The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  27

  TIFFY

  Oh, god.

  I think this is the worst I’ve ever felt. It’s worse than the hangover I had after Rachel’s twenty-fifth. It’s worse than the time at uni when I drank two bottles of wine and vomited outside the faculty office. It’s worse than swine flu.

  I’m still wearing the Alice in Wonderland dress. I have slept on top of the duvet, under just my Brixton blanket. I at least had the foresight to take my shoes off and leave them at the door.

  Oh, god.

  The line-of-sight from where I am to the shoes intersects with the alarm clock. It is saying a time that cannot possibly be correct. It is saying 8:59 a.m.

  I should be at work in one minute.

  How has this happened? I scramble up, my stomach lurching and my head spinning, and as I fumble about looking for my purse—oh good, at least I didn’t lose that, and ah, yes, aspirin—I remember how this all started.

  I’d gone back inside after walking away from Justin, and dragged Rachel off the bartender’s face in order to weep at her for a while. She was not the best person to speak to—she’s the only person left who’s Team Justin. (I didn’t mention that weird kiss flashback. And I do not want to think about it now, either.) At first Rachel told me to go back out there and hear what he had to say, but then she came round to my delayed gratification strategy, which Katherin also approved of—oh, god, I told Katherin …

  I neck some aspirin and try not to gag. Was I sick last night? I have vague and unpleasant memories of being way too close to a toilet seat in that bar’s bathroom.

  I type a quick apology text to the head of Editorial, panic rising. I’m never this late for work, and everyone will know it’s because I’m hungover. If they don’t, I’m sure Martin will be happy to enlighten them.

  I can’t go to work like this, I realize, in my first moment of clarity of the morning. I need to wash and change. I unzip the dress and kick it off, already reaching for my towel on the back of the door.

  I don’t hear the running water. There is a constant buzzing in my ears that sort of already sounds like a shower turned on, and I am in such a panic I don’t think I would notice if my stuffed elephant came alive on the armchair and started telling me I need to detox.

  I only realize Leon is in the shower when I see him there. Our shower curtain is mostly opaque, but you can definitely see a bit. I mean, outlines.

  He does the natural thing: panics and throws the curtain back to see who’s there. We stare at each other. The shower keeps running.

  He comes to his senses faster than I do and pulls the curtain again.

  “Ahhh,” he says. It’s more of a gargled noise than a word.

  I am in my extremely small, lacy going-out underwear. I haven’t even wrapped my towel around myself—it’s thrown over my arm. Somehow that feels a lot worse than not having any means of covering myself up at all—I was so close to not exposing myself, and yet so far.

  “Oh, god,” I squeak. “I’m so—I’m so sorry.”

  He flips the shower off. He probably can’t hear me over the noise. He turns his back on me; the fact that I notice this makes me realize that I should really stop looking at the outline behind the shower curtain. I turn my back on him, too.

  “Ahhh,” he says again.

  “I know,” I say. “Oh, god. This is not … how I imagined meeting you.”

  I wince. That sounded a bit keen.

  “Did you…” he begins.

  “I didn’t see anything,” I lie quickly.

  “Good. OK. Me neither,” he says.

  “I should … I’m so late for work.”

  “Oh, you need the shower?”

  “Well, I…”

  “I’m finished,” he says. We still have our backs to one another. I slip the towel off my arm and now—about five minutes too late—wrap it around myself.

  “Well, if you’re sure,” I say.

  “Um. Need my towel,” he says.

  “Oh, of course,” I say, grabbing it off the rail and turning.

  “Eyes closed,” he yells.

  I freeze and close my eyes. “They’re closed! They’re closed!”

  I feel him take the towel from my hand.

  “OK. You can open them again.”

  He steps out of the shower. I mean, he’s decent now, but he’s still not wearing a lot. I can see all of his chest, for instance. And quite a lot of his stomach.

  He’s a couple of inches taller than me. Wet, his thick curly hair still doesn’t sit flat; it’s smoothed back behind his ears and dripping onto his shoulders. His face is fine-boned and his eyes are deep brown, a few tones darker than his skin; he has laughter lines, and his ears stick out a little, like they’ve learnt the habit from always keeping his hair back from his face.

  He turns to sidestep past me. He’s doing his best but there’s really not room for two of us, and as he slides by me the warm skin of his back brushes against my chest. I inhale, hangover forgotten. Despite the lace bra and the towel between us, my skin has gone prickly and something has started fizzing hotly at the base of my stomach, where all the best feelings tend to sit.

  He glances over his shoulder at me, an intense, half-nervous, half-curious look that only makes me feel warmer. I can’t help it. As he turns toward the door I glance down.

  Is he … that looks like …

  It can’t have been. It must have been some bunched-up towel.

  He closes the door behind him and I collapse backward against the sink for a moment. The reality of the last two minutes is so painfully embarrassing that I find myself saying “oh, god” out loud and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. This does not help with my hangover, which has come rushing back now that the naked man has left my bathroom.

  God. I’m flushed with heat, all flustered and skin-prickly and breathless—no, I’m turned on. I didn’t see that coming. Surely this situation was far too awkward for that to even be possible? I’m a grown woman! Can’t I handle seeing a man naked? It’s probably just because I haven’t had sex for so long. It’s some sort of biological thing, like how the smell of bacon gets you salivating, or how holding other people’s babies makes you want to end your career and immediately start procreating.

  In a sudden panic I swivel to look at myself in the mirror, wiping the condensation from its surface to reveal my pale, gaunt face. My lipstick has ingrained itself into the dry skin of my lips, and my eyeshadow and eyeliner have blurred into a black mess around each eye. I look like a toddler who’s attempted to use their mother’s makeup.

  I groan. This is a disaster. This could not have gone worse. I look terrible, and he looked really quite astonishingly good. I think back to the day when I checked him out on Facebook—I don’t remember him being attractive. How did I not notice? Oh, god, why does it even matter? It’s Leon. Flatmate Leon. Leon-with-a-girlfriend Leon.

  Right, I’ve got to shower and go to work. I’ll deal with my hormones and incredibly awkward living situation tomorrow.

  Oh, god. I am so late.

  28

  LEON

  Ahhh.

  Ahhh.

  Lie on back in bed, immobilized by pounding shame. Cannot think in words. Ahhh is only sound adequate to express sufficient horror.

  Didn’t Kay say Tiffy was unattractive? I’d just assumed! Or … or … I’d not even thought about it, actually. But, Jesus. She’s like … ahhh.

  Can’t spring a scantily clad lady on a man in the shower. Can’t do that. It’s not fair.

  Can’t connect that woman in the bathroom in the red underwear with the woman I write notes to and clean up after. Had just never …

  Landline rings. Freeze. Landline is in kitchen. Chance of bumping into Tiffy again: high.

  Unfreeze and shake self. Obviously have to answer phone—will be Richie. Dart out of bedroom, clutching towel at waist, and locate phone under pile of Mr. Prior’s hats on kitchen sideboard; answer while dashing back to bedroom.

  M
e: Hey.

  Richie: Are you all right?

  Make groaning noise.

  Richie, alert: What is it? What’s happened?

  Me: No, no, nothing bad. Just … met Tiffy.

  Richie, cheered: Oh! Is she hot?

  Repeat groaning noise.

  Richie: She is! I knew it.

  Me: She wasn’t meant to be. I assumed Kay made sure she wasn’t!

  Richie: Did she look anything like Kay?

  Me: Eh?

  Richie: Kay wouldn’t think anyone’s hot unless they look like Kay.

  Wince, but sort of know what he means. Can’t get image of Tiffy out of head. Ruffled red hair all over the place, like she’s just got out of bed. Light-brown freckles across pale skin, dusting her arms and dappled across her chest. Red lace bra. Ridiculously perfect breasts.

  Ahhh.

  Richie: Where is she now?

  Me: Shower.

  Richie: And where are you?

  Me: Hiding in the bedroom.

  Pause.

  Richie: You realize she’s going to come there next, yeah?

  Me: Shit!

  Sit bolt upright. Flounder around looking for clothes. Can only find hers. See her dress, thrown on the floor unzipped.

  Me: Hang on. Need to dress.

  Richie: Wait, what?

  Put him down on the bed as I pull on boxers and tracksuit bottoms. Horribly aware of my bum pointing toward door as I do so, but is better option than facing the other way. Find old vest within reach and throw it on, then breathe.

  Me: OK. Right. I think it’s safest to … go to the kitchen? She won’t pass on the way from the bathroom to the bedroom. Then I can hide in the bathroom until she leaves.

  Richie: What the hell happened? Why aren’t you wearing any clothes? Have you shagged her, man?

  Me: No!

  Richie: All right. It was a reasonable question.

  Make my way across living room to kitchen. Skulk as far as possible behind fridge, so I can’t be seen on route from bathroom to bedroom.

  Me: We bumped into each other in the shower.

  Richie gives a proper belly laugh that makes me smile a little despite myself.

  Richie: She was naked?

  Groan.

  Me: Nearly. I was, though.

  Richie’s laugh scales up a notch.

  Richie: Ah, man, this has made my day. So she was in, what, a towel?

  Me: Underwear.

  Richie groans too this time.

  Richie: Good?

  Me: I’m not talking about this!

  Richie: Good point. Can she hear you?

  Pause. Listen. Ahhh.

  Me, in a hiss: Shower has stopped!

  Richie: Don’t you want to be there when she comes out in a towel? Why don’t you just go back to the bedroom? It won’t look like you did it on purpose. I mean, you did nearly do it accidentally. Throw you together one more time, you never—

  Me: I’m not going to lie in wait for the poor woman, Richie! I already exposed myself to her, didn’t I? She’s probably traumatized.

  Richie: Did she look traumatized?

  Think back. She looked … ahhh. So much skin. And big blue eyes, freckles across her nose, that little intake of breath as I moved past her to the door, way too close for comfort.

  Richie: You’re going to need to speak to her.

  Sound of bathroom door unlocking.

  Me: Shit!

  Hide farther behind fridge, then, when no noise follows, peek out.

  She doesn’t look my way. Her towel is wrapped tightly under her arms and her long hair is darker now and dripping down her back. She disappears into the bedroom.

  And breathe.

  Me: She’s in the bedroom. I’m going to the bathroom.

  Richie: Why don’t you just leave the flat if you’re that worried, man?

  Me: I can’t talk to you, then! I cannot handle this alone, Richie!

  I hear Richie grin.

  Richie: There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? No, let me guess … did you get a bit excited…?

  I make my loudest, most humiliated groan yet. Richie roars with laughter.

  Me: She came from nowhere! I was not prepared! I have not had sex for weeks!

  Richie, laughing hysterically: Ah, Lee! Do you think she noticed?

  Me: No. Definitely not. No.

  Richie: So maybe, then.

  Me: No. She can’t have. Too awkward to think about.

  Lock bathroom door behind me and pull toilet seat down to sit. Stare down at my legs, heart pounding.

  Richie: I have to go.

  Me: No! You can’t leave! What do I do now?

  Richie: What do you want to do now?

  Me: Run away!

  Richie: Come on, now, Lee! Calm yourself down.

  Me: This is terrible. We live together. I can’t be walking around with an erection in front of my flatmate! It’s … it’s … it’s obscene! It’s probably a crime!

  Richie: If it is, then I definitely do belong in here. Come on, man. Don’t freak out about it. Like you say, you and Kay have been broken up a few weeks and not sleeping together for a fair while before that—

  Me: How did you know that?

  Richie: Come on. It was obvious.

  Me: You haven’t seen us together for months!

  Richie: The point is, it’s not a big deal. You saw a naked chick and you started thinking with your—hang on, man, give me …

  He sighs.

  Richie: Got to go. But chill out. She didn’t see anything, it doesn’t mean anything, just relax.

  He hangs up.

  29

  TIFFY

  Rachel is positively vibrating with excitement.

  “You are joking! You are joking!” she says, bouncing in her seat. “I cannot believe he had a hard-on!”

  I groan and rub my temples, which I’ve sometimes seen tired people do on television so am hoping will make me feel better. It doesn’t work. How is Rachel so bloody perky? I was sure she drank nearly as much as me.

  “It’s not funny,” I tell her. “And I said he might have done. I’m not saying he definitely did.”

  “Oh, please,” she says. “You’re not so out of action that you’ve forgotten what that looks like. Three men in one night! You are literally living the dream.”

  I ignore her. The head of Editorial luckily found it funny that I was late, but I still have a huge pile of work to get done today and it hasn’t helped my to-do list that I arrived over an hour late.

  “Stop pretending to check those proofs,” Rachel says. “We need a plan of action!”

  “For what?”

  “Well, what now? Are you calling Ken the hermit? Going for a drink with Justin? Or jumping in the shower with Leon?”

  “I’m going back to my desk,” I tell her, grabbing the stack of proofs. “This has not been a productive session.”

  She sings “Maneater” at me as I walk away.

  * * *

  Rachel is right about the plan of action, though. I need to work out what the hell I’m going to do about the Leon situation. If we don’t speak soon, there’s a serious risk this morning will ruin everything—no more notes, no more leftovers, just silent, painful awkwardness. Humiliation is like mold: Ignore it and the whole place will get smelly and green.

  I’ve got to … I’ve got to text him.

  No. I’ve got to call him, I decide. It needs to be drastic. I check the clock. Well, he’ll be asleep now—it’s two in the afternoon—so I’ve got a glorious four hours or so in which I can’t do anything about this situation. I suppose I should probably use that time to go through the proofs of Katherin’s book, especially now that there’s a real danger that quite a lot of people might actually buy it, what with all this social-media buzz about crochet.

  Instead, after a long night and morning of trying very hard not to, I think about Justin.

  And then, because I am not good at thinking on my own, I ring Mo to talk abou
t Justin. He sounds a little groggy when he answers the phone, like he’s just woken up.

  “Where are you?” I ask.

  “At home. Why?”

  “You sound weird. Isn’t it Gerty’s day off?”

  “Yes, she’s here, too.”

  “Oh.” It’s odd to think of the two of them just hanging out together without me. It just … doesn’t work as a combination. From freshers week of uni it was Gerty and me, inseparable; we took Mo under our collective wing at the end of first year, after seeing him solo dancing very enthusiastically to “Drop It Like It’s Hot” and deciding anyone with those moves needed to be involved in all our nights out. After that we did everything as a three, and if a rare pairing did come about it was always me plus Gerty or me plus Mo. “Put loudspeaker on?” I say, trying not to sound petulant.

  “Hang on. Hey, you’re all set.”

  “Let me guess,” Gerty says, “you’ve fallen in love with Leon’s brother.”

  I pause. “Normally your radar is pretty good, but you’re way off.”

  “Damn. Leon, then?”

  “Can’t I just call you for a chat?”

  “This isn’t a chat,” Gerty says. “You don’t call at two in the afternoon for chats. You WhatsApp for that.”

  “This,” I tell her, “is why I rang Mo.”

  “So? What’s the drama?” Gerty asks.

  “Justin,” I say, too tired to argue with her.

  “Ooh! An oldie but a goodie.”

  I roll my eyes. “Can you let Mo chime in with something supportive, at least occasionally?”

  “What happened, Tiffy?” Mo says.

  I fill them in on my evening. Or at least, an abridged version of it—I don’t mention the dreadful kiss incident. It’s just a lot of drama to fit in one phone call, especially when you’re trying to check page numbers while you’re talking.

  Also, as well as that, there’s the whole I-desperately-don’t-want-to-think-about-it thing.

  “This all sounds like pretty typical Justin behavior, Tiffy,” Mo says.

  “Well done for saying no,” Gerty says, with surprising fervor. “It’s fucking creepy that he was at the cruise, and now this? I wish you could see how—” There’s a muffled noise and Gerty stops talking. I get the sense that Mo may have poked her.