by Beth O'Leary
Holly: Why didn’t you answer? Isn’t that rude? What if it was your girlfriend with the short hair?
Dr. Patel: What’s rude is leaving your mobile on loud during a ward round. Though I’m surprised whoever-it-was even tried ringing him at this hour.
A glance at me, half irritable, half amused.
Dr. Patel: You may have noticed that Leon is not a big talker, Holly.
Leans in, conspiratorial.
Dr. Patel: One of the registrars has a theory. He says that Leon has a limited number of words to use each shift, and when it gets to this time of day, he’s entirely run out.
Don’t grace this with a response.
Speaking of girlfriend with short hair: haven’t told Kay about the room thing yet. Not had time. Also, am avoiding inevitable conflict. But really must call her later this morning.
Tonight was good. Mr. Prior’s pain lessened enough that he could start telling me about the man he fell in love with in the trenches: a dark-haired charmer called Johnny White, with the chiseled jaw of a Hollywood star and a twinkle in his eye. They had one fraught, romantic, war-torn summer, then were split up. Johnny White was taken to hospital for shellshock. They never saw each other again. Mr. Prior could’ve got in lots of trouble (homosexuality vexing to military sorts).
I was tired, coffee buzz dying, but stayed with Mr. Prior after handover. The man never gets visitors and loves to talk when he can. Failed to escape conversation without a scarf (my fourteenth from Mr. Prior). Can only say no a certain number of times, and Mr. Prior knits so fast I wonder why anyone bothered with the Industrial Revolution. Pretty sure he’s faster than a machine.
* * *
Listen to voicemail after eating dangerously re-reheated chicken stir-fry in front of last week’s Masterchef.
Voicemail: Hi, is that L. Twomey? Oh, shite, you can’t answer—I always do this on voicemails. OK, I’m just going to proceed on the assumption that you’re L. Twomey. My name’s Tiffy Moore and I’m ringing about the Gumtree ad, about a room? Look, my friends think it’s weird that we’d be sharing a bed, even though it’d be at different times, but it doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you, and to be honest I’d do pretty much anything for a central London flat I can move into right away at that price. [Pause] Oh, god, not anything. There’s loads of things I wouldn’t do. I’m not like … No, Martin, not now, can’t you see I’m on the phone?
Who is Martin? A child? Does this rambly woman with Essex accent want to bring a child into my flat?
Voicemail continues: Sorry, that’s my colleague, he wants me to go on a cruise with a middle-aged lady to talk to pensioners about crochet.
Not the explanation I was expecting. Better, definitely, but begs many questions.
Voicemail continues: Look, just call me back or text me if the room’s still available? I’m super tidy, I’ll keep right out of your way and I’m still in the habit of cooking double quantities of my dinner so if you like home-cooked food I can leave leftovers.
She reads out her number. Just in time, I remember to jot it down.
Woman is annoying, definitely. And is female, which may vex Kay. But only two other people have called: One asked if I had a problem with pet hedgehogs (answer: not unless they are living in my flat) and other was definitely a drug dealer (not being judgmental—was offered drugs during call). I need £350 extra a month if I’m going to keep paying Sal without Kay’s help. This is the only available plan. Plus, will never actually see annoying woman. Will only ever be in when annoying woman is out.
I text her.
Hi there, Tiffy. Thanks for your voicemail. Would be great to meet you and talk about the arrangement for my flat. How is Saturday morning? Cheers, Leon Twomey.
Nice, normal-person message. Resist all urges to ask about Martin’s cruise-ship plan, though find myself curious.
She replies almost instantly.
Hi! Sounds great. 10am at the flat itself, then? x
Let’s make it 9am, or I’ll fall asleep! See you then. Address is on the ad. Cheers, Leon.
There. Done. Easy: £350 a month, almost in the bag already.
Now to tell Kay.
3
TIFFY
So, naturally I get curious and google him. Leon Twomey is a pretty unusual name, and I find him on Facebook without having to employ the creepy stalker techniques I reserve for new writers I’m trying to poach from other publishing houses.
It’s a relief to see that he’s not my type at all, which will definitely simplify things—if Justin did ever meet Leon, for instance, I don’t think he’d see him as a threat. He’s got light brown skin and thick, curly hair long enough to be pushed back behind his ears, and he’s way too gangly for me. All elbows and neck, you know the type. He looks like a nice guy, though—in every photo he’s doing this sweet lopsided smile that doesn’t seem at all creepy or murderous, though actually if you look at a picture with that idea in mind everyone starts to look like an axe-wielding killer, so I try to put the thought out of my head. He looks friendly and nonthreatening. These are good things.
However, I do now know unequivocally that he is a man.
Am I actually willing to share a bed with a man? Even sharing a bed with Justin was a bit horrible sometimes, and we were in a relationship. His side of the mattress sagged in the middle and he didn’t always shower in between getting home from the gym and going to bed, so there was a sort of … sweaty smell to his bit of the duvet. I always had to make extra sure it was the same way up so I didn’t get the sweaty side.
But still. £350 per month. And he would never actually be there.
“Tiffany!”
My head shoots up. Crap, that’s Rachel, and I know what she wants. She wants the manuscript for this bloody Pat-a-Cake Bake and Make book that I’ve been ignoring all day.
“Don’t try sneaking off to the kitchen or pretending to be on the phone,” she says, from over my wall of potted plants. This is the trouble with having friends at work: You drunkenly tell them your tricks when the two of you go to the pub, and then you’re defenseless.
“You’ve had your hair done!” I say. It’s a desperate ploy to redirect the conversation early, but her hair is especially cool today. It’s in braids, as always, but this time the tiny plaits have bright turquoise ribbon laced between them like corset strings. “How do you braid it like that?”
“Don’t try to distract me with my specialist subject, Tiffany Moore,” Rachel says, tapping her perfectly polka-dotted nails. “When am I getting that manuscript?”
“I just need … a little longer…” I put my hand over the papers in front of me so she can’t see the page numbers, which are in the single digits.
She narrows her eyes. “Thursday?”
I nod eagerly. Yeah, why not? I mean, that’s totally unachievable at this point, but Friday sounds a lot better when you’re saying it on Thursday, so I’ll just tell her then.
“And go for a drink with me tomorrow night?”
I pause. I was meant to be good and not spend any money this week, on account of the looming debt, but nights out with Rachel are always brilliant, and frankly I could really do with having some fun. Besides, she won’t be able to argue with me about this manuscript on Thursday if she’s hungover.
“Done.”
* * *
Drunk Man No. 1 is the expressive kind. The sort of drunk who likes to throw his arms out wide regardless of what might be directly to his left or right (so far, that’s included one large fake palm tree, one tray of sambuca shots, and one relatively famous Ukrainian model). Every movement is exaggerated, even the basic walking steps—you know, left foot out in front, right foot out, repeat. Drunk Man No. 1 makes walking look like the hokeypokey.
Drunk Man No. 2 is the deceitful sort. He keeps his face very still when he’s listening to you, as though the absence of expression will make it clear how very sober he is. He nods occasionally, and fairly convincingly, but doesn’t quite blink enough. His attempts
to stare at your boobs are much less subtle than he thinks they are.
I wonder what they think of me and Rachel. They headed straight for us, but that’s not conclusively positive. Back when I was with Justin, if I was going out clubbing with Rachel he would always remind me that lots of men see “quirky girl” and think “desperate and easy.” He’s right, as per usual. I actually wonder if it’s easier to get laid as a quirky girl than a perky cheerleader type: You’re more approachable, and nobody assumes you’ve already got a boyfriend. Which is probably another reason Justin wasn’t a fan of my nights out with Rachel, on reflection.
“So, like, books about how to make cakes?” says Drunk Man No. 2, thus proving his listening skills and aforementioned sobriety. (Honestly. What’s the point in having sambuca shots if you’re just going to pretend you haven’t been drinking all night?)
“Yeah!” Rachel says. “Or build shelves or make clothes or … or … what do you like to do?”
She is drunk enough to find Drunk Man No. 2 attractive, but I suspect she’s just trying to keep him busy to open the floor for me to jump Drunk Man No. 1. Of the two, Drunk Man No. 1 is clearly preferable—he is tall enough, for starters. This is the first challenge. I’m six foot, and though I have no problem with dating shorter men, it often seems to bother guys if I’m more than an inch or two taller than them. That’s fine by me—I’ve no interest in the ones who care about that sort of thing. It’s a useful filter.
“What do I like to do?” repeats Drunk Man No. 2. “I like to dance with beautiful women at bars with bad names and overpriced drinks.” He flashes a sudden grin, which, though a little more sluggish and wonky than it’s probably intended to be, is actually quite attractive.
I can see Rachel is thinking the same. She shoots me a calculating look—not so drunk as all that, then—and I can see her evaluating the situation between me and Drunk Man No. 1.
I look at Drunk Man No. 1, too, and do some evaluating of my own. He’s tall, with nice broad shoulders and hair that’s graying at the temples in a way that’s actually quite sexy. He’s probably mid-thirties—he could be a little 1990s Clooney-ish if you squinted a bit or dimmed the lights.
Do I fancy him? If I do, I could sleep with him. You can do that when you’re single.
Weird.
I’ve not thought about sleeping with anyone since Justin. You get tons of time back when you’re single and not having sex—not just the actual time doing it, but the time shaving legs, buying nice underwear, wondering whether all other women get bikini waxes, etc. It’s a real plus. Of course, there’s the overwhelming absence of one of the greatest aspects of your adult life, but you do get much more admin done.
Obviously I know that we broke up three months ago. I know that in theory I can have sex with other people. But … I can’t help thinking about what Justin would say. How angry he’d be. I may be technically allowed, but I’m not … you know. Allowed, allowed. Not in my head, not yet.
Rachel gets it. “Sorry, mate,” she says, patting Drunk Man No. 2 on the arm. “I like to dance with my friend.” She scribbles her number on a napkin—god knows where she got that pen from, the woman’s a magician—and then my hand is in hers and we’re winding our way into the center of the dance floor, where the music hits my skull from both sides, sending my eardrums shivering.
“What kind of drunk are you?” Rachel asks, as we grind inappropriately to classic Destiny’s Child.
“I’m a bit … thoughtful,” I shout at her. “Too analytical to sleep with that nice man.”
She reaches for a drink from the tray of one of those shot ladies who wanders round asking you to overpay for things, and hands the woman some cash.
“‘Not enough’ sort of drunk, then,” she says, giving me the drink. “You may be an editor but no drunk girl trots out the word ‘analytical.’”
“Assistant editor,” I remind her, and knock back the drink. Jägerbomb. It’s strange how something so fundamentally disgusting, whose very aftertaste makes you want to vomit the next day, can taste delicious on a dance floor.
Rachel plies me with drink all night and flirts with every wingman in sight, chucking all attractive men in my direction. Whatever she says, I am plenty tipsy enough, so I don’t think much of it—she’s just being an excellent friend. The night spins by in a mass of dancers and brightly colored drinks.
It is only when Mo and Gerty arrive that I start to wonder what this night out is all about.
Mo has the look of a man who was summoned on short notice. His beard is a little skewwhiff, like he slept on it funny, and he’s in a worn-out T-shirt I think I remember from uni—though it’s a little tighter on him now. Gerty looks haughtily beautiful, as usual, with no makeup on and her hair yanked up in a ballerina topknot; it’s hard to tell if she was planning to come because she never wears makeup and dresses impeccably all the time anyway. She could well have just pulled on a slightly higher pair of heels to go with her skinny jeans last minute.
They’re making their way across the dance floor. My suspicion that Mo was not planning to be here is confirmed—he’s not dancing. Take Mo to a club and there will always be dancing. So why have they turned up on my random Wednesday night out with Rachel? They don’t even know her that well—only through the odd birthday drinks or housewarming parties. In fact, Gerty and Rachel have a low-level alpha-wolf feud going on, and when we do all get together they usually end up bickering.
Is it my birthday? I drunkenly wonder. Do I have exciting surprise news?
I turn to Rachel. “Wha…?”
“Table,” she says, pointing at the booths at the back of the club.
Gerty does a relatively good job of hiding her irritation at being redirected just when she’s battled her way through to the center of the dance floor.
I’m getting bad vibes. I’m just at the happiest point of drunk, though, so I’m willing to suspend worried thoughts in the hope that they’re coming to tell me that I’ve won a four-week holiday to New Zealand or something.
But no.
“Tiffy, I didn’t know how to tell you this,” Rachel is saying, “so this was the best plan I could come up with. Get you happy drunk, remind you what flirting feels like, then call your support team.” She reaches to take both my hands. “Tiffy. Justin is engaged.”
4
LEON
Conversation re: flat not at all as predicted. Kay was unusually angry. Seemed upset at idea of someone else sleeping in my bed besides her? But she never comes round. Hates the dark green walls and elderly neighbors—is part of her “you spend too much time with old people” thing. We’re always at hers (light-gray walls, cool young neighbors).
Argument ends at weary impasse. She wants me to pull down ad and cancel Essex woman; I’m not changing my mind. It’s the best idea for getting easy cash every month that I’ve thought of, bar lottery winning, which cannot be factored in to financial planning. Do not want to go back to borrowing that £350. Kay was the one who said it: It wasn’t good for our relationship.
She’s come that far, so. She’ll come around.
* * *
Slow night. Holly couldn’t sleep; we played checkers. She lifts her fingers and dances them over the board like she’s weaving a magic spell before she touches a counter. Apparently it’s a mind game—makes the other player watch where you’re going instead of planning their next move. Where did a seven-year-old learn mind games?
Ask the question.
Holly: You’re quite naïve, Leon, aren’t you?
Pronounces it “knave.” Probably never said it out loud before, just read it in one of her books.
Me: I’m very worldly wise, thank you, Holly!
Gives me patronizing look.
Holly: It’s OK, Leon. You’re just too nice. I bet people walk all over you like a doormat.
She picked that up from somewhere, definitely. Probably her father, who visits every other week in a sharp gray suit, bringing poorly chosen sweets and the sour smell
of cigarette smoke.
Me: Being nice is a good thing. You can be strong and nice. You don’t have to be one or the other.
The patronizing look again.
Holly: Look. It’s like how … Kay’s strong, you’re nice.
She spreads her hands, like, it’s the way of the world. Am startled. Didn’t know she knew Kay’s name.
* * *
Richie rings just as I get in. Have to sprint to get to the landline—I know it’ll be him, it only ever is—and hit head on low-hanging pendant light in kitchen. Least favorite thing about excellent flat.
Rub head. Close eyes. Listen closely to Richie’s voice for tremors and clues to how he really is, and just for hearing a real, living, breathing, still-OK Richie.
Richie: Tell me a good story.
Close eyes tighter. It’s not been a good weekend for him, then. Weekends are bad—they’re banged up for longer. I can tell he’s down from that accent, so peculiar to the two of us. Always part London, part County Cork, it’s more Irish when he’s sad.
I tell him about Holly. Her checkers skills. Her accusations of knavety. Richie listens, and then:
Richie: Is she going to die?
It’s difficult. People struggle to see it’s not about whether she’s going to die—palliative care isn’t just a place you go to slowly slip away. More people live and leave than die on our wards. It’s about being comfortable for the duration of something necessary and painful. Making bad times easier.
Holly, though … she might die. She is very sick. Lovely, precocious, and very sick.
Me: Leukemia statistics are pretty good for kids her age.
Richie: I don’t want statistics, man. I want a good story.
I smile, reminded of when we were kids, acting out the plot of Neighbours in the month when the TV broke. Richie’s always liked a good story.