night Justin came round to the flat and threatened him.

  I know Leon thinks I’ve gone back to Justin. I’ve gone through desperate panic and now I’m thinking that he should have more fucking faith in me.

  Not that I’ve earned it, I suppose. I did go back to Justin, lots of times—I’ve told Leon that. But … I would never have started seeing Leon if I didn’t feel this time was different—if I wasn’t really ready to leave that part of my life behind me. I was trying so hard. All that time dredging up the worst memories, the endless conversations with Mo, the counseling. I was trying. But I guess Leon thought I was just too broken to fix myself.

  Gerty rings me every ten minutes or so; I still haven’t picked up. Gerty has known me for eight years. If I’m angry with Leon for not having faith in me, and he’s known me for less than a year, I am at least eight times angrier with Gerty.

  I pick at the sad, yellowing leaves on our one balcony potted plant and very pointedly do not think about the fact that Justin knows where I live. Somehow. Probably Martin—my address is pretty easy to get if you have access to my desk and the pay slips that HR drop round.

  Fucking hell. I knew I didn’t like that man for a reason.

  I look down at my phone as it vibrates round and round on our little, rickety outdoor table. The table’s surface is covered in bird poo and that thick, sticky dust-grime that covers everything left outdoors for any length of time in London. Gerty’s name lights up my phone screen, and with a flash of anger I pick up this time.

  “What?” I say.

  “I am awful,” Gerty says, talking very fast. “I can’t believe myself. I should never have assumed that you would go back to Justin. I am so, so sorry.”

  I pause, taken aback. Gerty and I have fought plenty of times, but she’s never said sorry right away like that, unprompted.

  “I should have believed you could do it. I do believe you can.”

  “Do what?” I ask, before I can think of a better, angrier response.

  “Get away from Justin.”

  “Oh. That.”

  “Tiffy, are you all right?” Gerty says.

  “Well. Not really,” I say, feeling my bottom lip quivering. I bite down on it hard. “I don’t suppose…”

  “Richie’s not called yet. You know what these things are like, Tiffy, it could be midnight before they even move him from the holding cell to Wandsworth. And the prison’s pretty shambolic so I don’t want to get your hopes up that they’ll even give him his phone call, let alone the legal call I made them promise me. But if I speak to him I’ll tell him everything. I’ll ask him to speak to Leon.”r />
  I check the time on the screen: It’s eight p.m. now, and I cannot believe how nightmarishly slowly time is passing.

  “I am really, really angry with you,” I tell Gerty, because I know I don’t sound it. I just sound sad, and tired, and like I want my best friend.

  “Absolutely. Me too. Furious. I’m the worst. And Mo isn’t talking to me either, if that helps.”

  “That doesn’t help,” I say reluctantly. “I don’t want you to be a pariah.”

  “A what? Is that some kind of dessert?”

  “Pariah. Persona non-grata. Outcast.”

  “Oh, don’t worry, I’m resigned to a life of disgrace. It’s all I deserve.”

  We sit in companionable silence for a while. I reach around inside to find that enormous pool of Gerty-fueled rage again, but it seems to have evaporated.

  “I really hate Justin,” I say miserably. “You know I think he did this mostly to break up me and Leon? I don’t think he would have even married me. He would have just left me again, once he was sure he’d got me back.”

  “The man needs castrating,” Gerty says firmly. “He’s done you nothing but harm. I have actively wished him dead on several occasions.”

  “Gerty!”

  “You didn’t have to sit back and watch it happening,” she says. “Watch him cleaning all the Tiffany-ness out of you. It was sick.”

  I fiddle with the Brixton blanket.

  “All this mess has made me realize … I really like Leon, Gerty. Really like him.” I sniff, wiping my eyes. “I wish he had at least asked me whether I actually said yes. And … and … even if I had … I wish that he hadn’t just given up.”

  “It’s been half a day. He’s in shock, and drained after the session in court. He’s built this day up in his head for months. Justin, as ever, has impeccably dreadful timing. Give it a little time and I hope you’ll find Leon un-gives up again.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

  “Have faith, Tiffy. After all, isn’t that what you’re asking from him?”