The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  AUGUST

  24

  LEON

  Richie: How are you feeling, man?

  How am I feeling? Untethered. Like something’s got dislodged somewhere in my chest and my body doesn’t function quite right anymore. Like I’m alone.

  Me: Sad.

  Richie: You’ve not been in love with Kay for months, I’m telling you. I’m so glad you’re out of that relationship, man—it was about habit, not about love.

  Wonder why the fact that Richie’s right doesn’t lessen the pain in any meaningful way. Miss Kay almost constantly. Like a nagging ache. It worsens every time I pick up the phone to call her, and then have nobody to call.

  Me: Anyway. Any news from Tiffy’s lawyer friend?

  Richie: Not yet. I can’t stop thinking about it. You know every single thing in her letter just made me go, “Oh, yeah, shit, why didn’t we think of that?”

  Me: Same.

  Richie: You did pass on my reply? You made sure she got it?

  Me: Tiffy gave it to her.

  Richie: You’re sure?

  Me: I’m sure.

  Richie: OK. All right. Sorry. I’m just …

  Me: I know. Me, too.

  * * *

  For the last two weekends, have Airbnb’ed my way around UK on quest for Mr. Prior’s boyfriend. It was an excellent distraction. Met two radically different Johnny Whites—one bitter, furious, and alarmingly right-wing, and the other living in a caravan and smoking weed out of the window as we discussed his life since the war. Has at least provided amusement for Tiffy—notes about Johnny Whites always get good response. Got this after describing trip to meet Johnny White the Third:

  If you’re not careful I’ll commission you to write a book about this. Obviously in order for it to fit with my publishing list I’d have to introduce some element of DIY—could you learn a different craft from each Johnny, or something? You know, like, Johnny White the First spontaneously teaches you how to make a bookcase, and then there you are with Johnny White the Second and he’s making royal icing and you just happen to join in … Oh my god, is this the best idea I’ve ever had? Or maybe the worst? I absolutely cannot tell. xx

  Often think it must be very tiring, being Tiffy. Even in note form she seems to expend so much energy. Quite cheering to come home to, though.

  This weekend’s visit to Richie was cancelled—not enough prison staff. Will have been five weeks between visits. That’s too long for him, and, I’m realizing, for me also. With Kay gone and Richie able to ring even less than usual—too few prison staff means more time banged up, less access to phones—I’m finding that even I can suffer from not talking enough. It’s not like there aren’t friends I can call. But they’re not … the people I can talk to.

  Had booked Airbnb up near Birmingham for Richie visit, but have cancelled that now, and am forced to confront the fact that this coming weekend, I will need somewhere to stay. I was clearly too complacent about the state of my relationship when arranging this living situation. Am now homeless at weekends.

  Wrack brains for options. Nothing for it. Am on way to work; check time on phone. It’s about the only window of the day when I can ring my mother. I get off the bus a stop early and call her as I walk.

  Mam, on answering: You don’t call me enough, Lee.

  Close eyes. Deep breath.

  Me: Hi, Mam.

  Mam: Richie calls me more than you. From prison.

  Me: Sorry, Mam.

  Mam: Do you know how hard this is for me? My boys never talking to me?

  Me: I’m calling now, Mam. I’ve got a few minutes before work—I want to talk to you about something.

  Mam, suddenly alert: Is it the appeal? Has Sal called you?

  I haven’t told Mam about Tiffy’s lawyer friend. Don’t want to get her hopes up.

  Me: No. It’s about me.

  Mam, suspicious: About you?

  Me: Kay and I broke up.

  Mam melts. Suddenly all sympathy. This is what she needs: a son to call her and ask for help with something she can handle. My mother is good at dealing with romantic heartbreak. Has had lots of personal practice.

  Mam: Oh, sweetheart. Why did she end it?

  Mildly insulted.

  Me: I ended it.

  Mam: Oh! You did? What for?

  Me: I …

  Oh. It’s surprisingly difficult, even with Mam.

  Me: She couldn’t handle my hours. Didn’t like me how I was—wanted me to be more sociable. And … she didn’t believe Richie’s innocent.

  Mam: She what?

  Wait. Silence. Gut twists; it feels terrible telling on Kay, even now.

  Mam: That cow. She always did look down on us.

  Me: Mam!

  Mam: Well, I’m not sorry. Good riddance to her.

  It’s like speaking ill of the dead, somehow. I’m desperate to veer off subject.

  Me: Can I come stay this weekend?

  Mam: Stay? Here? At mine?

  Me: Yeah. I used to stay at Kay’s every weekend. It’s part of … the living arrangement. With Tiffy.

  Mam: You want to come home?

  Me: Yeah. Just for …

  Bite tongue. It’s not just for this weekend. It’s until I find solution. But it’s automatic to put a firm endpoint on these things; that’s the only way to feel able to escape. When I get home, Mam will have me, and will not let me go.

  Mam: You can stay as long as you need, and whenever you need, all right?

  Me: Thanks.

  Moment of quiet. I can hear how pleased she is; gut twists again. Should visit more.

  Me: Can I check … do you … is there anyone else? Living there?

  Mam, awkwardly: Nobody else, sweetie. I’ve been on my own for a few months now.

  That’s good. Unusual, and good. Mam always has a man, and he always seems to be living with her, whoever he is. Almost always someone who Richie despises and I would rather not have to see. Mam has unequivocally bad taste. She’s always been a woman led astray by a bad man, a hundred times over.

  Me: I’ll see you Saturday night.

  Mam: Can’t wait. I’ll get us Chinese, all right?

  Silence. That’s what we would do when Richie came home: Saturday night Chinese from Happy Duck down Mam’s road.

  Mam: Or let’s get Indian. I feel like a change, don’t you?

  25

  TIFFY

  “Are you all right?” Ken asks.

  I’m pretty much frozen. My heart is pounding.

  “Yes. Sorry, yes, I’m fine.” I try a smile.

  “Do you want to get out of here?” he says tentatively. “I mean, the party’s nearly over…”

  Do I? I did, about one minute ago. Now, even with the buzz of that kiss still warm on my lips, I want to run away. I’m not really thinking thoughts—my brain is just producing this extremely unhelpful one-tone note of panic, like a loud long uuuhhhh rattling back and forth between my ears.

  Someone calls my name. I recognize the voice, but I don’t connect the dots until I turn and see Justin.

  He’s standing in the doorway between the garden and the pub, dressed in an open-necked shirt with his old leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He looks painfully familiar, but things are different too: His hair is longer than he ever wore it when we were together, and he’s got new city-corporate shoes. I feel like I’ve conjured him up by thinking about him—how else could he possibly be here?

  His eyes flick to Ken for a moment, and then they’re back to me. He crosses the grass between us. I am glued to the spot, shoulders tensed, crouched over on the bench with Ken beside me.

  “You look beautiful.”

  This, unbelievably, is the first thing he says.

  “Justin.” This is about all I can manage. I look back at Ken, and no doubt my face is a picture of misery.

  “Let me guess,” says Ken lightly. “Boyfriend?”

  “Ex,” I say. “Ex! I would never—I…”

  Ken smiles an easy, sexy
smile at me, and then turns an equally good-natured one on Justin. “Hi,” he says, holding out his hand for Justin to shake. “Ken.”

  Justin barely looks at him; he shakes his hand for approximately half a second before turning back to me. “Can I talk to you?”

  I look between him and Ken. I can’t believe I was even thinking about going home with Ken. I can’t do that.

  “I’m sorry,” I begin. “I really…”

  “Hey, don’t worry about it,” Ken says, standing up. “You have my contact details if you fancy getting in touch while I’m still in London.” He waves the sampler, still in his hand. “Nice to meet you,” he says, extremely politely, in Justin’s direction.

  “Yeah,” is all Justin says.

  As Ken walks away, the uuuhhhh quietens and I feel like I’m waking up a little, coming out of some sort of trance. I stand, knees shaking, and face Justin.

  “What. The hell. Are you doing here?”

  Justin doesn’t react to the venom in my voice. Instead he puts his hand on my back and starts leading me toward the side gate. I move mechanically, unthinking, and then shrug him off sharply as soon as I clock what’s happening.

  “Hey, whoa.” He looks at me as we pause in the gateway. The evening air is warm, almost stifling. “Are you OK? Sorry if I surprised you.”

  “And ruined my evening.”

  He smiles. “Come on, Tiffy. You needed rescuing. You’d never go home with a guy like that.”

  I open my mouth to speak, and then close it again. I was going to say he doesn’t know me anymore, but somehow it doesn’t come out. “What are you doing here?” I manage instead.

  “I was just coming in for a drink. I come to this place a fair bit.”

  I mean, this is just ridiculous. I cannot believe this. The cruise ship might have been a coincidence—a very weird one, but just about plausible—but this?

  “Do you not think this is odd?”

  He’s confused. He tilts his head, like, huh? My stomach flips—I used to love that little head-tilt.

  “We’ve bumped into each other twice in six months. Once on a cruise ship.”

  I need an explanation for this that isn’t “Justin appears when you think bad thoughts about him,” which is currently all my half-frozen brain can believe. I’m scaring myself a little.

  He smiles indulgently. “Tiffy. Come on. What are you suggesting? That I got on that cruise to see you? That I turned up tonight just to see you? If I wanted to do that, why wouldn’t I just call you? Or turn up at your office?”

  Oh. I … I guess that makes sense. My cheeks flush; I’m suddenly embarrassed.

  He squeezes my shoulder. “It is great to see you, though. And yeah, it’s a pretty crazy coincidence. Fate, maybe? I did wonder why I suddenly wanted a pint this evening, of all evenings.” He does an exaggerated mysterious face, and I can’t help smiling. I’d forgotten how cute he is when he clowns around.

  No. Not smiling. Not cute. I think of what Gerty and Mo would say, and gather my resolve.

  “What did you want to talk to me about?”

  “I am glad I bumped into you,” he says. “I really … I have been meaning to call. But it’s so hard to know where to start.”

  “Hit the phone icon, I’d suggest, then search your contacts by name?” I say. My voice is shaking a little, and I hope he doesn’t hear it.

  He laughs. “I forgot how funny you are when you’re angry. No, I mean, I didn’t want to tell you this on the phone.”

  “Tell me what? Let me guess. That you’ve broken up with the woman you left me for?”

  I’ve caught him off guard. There’s a little thrill when I see his perfect confident smile waver, and then a wash of something else—more like anxiety. I don’t want to piss him off. I take a deep breath. “I don’t want to see you, Justin. This doesn’t change anything. You still left me for her, you still—you still…”

  “I never cheated on you,” he says immediately. We’ve begun walking, I’m not sure where; he stops me again and puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me so I have to look him in the face. “I would never do that to you, Tiffy. You know how crazy I am about you.”

  “Was.”

  “What?”

  “How crazy I was about you, is what you meant to say.” Already I wish I’d taken the chance to tell him that the reason I don’t want to see him is actually nothing to do with Patricia. Although I’m not sure what it is about. It’s about … all the other stuff, whatever that was. I feel very muddled all of a sudden. Justin’s presence always does this to me—makes me all confused until I lose my train of thought. That was part of the romance, I guess, but right now it doesn’t feel nice at all.

  “Don’t tell me what I mean and don’t mean.” He looks away for a moment. “Look, I’m here now. Can’t we just go get a drink somewhere and talk about it? Come on. We can go to that champagne bar round the corner where they serve your drinks in paint cans. Or we can go to the top of the Shard, remember when I took you there as a treat? What do you say?”

  I stare at him. His big, brown eyes, always so earnest, always sparkling with that crazy excitement that caught me up every time. His perfect jawline. His confident smile. I try very hard not to think about the awful memory that came when I kissed Ken, but it seems to be in my system now, worse than ever with Justin here. My skin’s crawling with it.

  “Why didn’t you call me?”

  “I told you,” he says, impatient now, “I didn’t know how to tell you about this.”

  “And why are you here?”

  “Tiffy,” he says sharply, “just come for a drink.”

  I flinch, and then take another deep breath. “You want to talk to me, you call ahead and we arrange a time. Not now.”

  “When, then?” he asks, frowning, his hands still heavy on my shoulders.

  “Just … I need time.” My head feels cloudy. “I don’t want to talk to you right now.”

  “Time like a couple of hours?”

  “Time like a couple of months,” I say before I’ve thought about it, and then I bite my lip, because now I’ve given us a deadline.

  “I want to see you now,” he says, and suddenly the hands that are on my shoulders have moved to touch my hair, my upper arm.

  That flashback plays behind my eyes. I shrug him off. “Try delayed gratification, Justin. It’s the only kind you’re going to get, and I have a feeling it’ll be good for you.”

  And with that, I turn before I can change my mind, and stumble back into the bar.

  26

  LEON

  Holly has almost a full head of hair now. She’s like a female Harry Potter—hair sticking up all over the place no matter how much her mum tries to smooth it flat.

  Her face has changed, too, got fuller, livelier. Eyes look less out of proportion with the rest of her these days.

  She grins up at me.

  Holly: Have you come to say goodbye?

  Me: I’ve come to check your bloods.

  Holly: For one last time?

  Me: Depends what they say.

  Holly: You’re being grumpy. You don’t want me to leave.

  Me: Of course I do. I want you to be well.

  Holly: No, you don’t. You don’t like stuff changing. You want me to stay here.

  Don’t say anything. It’s annoying, being so completely understood by one so very small.

  Holly: I’ll miss you, too. Will you visit me at home?

  I glance at her mum, who’s wearing a tired but very happy smile.

  Me: You’ll be too busy at school and all your after-school clubs. You won’t want visitors.

  Holly: Yes, I will.

  Holly’s Mum: I’d love to have you round for dinner. Really—and Holly would, too. Just to say thank you.

  Sheer euphoria surrounding Holly’s mother like a cloud of perfume.

  Me: Well, maybe. Thanks.

  Holly’s mum is welling up. I never cope well with these situations. Start to feel slightly panicked;
edge toward door.

  She hugs me before I can escape. Feel suddenly very wobbly. I’m not sure if it’s Holly or Kay I want to cry about, but someone hugging me is doing something involving my tear glands.

  Wipe eyes and hope Holly doesn’t notice. Ruffle her messy brown hair.

  Me: Be good.

  Holly grins. Get the impression she has other plans.

  * * *

  I get out of work in time to see the last traces of a truly glorious sunrise behind London’s skyscrapers and reflected in the steel gray of the Thames, turning it blue-pink. Seem to have so much time now Kay is gone. Makes me wonder if I really did give her as little time as she always claimed—if that’s true, where have all these hours come from?

  Decide to stop somewhere for a tea, then walk home—only takes an hour and a half, and it’s the sort of morning you want to be out in. People are buzzing in all directions, on their way to work, coffees clutched close. I let them all stream by. Walk up through the back roads as much as I can; they’re a little sleepier than the main roads.

  I find myself on Clapham Road without really noticing. Go cold when I see the off-license. But make myself stop. Seems respectful, like taking your hat off when a hearse goes by.

  Can’t help noticing that the Aldi security cameras really do point in every possible direction, including this one. Something wishful grips me. I remember the whole point of why Kay and I broke up. I’ve been too sad to remember that there is hope for Richie.

  Maybe Gerty will have written back to Richie by now. I walk on, faster now, keen to get home. He might try to call, expecting me to be back at usual time. Feel sure he has; am furious with myself for missing him.

  Deep breaths. I fumble with the key in the door, but oddly it’s not double-locked—Tiffy has never forgotten before. I give a cursory look around the room when I get in to make sure we’ve not been burgled, but TV and laptop are still there, so head straight for landline and check for missed calls or voicemails.

  Nothing. Breathe out. Am sweaty from power-walking in the morning sunshine; chuck keys in customary space (they now live under the Spot the Dog moneybox) and yank off T-shirt as I head to bathroom. Shove the row of multicolored candles off the edge of the bath so I can actually shower. Then turn the hot water on and stand there, washing off yet another week.