by Beth O'Leary
“So, uh…” he begins.
“Sorry,” I say, almost at the same time. We wait again, and then I find myself doing a stupid little awkward laugh I’m sure I’ve never done before. What an excellent time to wheel out a brand new awkward laugh.
“You go,” he says.
“Let’s just … I didn’t call to talk about the other day,” I begin, “so let’s just pretend that whole shower situation was a strange shared dream for the duration of this conversation so I can tell you my good news without us both feeling incredibly awkward?”
I think I hear him smile. “Deal.”
“Gerty took Richie’s case.”
All I hear is a sharp intake of breath, and then silence. I wait until it has been a painfully long time, but I have a feeling Leon is the kind of person who needs time to absorb stuff the same way Mo does, so I resist the urge to say anything else until he’s ready.
“Gerty took Richie’s case,” Leon repeats, in a wondering sort of way.
“Yeah. She took it. And that’s not even the good news!” I find I’m bouncing slightly on the sofa cushions.
“What’s … the good news?” he asks, sounding slightly faint.
“She’s got his appeal moved forward by three months. You were looking at January next year, right? So now we’re talking, what…”
“October. October. That’s…”
“Soon! Really soon!”
“That’s two months away! We’re not ready!” Leon says, suddenly sounding panicked. “What if—does she—”
“Leon. Breathe.”
More silence. I can hear the distant sound of Leon taking deep, slow breaths. My cheeks are starting to hurt from suppressing an enormous grin.
“She’s an amazing lawyer,” I tell him. “And she wouldn’t take the case if she didn’t think Richie stood a chance. Really.”
“Don’t do this to me if she’s going to—to pull out, or…” His voice comes out strangled, and my stomach twists in sympathy.
“I’m not telling you she’s definitely going to get him out of there, but I think there’s reason to hope again. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.”
He lets out a long, slow breath, half-laughing. “Does Richie know?”
“Not yet, I don’t think. She wrote to him yesterday—how long do letters take to get there?”
“Depends—they tend to get held up at prison before they get to him. It means I get to tell him myself, though, when he next calls.”
“Gerty will want to talk to you about the case soon, too,” I say.
“A lawyer who wants to talk about Richie’s case,” Leon says. “Lawyer. Who. Wants. To…”
“Yeah,” I interrupt, laughing.
“Tiffy,” he says, suddenly serious. “I cannot thank you enough.”
“No, shh,” I begin.
“Really. It’s … I cannot tell you how much this means to—to Richie. And to me.”
“I just passed on Richie’s letter.”
“That was more than anyone else has done off their own back for my brother.”
I fidget. “Well, you tell Richie he owes me a letter.”
“He’ll write. I should go. But—thank you. Tiffy. I’m so glad it was you, and not the drug dealer or the man with the hedgehog.”
“Pardon?”
“Don’t worry,” he says quickly. “See you later.”
32
LEON
New string of notes (Tiffy always uses several. Never has enough room):
Leon, can I ask … What’s the deal with the neighbors?! I’ve only ever seen the strange man in Flat 5 (do you think he knows about the hole in those trackies, by the way? He lives alone, maybe nobody has told him!). I think Flat 1 is those two old ladies who hang out at the bus stop on the corner reading gory true crime novels. But what about Flat 4 and 2? xx
Flat 4 is nice middle-aged man with unfortunate crack habit. Always assumed Flat 2 belongs to the foxes. x
Written on back of draft manuscript on coffee table:
Ah, yes! The foxes. Well, I hope they’re paying rent. Did you notice Fatima Fox has had three little cubs?!
Below:
… Fatima Fox?
And, speaking of rent. Have an alert in my phone saying we’ve hit six months since you moved in. Technically end of your lease I think? You want to stay?
Then, added that evening post-sleep:
As in, hope you want to stay. Don’t need the money so badly anymore what with scarf sales and new, unbelievably excellent free lawyer. But not sure what flat would look like without you in it now. Could not survive without beanbag, for starters. x
Beneath this, Tiffy has sketched a group of foxes on a sofa, with heading Flat 2. Each fox is carefully labelled.
Fatima Fox! She’s the mama fox. The chief vixen, if you will.
Florentina Fox. The cheeky second-in-command. Her usual haunt is the smelly corner by the bins.
Fliss Fox. The whimsical young chancer. Generally found attempting to enter the building via a window.
Fabio Fox. The resident dog fox. (This is actually what male foxes are called but I do also imagine he’s a bit of a dog.)
The new babies, as yet unnamed by me. Would you like to do the honors?
Below this:
Yes, please, the beanbag and I would love to stay a while longer. Shall we say another six months? xx
Another six months. Perfect. Done x
New note, beside empty rocky road tray:
I’m sorry, WHAT? Noggle, Stanley, and Archibald?
They don’t even begin with F!
Same note, now left beside large plate of shepherd’s pie:
What can I say. Fabio Fox liked Noggle. The other two were Fatima’s idea.
Also, sorry, couldn’t help noticing recycling bin contents when putting it out today. Are you OK? x
Shepherd’s pie all gone. New note:
Yeah, don’t worry, I’m actually really good. A purge of ex-related memorabilia was long overdue, and it has also freed up a lot more under-bed space for storing scarfs. (In case you were wondering, we’re really not Team Ex anymore.) xx
Ah, no? Must say I’d become less keen on Ex anyway. Well, more scarf space is certainly welcome. Got my foot caught in one yesterday—it was lying on bedroom floor waiting to snag the unwary. x
Oops, sorry, sorry, I know I must stop leaving clothes on the bedroom floor! Also, apologies if this is way too personal but have you bought, like, ENTIRELY new boxers? Suddenly all the old ones with amusing cartoon characters are never on the clothes horse, and the flat has become an homage to Mr. Klein whenever you do laundry.
And while we’re on the subject of exes … Have you heard anything from Kay? xx
New double Post-it. Very occasionally, I run out of room. Also, thought quite hard about what to say in this one.
Saw her last weekend, at an old friend’s wedding. Was weird. Nice. Chatted as friends, and felt good. Richie was right: relationship had ended long before it ended.
Eh. Yes, did a general clothes overhaul. Realized I hadn’t bought new clothes in approx. five years. Also, became suddenly aware that a woman lives in this flat and sees my laundry.
Seems you’ve been shopping, too. I like the blue and white dress on the back of the door. Looks like the sort of one the Famous Five might wear for going on adventures. x
Thanks ☺ It feels like the perfect time for an adventure dress. It’s summer, I’m single, the foxes are frolicking across the tarmac, the pigeons are singing from the drainpipes … Life. Is. Good. Xx
SEPTEMBER
33
TIFFY
I’m sitting on the balcony crying like a toddler who’s dropped their ice cream. Full on, stuttering, mouth-pulled-wide crying.
The sudden rememberings are striking at entirely random times now, just bobbing up out of nowhere and sending me absolutely reeling. This one was particularly nasty: I was minding my own business heating up some soup and then BAM, up it popped—t
he night Justin came round in February, before the Facebook message, and brought Patricia. He’d looked at me with total disgust, barely saying a word to me. Then, when Patricia was out in the hallway, he’d kissed me goodbye on the lips, one hand on the back of my neck. Like I was his. For a moment, as I was remembering it, I felt with absolute horror that I still was.
So. Despite me being technically much happier, this remembering thing keeps happening and ruining it. It is clear that I have some problems to confront here, and my diversionary tactics are no longer serving me. I have to think about this.
Thinking time means I need Mo and Gerty. They arrive together, an hour or so after I text them. As Gerty pours out glasses of white wine, I realize I’m nervous. I don’t want to talk. But then once I start I can’t really stop, and it all comes out in this big garbled mess: the memories, the old stuff from the very start, all of it right through to the flowers he sent me last week.
Eventually I trail off, exhausted. I down the rest of the glass of wine.
“Let’s not beat around the bush,” says Gerty, who has literally never beaten around a single bush in her whole life. “You’ve got a crazy ex-boyfriend, and he knows where you live.”
My pulse starts to quicken; it feels like there’s something trapped in my chest.
Mo shoots Gerty the sort of look that usually only Gerty is allowed to give people. “I’ll talk,” he says, “and you can be in charge of the wine. OK?”
Gerty looks like someone’s just slapped her in the face. But then, curiously, she turns her head away from him, and from where I’m sitting I can see she’s smiling.
Weird.
“I wish I hadn’t said I’d go for a drink with him in October,” I say, faced with Mo’s listening face. “Why did I say that?”
“I’m not sure you did say that, did you? I think he chose to take it that way,” Mo says. “But you don’t have to see him. You don’t owe him anything.”
“Do you two remember all of this?” I ask abruptly. “I’m not imagining it?”
Mo pauses for a moment, but Gerty doesn’t miss a beat.
“Of course we do. I remember every bloody minute of it. He was vile to you. He’d tell you where to be and how to get there, and then he’d walk you there because you wouldn’t be able to find your way on your own. He’d make every argument your fault, and he wouldn’t give up until you were sorry. He’d ditch you and then pick you up again at a moment’s notice. He told you you were overweight and weird and nobody else would want you, even though you are clearly a goddess of a woman and he ought to have felt lucky to have you. It was terrible. We hated him. And if you hadn’t banned me from talking about him, I would have told you that every bloody day.”
“Oh,” I say, in a small voice.
“Is that how it felt to you?” Mo asks, with the air of a handyman with limited tools trying to patch up the damage done by a bomb going off.
“I … I remember being really happy with him,” I say. “As well as being, you know, really bloody miserable.”
“He wasn’t horrible to you all the time,” Gerty begins.
“He wouldn’t have been able to keep you with him if he was,” Mo goes on. “He knew that. He’s a smart guy, Tiffy. He knew how to…”
“Play you,” Gerty finishes.
Mo winces at her choice of words.
“But I think we were happy together once.” I don’t know why this feels important. I don’t like the thought of everyone seeing me in that relationship and thinking I was an idiot for being with someone who treated me that way.
“Sure,” Mo says, nodding. “Especially at the start.”
“Right,” I say. “At the start.”
We sip our wine in silence for a while. I feel very odd. Like I ought to be crying, and I sort of want to be crying, but there’s a strange tightness in my eyes that’s making tears impossible.
“Well. Thanks. You know, for trying. And sorry for … making you stop talking about him,” I say, looking down at my feet.
“It’s all right. At least that meant you would still see us,” Mo says. “You had to come to this on your own, Tiff. As tempting as it was to bulldoze in and whisk you away from him, you would have just gone back.”
I muster the courage to glance up at Gerty. She holds my gaze; her expression is fierce. I can’t imagine how hard she found it sticking to her word and not mentioning Justin.
I wonder how on earth Mo persuaded her to leave me to do this on my own. He was right, though—I would have just pushed them away if they’d told me to leave Justin. The thought is faintly nauseating.
“You’re doing great, Tiff,” Mo says, topping up my wine. “Just hold on to what you’re figuring out. It might be hard to remember it all the time, but it’s important. So do your best.”
* * *
Somehow, when Mo says something, it seems to make it true.
It is so hard to remember. One week with no sudden memories or random Justin appearances, and I waver. I wobble. I almost topple altogether and decide I made the whole thing up.
Thankfully Mo is there to talk to. We go through incidents as I remember them—shouted arguments, subtle jabs, the even subtler ways my independence was eroded. I can’t believe how not-OK my relationship with Justin was, but even more than that, I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed. I think that will take a while to sink in in itself.
Thank god for friends and flatmates. Leon has no idea this is all going on, of course, but seems to have clocked that I need some distraction—he’s cooking more, and if we don’t speak for a while he’ll start a new thread of notes. It used to always be me that did that—I get the feeling that initiating conversation is not something Leon is particularly keen on doing, as a rule.
This one is on the fridge when I get home from work with Rachel, who’s come round so I can cook her dinner (she says I owe her indefinite free meals because I’ve ruined her life by commissioning Crochet Your Way):
Hunt for Johnny White is going poorly. Got drunk under the table by Johnny White the Fourth at very grimy pub near Ipswich. Nearly had a repeat of our memorable bathroom collision: slept in and was extremely late x
Rachel raises her eyebrows at me, reading it over my shoulder. “Memorable, eh?”
“Oh, shut up. You know what he means.”
“I believe I do,” she says. “He means: I keep thinking about you in your underwear. Do you think about me naked?”
I chuck an onion at her. “Dice that and make yourself useful,” I say, but I can’t help smiling.
34
LEON
Already September. Summer starting to cool. Never thought it possible that time could pass quickly when Richie was in prison, but he says the same—his days move like they should, instead of dragging and trailing and forcing him to feel every minute.
It’s all because of Gerty. I’ve only met her a few times but we speak on the phone every few days; often the solicitor joins the call, too. Barely ever spoke to last solicitor. This one seems to be endlessly doing things. Amazing.
Gerty is brusque beyond the point of rudeness, but I like her—she does not seem to have the capacity for bullshitting (opposite of Sal?). She’s often in the flat, and has taken to joining Tiffy in writing me notes. Thankfully, though, it’s very easy to tell them apart. These two are side by side on breakfast bar:
Hey! I’m sorry to hear about that two-day hangover—I feel your pain, and recommend Wotsits. However … no WAY does your hair get curlier on hangover days! That just can’t be a thing, because there is no upside to a hangover. And, from my limited knowledge of what you look like, I’m betting the curlier your hair is the cooler you look. xx
Leon—tell Richie to call me. He has not supplied me with the answers to the ten-page list of enquiries I sent him last week. Please remind him that I am an extremely impatient person who is usually paid a lot for reviewing things. G
* * *
On way back from the last Richie visit, I popped in to see a Johnny
White. He lives in a care home north of London, and, within moments, I felt sure he was not our guy. Wife and seven children was strong sign (though, obviously, not conclusive), but then, after a very difficult conversation, I discovered he only served in the army for three weeks before being shipped home with a gangrenous leg.
This resulted in a long conversation about gangrene. Felt a lot like being at work, except much more awkward.
The following week Mr. Prior is unwell. Find myself surprisingly distressed. Mr. Prior is a very old man—it’s entirely to be expected. My job is to make him comfortable. Has been from the first day I met him. But I always thought I’d find him the love of his life before he had to go, and none of my five Johnny Whites has been any use at all. Three to go, but still.
I was naïve. Pretty sure Kay said so at the time.
* * *
On the boiler:
So, if you’ve reached this point, you’ve probably figured out that the boiler is broken. But don’t worry, Leon, I have excellent news for you! I’ve already called a plumber and she is going to come tomorrow evening to sort it. Until then you’ll have to shower in ICE-COLD WATER but actually if you’ve come to look at the boiler you may well have already done that, in which case, the worst is over. I recommend curling up in the beanbag with a hot cup of spiced apple tea (yes, I bought a new fruit tea. No, we don’t already have too many in the cupboard) and our lovely Brixton blanket. That’s what I did, and it worked a treat xx
Not sure how I feel about it being our Brixton blanket, assuming she means the ratty multicolored thing I’m always having to throw off the bed. Is definitely one of the worst objects in the flat.
Settle down on beanbag with latest variety of fruit tea and think about Tiffy, here, in this spot, just a few hours before me. Wet hair, bare shoulders. Wrapped in just a towel and this blanket.
Blanket isn’t so bad. It’s … characterful. Quirky. Maybe I’m coming round to it.