The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

Me: She’ll be fine. She’ll grow up to be a … coder. Professional coder. Using all her checkers skills to develop new digitally generated food that’ll stop anyone going hungry and put Bono out of work around Christmastime.

  Richie laughs. Not much of one, but enough to ease the worried knot in my stomach.

  Silence for a while. Companionable, maybe, or just an absence of suitably expressive words.

  Richie: It’s hell in here, man.

  The words hit like a punch in the gut. Too often this last year I’ve felt that connection in my stomach like a bunched fist. Always at times like this, when reality hits afresh after days of blocking it out.

  Me: Appeal’s not far off. We’re getting there. Sal says—

  Richie: Ey, Sal says he wants paying. I know the score, Lee. It can’t be done.

  Voice heavy, slow, almost slurred.

  Me: What is this? What, have you lost faith in your big brother? You used to tell me I’d be a billionaire!

  I hear a reluctant smile.

  Richie: You’ve given enough.

  Never. That’s impossible. I will never give enough, not for this, though I’ve wished enough times that I could have swapped places to save him from it.

  Me: I’ve got a scheme. A moneymaking scheme. You’re going to love it.

  Scuffle.

  Richie: Hey, man, ah, give me one sec—

  Muffled voices. My heart beats faster. When on the phone to him it’s easy to think he is somewhere safe and quiet, with only his voice and mine. But there he is, in the yard, with a queue behind him, having made the choice between using this half hour out of his prison cell to make a phone call or to have his only shot at a shower.

  Richie: Got to go, Lee. Love you.

  Dial tone.

  * * *

  Half eight on Saturday. Even leaving now, I’ll be late. And am not leaving now, evidently. Am changing dirty sheets on Dorsal Ward, according to Dr. Patel; according to the ward nurse on Coral Ward, I am taking blood from Mr. Prior; according to Socha the junior doctor, I am helping her with the patient dying on Kelp Ward.

  Socha wins. Call Kay as I run.

  Kay, on picking up: You’re stuck at work, aren’t you?

  Too out of breath for proper explanation. Wards too far apart for emergency situations. Hospice board of trustees should invest in shorter corridors.

  Kay: It’s OK. I’ll meet that girl for you.

  Stumble. Surprised. I’d planned to ask, obviously—that’s why I called Kay and not Essex woman herself, to cancel. But … was very easy.

  Kay: Look, I don’t like this flatsharing plan, but I know you need the money and I get it. However. If I’m going to feel OK about this, I think everything should go through me. I’ll meet this Tiffy person, I’ll handle the arrangements, and that way the random woman sleeping in your bed isn’t someone that you actually interact with. Then I don’t feel quite as weird about it, and you don’t have to deal with it, which, let’s be honest, you do not have time to do.

  Pang of love. Could be stitch, of course, hard to be sure at this stage of relationship, but still.

  Me: You … you sure?

  Kay, firmly: Yes. This is the plan. And no working weekends. OK? Weekends are for me.

  Seems fair.

  Me: Thanks. Thank you. And—would you mind—tell her …

  Kay: Yep, yep, tell her about the weird guy in Flat 5 and warn her about the foxes.

  Definite love-pang.

  Kay: I know you think I don’t listen, but I actually do.

  Still a good minute’s running before I reach Kelp Ward. Have not paced self adequately. Rookie mistake. I’m thrown by the horrible nowness of this shift, with all its dying people and bedsores and tricksy dementia patients, and am forgetting basic rules of surviving in hospice setting. Jog, don’t run. Always know the time. Never lose your pen.

  Kay: Leon?

  Forgot about talking out loud. Was just heavy breathing. Probably quite sinister.

  Me: Thanks. Love you.

  5

  TIFFY

  I consider wearing sunglasses, but decide that would make me look like a bit of a diva, given that it’s February. Nobody wants a diva as a flatmate.

  The question, of course, is whether they want a diva more or less than they want an emotional wreck of a woman who has clearly spent the last two days weeping.

  I remind myself that this is not a flatmate situation. Leon and I don’t need to get on—we’re not going to be living together, not really, we’re just going to be occupying the same space at different times. It’s no bother to him if I happen to spend all my free time weeping, is it?

  “Jacket,” Rachel commands, handing it over.

  I have not yet reached the depths of needing someone else to dress me, but Rachel stayed over last night, and if Rachel’s here she’s probably going to take charge of the situation. Even if “the situation” is me getting my clothes on in the morning.

  Too broken to protest, I take the jacket and slip it on. I do love this jacket. I made it out of a giant ball dress I found in the charity shop—I just picked the whole thing apart and used the fabric from scratch, but left the beading wherever it fell, so now there’s purple sequins and embroidery across the right shoulder, down the back and under my boobs. It looks a bit like a circus master’s jacket, but fits perfectly, and oddly the under-boob beading is really flattering to the waistline.

  “Didn’t I give this to you?” I say, frowning. “Last year sometime?”

  “You, part with that jacket?” Rachel makes a face. “I know you love me, but I’m pretty sure you don’t love anyone that much.”

  Right, of course. I’m such a mess I can hardly think straight. At least I actually care about what I’m wearing this morning, though. You know things are bad when I’ll throw on whatever’s top in the drawer. And it’s not like other people won’t notice it—my wardrobe is such that an insufficiently planned outfit will really show. Thursday’s mustard yellow cords, cream frilled blouse and long green cardigan caused a bit of a stir at work—Hana in marketing had a full-blown coughing fit when I walked into the kitchen as she was mid-gulp of coffee. On top of that, nobody gets why I’m suddenly so upset. I can see them all thinking, What’s she crying about now? Didn’t Justin leave months ago?

  They’re right. I have no idea why this particular stage of Justin’s new relationship bothers me so much. I’d already decided I was going to properly move out this time. And it’s not like I wanted him to marry me or anything. I just thought … he’d come back. That’s what’s always happened before—he goes off, doors slam, he freezes me out, ignores my calls, but then he realizes his mistake and just when I think I’m ready to start getting over him, there he is again, holding out his hand and telling me to come with him on some kind of amazing adventure.

  But this is it, isn’t it? He’s getting married. This is … this is …

  Rachel wordlessly passes me the tissues.

  “I’ll have to redo my makeup again,” I say, once the worst of it is over.

  “Reaaally not got time,” Rachel says, flashing me her phone screen.

  Shit. Half past eight. I need to leave now or I’m going to be late, and that will look bad—if we’re going to observe strict who’s-in-the-flat-when rules, Leon’s going to want me to be able to tell the time.

  “Sunglasses?” I ask.

  “Sunglasses.” Rachel hands them over.

  I grab my bag and head for the door.

  As the train rattles its way through the tunnels of the Northern Line I catch sight of my reflection in the window and straighten up a little. I look good. The blurry, scratched glass helps—sort of like an Instagram filter. But this is one of my favorite outfits, my hair is newly washed and coppery red, and though I may have cried away all my eyeliner my lipstick is still intact.

  Here I am. I can do this. I can manage just fine on my own.

  It sticks for about as long as it takes to get to the entrance to Stockwell station. Then
a guy in a car screams “Get your fanny out!” at me, and the shock is enough to set me spiraling back into shit-at-life post-breakup Tiffy again. I’m too upset to even point out the anatomical issues I’d have if I tried to comply with his request.

  I reach the right block of flats in five minutes or so—it’s a good distance to the station. At the prospect of actually finding my future home, I wipe my cheeks dry and take a proper look at the place. It’s one of those squat, brick blocks, and out the front there’s a small courtyard with a bit of sad-looking London-style grass that’s more like well-mown hay. There are parking spaces for each flat’s tenants, one of whom seems to be using their space to store a bewildering number of empty banana crates.

  As I buzz for Flat 3, a movement catches my eye—it’s a fox, strolling out from round where the bins seem to live. It gives me an insolent stare, pausing with one paw in the air. I’ve never actually been this close to a fox before—it’s a lot mangier than they look in picture books. Foxes are nice, though, aren’t they? They’re so nice you’re not allowed to shoot them for fun anymore, even if you’re an aristocrat with a horse.

  The door buzzes and clicks out of the lock; I make my way inside. It’s very … brown. Brown carpet, biscuit-colored walls. But that doesn’t really matter—it’s inside the flat that matters.

  When I knock on the door of Flat 3, I find myself feeling genuinely nervous. No—borderline panicked. I’m really doing this, aren’t I? Considering sleeping in some random stranger’s bed? Actually leaving Justin’s flat?

  Oh, god. Maybe Gerty was right and this is all just a bit too much. For a vertiginous moment I imagine going back to Justin’s, back to the comfort of that chrome-and-white flat, to the possibility of having him back. But the thought doesn’t feel quite as good as I imagined it would. Somehow—perhaps around eleven p.m. the Thursday before last—that flat started to look a little different, and so did I.

  I know, in a vague, don’t-look-straight-at-it sort of way, that this is a good thing. I’ve got this far—I can’t let myself go back now.

  I need to like this place. It’s my only option. So when someone answers the door who clearly isn’t Leon, I’m so in the mood to be accommodating that I just go with it. I don’t even act surprised.

  “Hi!”

  “Hello,” says the woman at the door. She’s petite with olive skin and one of those pixie haircuts that makes you look French if you’ve got a small enough head. I immediately feel enormous.

  She does nothing to dispel this feeling. As I step into the flat, I can feel her looking me up and down. I try to take in the décor—ooh, dark green wallpaper, looks genuine 1970s—but after a while the feel of her eyes on me starts to nag. I turn to meet her gaze head-on.

  Oh. It’s the girlfriend. And her expression could not be more obvious: It says, I was worried you might be hot and try to steal my boyfriend from me while you make yourself at home in his bed, but now I’ve seen you and he’d never be attracted to you, so yes! Come in!

  She’s all smiles now. Fine, whatever—if this is what it takes to get this room, no problem. She’s not going to belittle me out of this one. She has no idea how desperate I am.

  “I’m Kay,” she says, holding out a hand. Her grip is firm. “Leon’s girlfriend.”

  “I figured.” I smile to take the edge off it. “So nice to meet you. Is Leon in the…”

  I lean my head into the bedroom. It’s that or the living room, which has the kitchen in the corner—there’s not really much more to the flat than this.

  “… Bathroom?” I try, on seeing the empty bedroom.

  “Leon’s stuck at work,” says Kay, ushering me through to the living area.

  It’s pretty minimalist and a little worn round the edges, but it’s clean and I do love that 1970s wallpaper everywhere. I bet someone would pay £80 a roll for that if Farrow & Ball started selling it. There’s a low-hanging pendant light in the kitchen area that doesn’t quite match the décor but is sort of fabulous; the sofa is battered leather; the TV isn’t actually plugged in but looks relatively decent; and the carpet has been recently hoovered. This all looks promising.

  Maybe this is going to be good. Maybe it’s going to be great. I flip through a quick montage of myself here, lazing about on the sofa, rustling something up in the kitchen, and suddenly the idea of having all this space to myself makes me want to bounce on the spot. I rein myself in just in time. Kay does not strike me as the spontaneous dancing sort.

  “So will I not … meet Leon?” I ask, remembering Mo’s first rule of flatsharing with a wince.

  “Well, I suppose you might do eventually,” Kay says. “But it’ll be me you speak to. I’m handling renting the place out for him. You’ll never be in at the same time—the flat will be yours from six in the evening until eight in the morning in the week, and over the whole weekend. It’s a six-month agreement for now. Is that OK with you?”

  “Yeah, that’s just what I need.” I pause. “And … Leon won’t ever pop in unexpectedly? Out of his hours, or anything?”

  “Absolutely not,” Kay says, with the air of a woman who plans to make sure of it. “From six p.m. until eight a.m., the flat is yours and yours alone.”

  “Great.” I breathe out slowly, quieting the flutter of excitement in my stomach, and check the bathroom—you can always tell a place by its bathroom. All the appliances are a clean, bright white, there’s a dark blue shower curtain, a few tidy bottles of mysterious manly-looking creams and liquids, and a scuffed but serviceable mirror. Excellent. “I’ll take it. If you’ll have me.”

  I feel certain that she’ll say yes, if it really is her decision to make. I knew it as soon as she gave me that look in the hallway: Whatever Leon’s criteria for a flatmate, Kay just has the one, and I’ve clearly ticked the “suitably unattractive” box.

  “Wonderful,” says Kay. “I’ll call Leon and let him know.”

  6

  LEON

  Kay: She’s ideal.

  Am doing some slow blinking on the bus. Delicious slow blinks which are really just short naps.

  Me: Really? Not annoying?

  Kay, sounding irritated: Does that matter? She’ll be clean and tidy and she can move in immediately. If you’re really determined to do this, then you can’t expect much better than that.

  Me: She wasn’t bothered by the weird man living in Flat 5? Or the fox family?

  Slight pause.

  Kay: She didn’t mention either being a problem.

  Delicious slow blink. Really long one. Got to be careful—can’t face waking up at the end of the bus route and having to come all the way back in again. Always a danger after a long week.

  Me: What’s she like, then?

  Kay: She’s … quirky. Larger than life. She was wearing these big horn-rimmed sunglasses even though it’s basically still winter, and had painted flowers all over her boots. But the point is that she’s broke and happy to find a room this cheap!

  “Larger than life” is Kay-speak for overweight. Wish she wouldn’t say things like that.

  Kay: Look, you’re on your way, aren’t you? We can talk about it when you get here.

  My plan for arrival was to greet Kay with customary kiss, remove work clothes, drink water, fall into Kay’s bed, sleep for all eternity.

  Me: Maybe tonight? When I’ve slept?

  Silence. Deeply irritated silence. (I’m an expert at Kay silences.)

  Kay: So you’re just going straight to bed when you get in.

  Bite tongue. Resist urge to give blow-by-blow account of my week.

  Me: I can stay up if you want to talk.

  Kay: No, no, you need your sleep.

  I’m clearly staying up. Best make the most of these blink-naps until bus gets to Islington.

  * * *

  Frosty welcome from Kay. Make mistake of mentioning Richie, which turns temperature dial down even further. My fault, probably. Just can’t talk to her about him without hearing The Argument, like she hits replay ev
ery time she says Richie’s name. As she busies herself cooking brinner (combination of breakfast and dinner, suitable for both night and day dwellers), tell myself on repeat that I should remember how The Argument ended. That she said sorry.

  Kay: So, are you going to ask me about weekends?

  Stare at her, slow to answer. Sometimes find it hard to talk after a long night. Just opening my mouth to form comprehensible thoughts is like lifting a very heavy thing, or like one of those dreams where you need to run but your legs are moving through treacle.

  Me: Ask you what?

  Kay pauses, omelette pan in hand. She is very pretty against wintery sunlight through kitchen window.

  Kay: The weekends. Where were you planning to stay, with Tiffy in your flat?

  Oh. I see.

  Me: Hoped I would stay here. As I’m here every weekend I’m not working anyway?

  Kay smiles. Get that satisfying feeling of having said the right thing, followed quickly by a squeeze of anxiety.

  Kay: I know you were planning on staying here, you know. I just wanted to hear you say it.

  She sees my bemused expression.

  Kay: Normally you’re just here on weekends by coincidence, not because you’ve planned for it. Not because it’s our life plan.

  Word “plan” is much less pleasant with “life” in front of it. Suddenly very busy eating omelette. Kay squeezes my shoulder, runs her fingers up and down the back of my neck, tugs my hair.

  Kay: Thank you.

  I feel guilty, though I haven’t exactly misled her—I did assume I’d be here every weekend, did factor that into plan with renting out room. Just didn’t … think about it that way. The life-plan way.

  * * *

  Two in the morning. When I first joined the hospice nights team, nights coming off shift seemed useless—would sit awake, wishing for sunlight. But now this is my time, the muffled quiet, the rest of London sleeping or getting very drunk. I’m taking every night shift the hospice roster coordinator will give me—they’re the highest paid, excluding weekend nights, which I’ve told Kay I won’t take. Plus, it’s the only way this flatshare plan will work. Not sure it’ll even be worth recalibrating for weekends, now—will work five in seven nights. Might just stay nocturnal.