The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  “Right.” Leon sets my foot down gently. “I’d say you have officially sprained your ankle. You probably don’t need to bother with five hours in A&E, to be honest. But we can go if you’d like?”

  I shake my head. I feel like I’m in safe hands right here.

  Someone knocks at the door and then a middle-aged lady appears with two steaming mugs and a pile of clothes.

  “Oh, perfect. Thank you.” Leon grabs the mugs from her and passes one to me. It’s hot chocolate, and it smells amazing.

  “I took the liberty of making yours an Irish one,” the woman says, giving me a wink. “I’m Babs. How’re you holding up?”

  I take a deep, shuddering breath. “A lot better now I’m here. Thank you so much.”

  “Could you just stay with her while I change?” Leon asks Babs.

  “I don’t need…” I start coughing again.

  “Watch her like a hawk,” Leon says warningly, and then he’s slipped off to the bathroom.

  40

  LEON

  Lean back on bathroom door, eyes closed. No concussion and a sprained ankle. Could have been much, much worse.

  Got time to think about how cold I am now; shrug off my wet clothes and turn the shower on to hot. I tap out a quick thank-you text to Socha. Phone is thankfully still functional, if a little damp—it was in my trouser pocket.

  I get in the shower and make myself stand until I stop shivering. Remind myself that Babs is with her. Still, dress faster than I have ever dressed before, and don’t even bother with belt to keep up ridiculously oversized trousers that Babs has found for me; will just wear them low, nineties style.

  When I head back into the bedroom, Tiffy has scraped her hair up into a bun. There’s a touch of pink in her lips and cheeks again. She smiles up at me and I feel something shift in my chest. Hard to describe. Maybe like a lock clicking into place.

  Me: How’s that hot chocolate going down?

  Tiffy pushes the other mug along the bedside table toward me.

  Tiffy: Try yours and see.

  Someone knocks at the door; I take the hot chocolate with me as I go to answer it. It’s Johnny White the Sixth, looking very worried and also wearing comically large trousers.

  JW the Sixth: How’s our girl?

  I have a feeling Tiffy becomes “our girl” easily—she’s the sort of person distant relatives and absent neighbors still like to claim some credit for.

  Tiffy: I’m fine, Mr. White! Don’t you worry about me.

  She lapses into an ill-timed fit of wet coughing. JW the Sixth fidgets in the doorway, looking miserable.

  JW the Sixth: I’m so sorry. I feel responsible—it was my idea to go swimming. I should have checked you could both swim!

  Tiffy, once recovered: I can swim, Mr. White. I just lost my footing and got a little panicked, that’s all. Blame the rock that knackered my ankle if you feel the need to blame something.

  JW the Sixth looks a little less anxious now.

  Babs: Well, you two are staying here tonight. No arguments. It’s on the house.

  Both Tiffy and I try to protest, but again Tiffy descends into spluttery half coughing, half retching, taking some of the sting out of our argument that she doesn’t need to stay in bed.

  Me: I should at least go—you don’t need me now that—

  Babs: Nonsense. It’s no extra bother to me, is it? Besides, Tiffy needs looking after, and my medical knowledge doesn’t extend much further than what a glass of whiskey can do. John, do you want a lift home?

  JW the Sixth tries to argue his way out of this favor also, but Babs is one of those formidable nice people who will not take no for an answer. It’s a good five minutes before they agree and head out the door. When they’re gone the click of the door makes me breathe out in relief. Hadn’t realized how much I want quiet.

  Tiffy: Are you all right?

  Me: Fine. Just not a fan of …

  Tiffy: Commotion?

  I nod.

  Tiffy smiles, pulling her blankets up closer.

  Tiffy: You’re a nurse—how can you avoid it?

  Me: Work is different. But it still drains me. I need quiet afterward.

  Tiffy: You’re an introvert.

  Make a face. I’m not a fan of those Myers Briggs–type things that tell you your personality type, like horoscopes for businesspeople.

  Me: Guess so.

  Tiffy: I’m the opposite. I can’t process anything without calling Gerty, or Mo, or Rachel.

  Me: You want to call someone now?

  Tiffy: Oh, shit, my phone was in my …

  She spots the pile of her clothes, brought up from the shoreline by one of the hundred helpful strangers who followed us up the beach in procession. Tiffy claps hands in glee.

  Tiffy: Would you pass my trousers?

  I hand them over and watch as she rummages in the pockets for her phone.

  Me: I’ll go get us some lunch. How long do you need?

  Tiffy pushes a few stray strands of hair back from her face, looking up at me, phone in hand. That clicked-in lock hums in my chest again.

  Tiffy: Half an hour?

  Me: Got it.

  41

  TIFFY

  “Are you all right?” is Mo’s first question. “Have you been to A&E?”

  Gerty, on the other hand, is focused on the real issue. “Why didn’t you tell us about the bathroom incident before? Are you in love with this man you’re sharing a bed with, and hiding it because you’re going to end up sleeping with him and I explicitly told you that the first rule of flatsharing is that you don’t sleep with your flatmate?”

  “Yes, I’m fine, and no, but Leon examined my ankle with some help from a friend of his who’s a doctor. I just need lots of rest, apparently. And whiskey, depending on whose medical opinion you’re asking.”

  “My question now,” Gerty says.

  “No, I’m not in love with him,” I tell her, shifting my weight on the bed and wincing as my ankle throbs. “And I’m not going to sleep with him. He’s my friend.”

  “Is he single?”

  “Well, yes, actually. But—”

  “Sorry, but just to check, Tiffy, has anyone examined you for—”

  “Oh shut up, Mo,” Gerty interrupts. “She’s with a trained nurse. The woman is fine. Tiffy, are you sure you’re not suffering from Stockholm Syndrome?”

  “Pardon?”

  “An A&E nurse is very different from a palliative care nurse—”

  “Stockholm Syndrome?”

  “Yes,” Gerty says. “This man gave you a home when you were homeless. You are forced to sleep in his bed, and now you think you are in love with him.”

  “I don’t think I’m in love with him,” I remind her patiently. “I told you, he’s my friend.”

  “But this was a date,” Gerty says.

  “Tiffy, you do seem fine, but I just want to double check—I’m on NHS Choices now—can you weight-bear on that ankle?”

  “You with Google is not better than a nurse with a doctor on the phone,” Gerty tells Mo.

  “It wasn’t a date,” I say, even though I’m pretty sure it was. I wish Mo and Gerty hadn’t got into this new habit of answering the phone together whenever they’re both home. I called Mo because I wanted to talk to Mo. It’s not that I don’t like talking to Gerty, it’s just that that is a very different experience, and not necessarily one you want after nearly drowning.

  “You’re going to need to explain this whole Johnny White thing to me again,” Gerty says.

  I check the time on my phone screen. Only five minutes until Leon gets back with lunch.

  “Listen, I have to go,” I say. “But Mo, I’m fine. And Gerty, calm your protective instincts, please. He’s not trying to sleep with me or entrap me or lock me away in his basement, OK? In fact, I have very little reason to think that he’s at all interested in me.”

  “But you are interested in him?” Gerty insists.

  “Goodbye, Gerty!”

&
nbsp; “Look after yourself, Tiffy,” Mo manages to say before Gerty hangs up (she’s not big on goodbyes).

  I dial Rachel’s number without pause.

  * * *

  “So the key point here,” Rachel says, “is that you are yet to have an interaction with Leon that doesn’t involve you stripping down to your underwear.”

  “Um.” I’m grinning.

  “You better keep your clothes on from now on. He’ll think you’re a—what’s it called when you’re one of those men who likes exposing themselves in the park?”

  “Hey!” I protest. “I do not—”

  “I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking, my friend. You’re definitely not about to kick the bucket?”

  “I feel fine, really. Just achy and exhausted.”

  “All right, then. In that case, make the most of your free hotel stay, and call me if you find yourself accidentally whipping your bra off during dinner.”

  There’s a knock at the door.

  “Shit. Got to go, bye!” I hiss into the phone. “Come in,” I call. I managed to put on the jumper Babs left me while Leon was out, so I’m now decent from the waist up, at least.

  Leon smiles at me and holds up a very full bag of what smells like fish and chips. I gasp in delight.

  “Proper seaside food!”

  “And…” He reaches into the bag and pulls out another one, handing it to me. I look inside: red velvet cupcakes with cream-cheese icing.

  “Cake! The best kind of cake!”

  “Doctor’s orders.” He pauses. “Well, Socha said, ‘get her some food.’ The fried fish and cupcakes were a bit of artistic license.”

  His hair is nearly dry; the salt has turned it even curlier, and it keeps springing from behind his ears. He catches me watching him try and smooth it back and grins ruefully.

  “You’re not meant to see me looking like this,” he says.

  “Oh, and this is exactly how you’re meant to see me,” I say, gesturing in the vague direction of my enormous baggy jumper, pale face, and crazy matted hair. “‘Drowned rat’ is a favorite look of mine.”

  “Mermaid-like?” Leon suggests.

  “Funny you should mention that. I do actually have a fin under here,” I say, patting the blanket over my legs.

  Leon smiles at that, spreading out the fish and chips on the bed between us. He kicks off his shoes and sits, careful to avoid my swollen ankle.

  The food is amazing. It’s just what I need, though I wouldn’t have known it until I smelled it. Leon got pretty much every add-on to fish and chips you can imagine—mushy peas, onion rings, curry sauce, pickled onions, even one of those plastic-looking sausages they always have behind the glass—and we eat our way through it all. When it comes to the cupcake, finishing the last mouthfuls requires serious mental effort.

  “Nearly dying is exhausting,” I declare, suddenly overcome by sleepiness.

  “Nap,” Leon tells me.

  “You’re not worried about me falling asleep and never waking up again?” I ask, eyelids already drooping. Being warm and full is amazing. I’ll never take being warm and full for granted ever again.

  “I’ll just wake you every five minutes to check you’re not suffering from brain trauma,” he says.

  My eyes fly open. “Every five minutes?”

  He chuckles, already gathering up his stuff and heading for the door. “See you in a few hours.”

  “Oh. Nurses shouldn’t make jokes,” I call after him, but I don’t think he hears me. Maybe I only think of saying it. I’m slipping off to sleep even as I hear the door close behind him.

  * * *

  I wake with a jolt that sends a shock of pain through my ankle. Crying out, I look around me. Floral wallpaper. Am I at home? Who’s that man in the chair by the door, reading …

  “Twilight?”

  Leon blinks at me, putting the book down in his lap. “You went from unconscious to judgmental very quickly there.”

  “I did think this was a weird dream for a second,” I say. “But my dream version of you would have much better book taste.”

  “It’s all Babs had to offer. How’re you feeling?”

  I give the question some thought. My ankle is throbbing and my throat feels horribly sore and salty, but the ache in my head has disappeared. I can feel that my stomach muscles are going to be painful from all the coughing, though.

  “Much better, actually.”

  He smiles at that. He is very cute when he smiles. When he’s serious his face is a little severe—fine-boned brow, cheekbones, jaw—but when he’s smiling, it’s all soft lips and dark eyes and white teeth.

  I check the time on my phone, more to break eye contact than anything—and I’m suddenly very aware that I’m lying in bed, hair mussed and bare legs only half hidden under the blankets.

  “Half six?”

  “You were sleepy.”

  “What have you been doing this whole time?” I ask him. He shows me his bookmark—he’s nearly read the whole of Twilight.

  “This Bella Swan is a very popular lady, for one who declares herself to be so unattractive,” he tells me. “Seems every single man in the book who isn’t her father is in love with her.”

  I nod solemnly. “It’s very hard being Bella.”

  “Sparkly boyfriends can’t be easy,” Leon agrees. “You want to try walking on that ankle of yours?”

  “Can’t I just stay in bed forever?”

  “Dinner and more whiskey if you can get downstairs.”

  I shoot him a look. He looks back, perfectly placid, and I realize what an excellent nurse he must be.

  “Fine. But you need to look away first, so I can put my trousers on.”

  He doesn’t say anything about the fact that he’s already seen way too much for turning around to be necessary; he just swivels in the armchair and reopens Twilight.

  42

  LEON

  Definitely don’t get drunk. Am telling myself this on repeat, but still can’t stop sipping my drink. It’s a whiskey on the rocks. Horrible. Or it would be if Babs hadn’t said it was on the house, which instantly made it much more appetizing.

  We’re at a rickety wooden table with a sea view and a teapot with a big fat candle stuck in it. Tiffy is delighted with teapot candle holder. Cue animated conversation with waiting staff about interior design (or “interiors,” as they call it).

  Tiffy has her foot up and resting on a cushion, as per Socha’s orders. The other foot is now up, too—she’s basically horizontal at the table, hair thrown back and blazing against the sunset over the sea. She’s like a Renaissance painting. Whiskey has painted the color back in her cheeks and brought a slight flush to the skin of her chest, which I can’t stop looking at whenever her attention is elsewhere.

  Have barely thought about anything but her all day, even before all the drowning started. Mr. Prior’s search for Johnny White has shifted into the background—last week that project was what Kay would call my “fixation.” Now it feels like something I want because I’ve shared it with Tiffy.

  She’s telling me about her parents. Every so often she tips her head back, throws her hair farther over the back of her chair, half closes her eyes.

  Tiffy: Aromatherapy is the only one that’s stuck. Mum did candle-making for a while, but there’s no money in that and after a while she just sort of snapped and declared that she was buying the ones from Poundland again and nobody was allowed to tell her they told her so. Then she went through a really weird phase where she got into séances.

  That snaps me out of staring at her.

  Me: Séances?

  Tiffy: Yeah, you know, when you sit around a table and try and talk to dead people?

  Waiter appears at Tiffy’s foot’s chair. Looks at it, mildly puzzled, but doesn’t comment. You get the impression they’re used to all sorts here, including bedraggled people with their feet up as they eat.

  Waiter: Would you like a pudding?

  Tiffy: Oh, no, I’m stuffed, t
hanks.

  Waiter: Babs says it’s on the house.

  Tiffy, without pause: Sticky toffee pudding, please.

  Me: Same here.

  Tiffy: All this free stuff. It’s like a dream come true. I should drown more often.

  Me: Please don’t.

  She lifts her head to look at me properly, her eyes a little sleepy, and holds my gaze for a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary.

  Clear throat. Swallow. Flounder for subject.

  Me: Your mum did séances?

  Tiffy: Oh, yeah. So for a couple of years while I was at secondary school I’d come home to find all the curtains drawn and a bunch of people saying, “Please make yourself known,” and “Knock once for yes, twice for no.” I reckon at least 60 percent of the visitations were actually just me getting home and chucking my bag in the cupboard under the stairs.

  Me: So what was after séances?

  Tiffy thinks about it. Sticky toffee pudding arrives; it’s enormous and drenched in toffee sauce. Tiffy makes an excited noise which makes my stomach clench. Ridiculous. Can’t be getting turned on by a woman moaning about pudding. Must pull self together. Sip more whiskey.

  Tiffy, mouth full of pudding: She made curtains for a bit. But the upfront costs were massive, so that turned into making doilies. And then it was aromatherapy.

  Me: Is that why we have so many scented candles?

  Tiffy smiles.

  Tiffy: Yeah—the ones in the bathroom are all carefully chosen with scents that help you relax.

  Me: They have the opposite effect on me. Have to move them every time I want to shower.

  Tiffy gives me a cheeky look over her spoon.

  Tiffy: Some people are beyond aromatherapeutic help. You know, my mum chose my perfume, too. It “reflects and enhances my personality,” apparently.

  I think of that first day when I walked into the flat and smelled her perfume—cut flowers and spice markets—and how odd it felt, having someone else’s scent in my flat. It’s never strange now. Would be odd to come home to anything else.