by Beth O'Leary
35
TIFFY
This is my first session with Someone Other Than Mo.
Mo himself suggested it. He said it would benefit me to do proper counseling and talk to a person who didn’t already know me. And then Rachel told me that, unbelievably, our employee benefits actually include up to fifteen sessions of counseling, paid for by Butterfingers. I have no idea why they’re willing to provide that but not pay above minimum wage—maybe they’re sick of employees leaving on stress.
So here I am. It is very weird. Someone Other Than Mo is called Lucie and is wearing a gigantic cricket jumper as a dress, which obviously immediately makes me like her and ask her where she shops. We talked about vintage stores in South London for a while, and then she got me a water, and now here we are, in her office, facing one another in matching armchairs. I’m extremely nervous, though I haven’t got a clue why.
“So Tiffy, what was it that made you want to come and see me today?” Lucie asks.
I open my mouth and close it again. God, there’s so much to explain. Where do I even begin?
“Just start with that,” Lucie says. She has Mo’s mindreading skills, clearly—they must teach them that when they’re accredited. “The thing that made you want to pick up the phone and make an appointment.”
“I want to fix whatever the hell it was my ex-boyfriend did to me,” I say, and then pause, startled. How have I managed to say that outright to a complete stranger within five minutes of meeting her? How embarrassing.
But Lucie doesn’t even blink. “Sure,” she says. “Would you like to tell me a bit more about that?”
* * *
“Are you healed?” Rachel asks me, plonking a coffee down on my desk.
Ah, coffee, elixir of the overworked. Recently it has overtaken tea in my affections—a sign of how little I’m sleeping. I blow Rachel a kiss as she makes her way over to her screen. As per usual, we continue the conversation on instant messenger.
Tiffany [9:07 a.m.]: It was really weird. I literally told her the most embarrassing stuff about me within like ten minutes of meeting her.
Rachel [9:08 a.m.]: Did you tell her about when you vomited in your hair on the night bus?
Tiffany [9:10 a.m.]: Well, that didn’t actually come up.
Rachel [9:11 a.m.]: How about the time you broke that guy’s penis at university?
Tiffany [9:12 a.m.]: Didn’t come up, either.
Rachel [9:12 a.m.]: That’s what he said.
Tiffany [9:13 a.m.]: Does that joke work?
Rachel [9:15 a.m.]: Well, anyway, I am now reassured that I know more of your embarrassing secrets than this new imposter into your affections. OK. Go on.
Tiffany [9:18 a.m.]: She didn’t really say much. Even less than Mo does. I thought she’d tell me what was wrong with me. But instead I kind of figured some stuff out all on my own … which I totally couldn’t have done without her sitting there. So weird.
Rachel [9:18 a.m.]: What kind of stuff?
Tiffany [9:19 a.m.]: Like … Justin was cruel sometimes. And controlling. And other bad stuff.
Rachel [9:22 a.m.]: Can I just say, I officially stand corrected on the Justin issue. Gerty is right. He’s scum of the earth.
Tiffany [9:23 a.m.]: You realize you just typed “Gerty is right”?
Rachel [9:23 a.m.]: I forbid you to tell her.
Tiffany [9:23 a.m.]: Screenshot already sent.
Rachel [9:24 a.m.]: Bitch. All right, so you’ll go again?
Tiffany [9:24 a.m.]: Three sessions this week.
Rachel [9:24 a.m.]: Blimey.
Tiffany [9:25 a.m.]: I have this fear that because the first flashback happened when that Ken guy kissed me …
Rachel [9:26 a.m.]: Yes?
Tiffany [9:26 a.m.]: What if that’s what happens now? What if Justin has, like, reprogrammed me, and I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO KISS A MAN AGAIN?!
Rachel [9:29 a.m.]: I mean, that is fucking terrifying.
Tiffany [9:30 a.m.]: Thanks, Rachel.
Rachel [9:31 a.m.]: You should see someone about that.
Tiffany [9:33 a.m.]: [glaring emoji] Thank you, Rachel.
Rachel [9:34 a.m.]: Oh, come on. I know that made you laugh. As in, I literally just watched you laugh and then try and turn it into a cough when you realized the head of Editorial was walking past.
Tiffany [9:36 a.m.]: Did it work, do you think?
“Tiffy? Do you have a minute?” calls the head of Editorial.
Shit. “Do you have a minute” is always bad. If it was urgent but non-problematic, he’d just shout it across the room or send me an email with one of those passive-aggressive red exclamation marks on it. No, “do you have a minute” means it’s confidential, and that almost certainly means it’s worse than just sniggering at my desk because I’m messaging Rachel about kissing.
What’s Katherin done? Has she uploaded a picture of her vagina on Twitter, as she threatens to do literally every time I ask her to do another interview at Martin’s request?
Or is it one of the many, many books that I have completely ignored in the madness that has been Crochet Your Way? I can’t even remember their titles anymore. I’ve shifted pub dates like I’ve been playing Bananagrams, and I definitely haven’t run the changes by the head of Editorial. It’ll be that, won’t it? I’ve ignored someone’s book for so long that it’s actually gone to print without any words in it.
“Sure,” I say, pushing away from the desk in what I hope is a brisk and professional manner.
I follow him into his office. He closes the door behind me.
“Tiffy,” he begins, perching on the edge of his desk. “I know it’s been a busy few months for you.”
I swallow. “Oh, it’s been fine,” I say. “Thanks, though!”
He gives me a slightly odd look at this point, which is entirely understandable.
“You’ve done a fantastic job with Katherin’s book,” he says. “It really is a stellar piece of publishing. You spotted that trend—no, you shaped it. Really, top notch.”
I blink, bewildered. I neither spotted that trend nor shaped it—I’ve been publishing crochet books ever since I started at Butterfingers.
“Thanks?” I say, feeling a bit guilty.
“We’re so impressed with your recent work, Tiffy, that we’d like to promote you to editor,” he says.
It takes a good few seconds for the words to sink in, and when they do, I make a very peculiar choking noise.
“Are you all right?” he asks, frowning.
I clear my throat. “Fine! Thanks!” I squeak. “I mean, I just didn’t expect…”
… To ever get promoted. Literally, ever. I had entirely given up hope.
“It’s extremely well deserved,” he says, smiling benevolently.
I manage to smile back. I don’t really know what to do with myself. What I want to do is ask how much more money I’ll be getting, but there’s no dignified way to ask that question.
“Thanks so much,” I gush instead, and then I feel a bit pathetic because, let’s be honest, they should have promoted me two years ago, and it’s undignified to grovel. I draw myself up to my full height and give him a more purposeful smile. “I better get back to work,” I say. Senior people always like to hear you say that.
“Absolutely,” he says. “HR will send over details of the salary increase et cetera.”
I like the sound of that et cetera.
Congratulations on the promotion! Better late than never? Made you mushroom stroganoff to celebrate. x
I smile. The note is stuck on the fridge, which is already one layer deep in Post-its. My current favorite is a doodle Leon did, depicting the man in Flat 5 sitting on an enormous heap of bananas. (We still don’t know why he keeps so many banana crates in his parking space.)
I rest my forehead against the fridge door for a moment, then run my fingers across the layers of paper scraps and Post-its. There’s so much here. Jokes, secrets, stories, the slow unfolding of two people whose lives
have been changing in parallel—or, I don’t know, in sync. Different times, same place.
I reach for a pen.
Thank you ☺ I’ve been doing a lot of celebratory dancing around the flat, just so you know. Like, seriously uncool, trying-to-moonwalk dancing. I can’t imagine that’s something you ever partake in, somehow …
Can I ask what you’re up to this weekend? I’m guessing you’ll be staying at your mum’s again? I just wondered if you wanted to maybe go out for a drink or something to celebrate with me. xx
Waiting for the reply makes me wish, for the very first time, that Leon and I communicated via WhatsApp like normal people. I’d kill for a little double blue tick right now. Then, when I get home, pasted carefully below my note on the fridge:
Am partial to the occasional moonwalk from kitchen to living room.
Can’t come for a drink unfortunately as I’m off hunting Johnny Whites. This one is in Brighton.
Then, just below, but in a different color pen:
Might be ridiculous idea but if you fancy a trip to the seaside you could come, too?
I’m standing in the kitchen, facing the fridge, absolutely beaming.
I’d love to come! I totally love the seaside. It legitimizes wearing a sunhat, for starters, or carrying a parasol, which are both wonderful things that I do NOT get to do enough. Where do you want to meet? xx
The response takes two days to come. I wonder if Leon is losing his nerve, but then, eventually, scribbled fast in blue ink:
Victoria station at half ten on Saturday. It’s a date! X
36
LEON
It’s a date? It’s a date?!
What has happened to me? Should have written see you there. Instead, I said it’s a date. Which it’s not. Probably. Also, am not a person who says things like it’s a date, even when it is.
Rub eyes and fidget on the spot. I’m under the departure boards at London Victoria station, along with a hundred or so other people, but while they’re all staring up at the boards, I’m keeping my eyes on the exit from the underground. Wonder if Tiffy will recognize me when I’ve got clothes on. On that point: It’s a freakishly warm day for September. Should not have worn jeans.
Check directions from Brighton station are loaded up on my phone. Check time. Check train platform. Fidget some more.
When she finally appears, there’s no danger of missing her. She’s in a canary yellow jacket and tight trousers; her orange-red hair is thrown over her shoulders and bounces as she walks. She’s also taller than most of the people streaming all around her, and is wearing yellow sandals with a heel, giving her an extra few inches on the general population.
She seems entirely oblivious of how many eyes she catches as she walks by, which only makes the whole effect more attractive.
Smile and wave as she spots me. Proceed to stand awkwardly smiling as she approaches, then, at this extremely late moment, am struck by question of whether we should hug hello. Could have spent last ten minutes of waiting time debating this. Instead, have left it until she is right in front of me, eye to eye, her cheeks flushed from the stuffy heat hanging in the station air.
She hangs back; too late for a hug.
Tiffy: Hey.
Me: Hi.
And then, simultaneously:
Tiffy: Sorry I’m late—
Me: Not seen those yellow shoes before—
Tiffy: Sorry, you go.
Me: Don’t worry, you’re hardly late.
Thank god she spoke over me. Why would I draw attention to the fact I am familiar with most of her shoes? Sounds extremely creepy.
We walk to the platform side by side. I keep glancing at her; can’t get over how tall she is, for some reason. Didn’t imagine her tall.
Tiffy looks sideways at me, catches my eye, and smiles.
Tiffy: Not what you expected?
Me: Sorry?
Tiffy: Me. Am I what you expected?
Me: Oh, I—
Tiffy quirks an eyebrow.
Tiffy: As in, before you saw me last month.
Me: Well, didn’t expect you to be so …
Tiffy: Big?
Me: I was going to say naked. But also tall, yes.
Tiffy laughs.
Tiffy: I wasn’t as naked as you were.
Me, wincing: Don’t remind me. I’m so sorry for—
Ahhh. How to finish that sentence? It might be my imagination, but her cheeks seem to be flushed a little pinker.
Tiffy: Seriously, it was my fault. You were just innocently showering.
Me: Not your fault. Everyone oversleeps.
Tiffy: Especially when they’ve drunk pretty much a whole bottle of gin.
We’re on the train now, so conversation stops as we move down the aisle. She chooses us a table seat; in a split second, I decide it’s less awkward to sit facing one another rather than side by side, but as I slide into the seat, realize my mistake. This way is very eye-contact-y.
She slips off her jacket; underneath she’s wearing a blouse covered in enormous green flowers. Her arms are bare, and the blouse drops to a low V across her chest. My inner teenager attempts to take control of my gaze and I just about catch myself in time.
Me: So—whole bottle of gin?
Tiffy: Oh yeah. Well, I was at this book launch, then Justin turned up, and—anyway, lots of gin was involved in the aftermath.
Frown.
Me: The ex? That’s … weird?
Tiffy shakes her hair out and looks a little uneasy.
Tiffy: I thought that, too, at first, and wondered if he’d tracked me down or something, but if he wanted to see me he could have just come to my work—or, apparently, my flat, judging by that bunch of flowers. I’m clearly just paranoid.
Me: Did he say that? That you were paranoid?
Tiffy, after a pause: No, he never said that exactly.
Me, catching up: Wait. You didn’t tell him where you live?
Tiffy: No. I’m not sure how he found me. Facebook or something, probably.
She rolls eyes like it’s a minor irritation, but I’m still frowning. This doesn’t sound right. Have nasty suspicion I know men like this from my mother’s life. Men who tell you you’re crazy for getting suspicious of their behavior, who know where you live when you don’t expect them to.
Me: Were you together long?
Tiffy: A couple of years. It was all very intense, though. Lots of breaking up and shouting and crying and things.
She looks slightly surprised at herself, opens her mouth as though to correct that, then thinks better of it.
Tiffy: Yeah. It was about two years in all.
Me: And your friends don’t like him?
Tiffy: They never did, actually. Not even at the start. Gerty said she got “bad vibes” even when she only saw him from far away.
Am liking Gerty more and more.
Tiffy: Anyway, so he turned up and tried to whisk me off somewhere for a drink to explain everything away, as per.
Me: You said no?
Tiffy nods.
Tiffy: I said he has to wait a while to ask me out for a drink. A couple of months, at least.
Tiffy looks out the window, eyes flicking as she watches London slide away around us.
Tiffy, quietly: I just didn’t feel like I could say no. Justin’s like that. He makes you want what he wants. He’s very … I don’t know. He owns a room straight away, you know? He’s forceful.
Try to ignore warning sirens in my head. I’m not liking this situation at all. Hadn’t got this sense of things from the notes—but maybe Tiffy herself hadn’t got this sense of things until recently. It can take people time to notice and process emotional abuse.
Tiffy: Anyway! Sorry. God. Weird.
She smiles.
Tiffy: This is a very deep conversation to have with someone you’ve only just met.
Me: We’ve not just met.
Tiffy: True. There was the memorable bathroom collision.
Another eyebrow quir
k.
Me: I meant, it feels like we’ve known each other ages.
Tiffy smiles at that.
Tiffy: It does, doesn’t it? I guess that’s why it’s so easy to talk.
Yes. It’s true: It is easy to talk, which is even more surprising to me than to her, probably, because there are about three people in the world I find it easy to talk to.
37
TIFFY
I don’t understand what compelled me to go on about Justin like that. I’ve not mentioned anything about the counseling or the flashbacks in my notes to Leon—those Post-its make me warm and fuzzy, I’m not ruining them with Justin crap—but suddenly now that I’m face-to-face with him it feels natural to talk to him about the things occupying my thoughts. He just has one of those nonjudgmental faces that makes you want to, you know … share.
We slip into silence as the train speeds through open countryside. I get the sense that Leon likes silence; it doesn’t feel as awkward as I would expect it to, more like this is his natural state. It’s strange, because when he talks he’s really engaging, albeit in a quiet, intense sort of way.
He’s looking out of the window, squinting against the sunlight, so I sneak a chance to look at him. He’s a little scruffy, in a worn gray T-shirt with a cord necklace round his neck that has the look of something he hardly ever takes off. I wonder what its significance is. Leon doesn’t strike me as the type to wear accessories for anything other than sentimental reasons.
He catches me looking and meets my gaze. My stomach flutters. Suddenly the silence feels different.
“How’s Mr. Prior?” I blurt.
Leon looks startled. “Mr. Prior?”
“Yeah. My life-saving knitter. The last time I spoke to him was at the hospice.” I give him a wry smile. “When you were busy avoiding me.”
“Ah.” He rubs the back of his neck, looking down, then shoots me a little lopsided grin. It’s so quick I almost miss it. “Wasn’t my finest moment.”
“Mmm.” I pull a mock stern face. “Do I scare you, is that it?”
“A bit.”
“A bit! Why?”
He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and pushes his hair back from his face. I think he’s nervous-fidgeting. It’s absolutely adorable.