The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  “But anyway, you’ve basically seen me naked,” I go on. “Twice. Already. So you wouldn’t have been in for any huge surprises.”

  He looks up at me this time. “Basically,” he says emphatically, “is not the same as actually. Some key differences, in fact.”

  My stomach flips. Whatever that awkwardness was last night, I definitely wasn’t imagining the sexual tension. The air is heavy with it.

  “It should be me worrying about the lack of surprises,” he says. “You’ve actually seen me naked.”

  “I did wonder … when I walked in on you in the shower, did you…”

  He disappears in the direction of the bathroom so fast I barely hear the excuse he makes as he goes. As he closes the door behind him and turns the shower on, I smile. I guess there’s my answer. Rachel will be delighted.

  46

  LEON

  Have never thought this hard about the notes before. Was much easier when I was just scribbling random thoughts to friend who I had not met. Now am carefully crafting messages to woman who has taken up residence in most of my waking thoughts.

  It’s terrible. Sit down with pen and Post-it and suddenly forget all the words. Her messages are cheeky, flirty, noisily her. This was the first after the weekend in Brighton, fixed to the bedroom door with Blu Tack:

  So, hey, roomie. How’s the transition back to nocturnal life gone today? I see that Fatima and family went through the bins again while we were away—little minxes.

  I wanted to write and say thanks again for whisking me out of the sea. Just make sure you fall in a large body of water at some point so I can return the favor, you know, in the name of equality. Also because I feel like you’d really own the whole Mr. Darcy just-out-of-the-lake look. xx

  Mine are stilted and overthought. Write them when I get in from work, then rewrite them before I walk out the door, then regret them all night in the hospice. Until I get home to a reply and feel instantly better again. Thus the cycle repeats.

  Eventually, on Wednesday, I muster the courage to leave this one on the kitchen counter:

  Weekend plans? x

  Was paralyzed by self-doubt as soon as I’d left the building and got far enough away for going back to be inconceivable. In retrospect, was a very short note. Perhaps too short for meaning to be clear? Perhaps insultingly short? Why is this so difficult?

  Now, though, I’m feeling better.

  Well I’ll be home alone this weekend. Do you fancy coming over and cooking me your mushroom stroganoff? I’ve only ever had it reheated, and I bet it’s even better fresh out the oven. xx

  I reach for a Post-it and scribble my reply.

  Rocky road for dessert? x

  * * *

  Richie: You’re nervous, aren’t you?

  Me: No! No, no.

  Richie snorts. He’s in good mood—he’s generally in a good mood now. He calls Gerty at least every other day to catch up on appeal case progress. So much to talk about, calls every other day are apparently essential. Evidence re-examined. Witnesses coming forward. And, at last, CCTV obtained.

  Me: OK. A bit nervous.

  Richie: You’ll be great, man. You know she’s into you. What’s the plan? Is tonight the night?

  Me: Of course not. Far too soon.

  Richie: Have you shaved your legs just in case?

  Don’t deign to respond to this. Richie chuckles.

  Richie: I like her, man. You’ve got a good one.

  Me: Not sure I’ve “got” her yet.

  Richie: What? You think—the ex?

  Me: She doesn’t love him anymore. But it’s complicated. I’m a bit worried about her.

  Richie: Was he a prick?

  Me: Mm.

  Richie: He hurt her?

  Gut twists at the thought.

  Me: To some degree, I think. She doesn’t really talk about it with me but … got a bad feeling about him.

  Richie: Shit, man. Are we dealing with some kind of post-trauma situation here?

  Me: You think so?

  Richie: You’re speaking to the king of the night sweats. I dunno, I haven’t met her, but if she is still processing some shit she had to deal with, all you can do is be there and let her decide when she’s ready for whatever.

  The trauma of the trial and first month in prison hit Richie about six weeks into his sentence. Shaking hands, sudden terrors, intrusive flashbacks, jumping at the slightest noises. The last part always annoyed him the most—he seemed to think that particular brand of PTSD should be reserved for people whose trauma had actually involved loud noises, like soldiers.

  Richie: And don’t try and make the decision for her. Don’t assume she can’t be feeling better yet. That’s her call.

  Me: You’re a good man, Richard Twomey.

  Richie: Hold that thought and tell it to the judges in three weeks’ time, bro.

  * * *

  Arrive at the flat at fiveish; Tiffy’s with Mo and Gerty for the day. Weird, being here at a weekend. It’s her flat now.

  Stop short of shaving legs, but do spend inordinately long time getting ready. Can’t stop thinking about where we’re each going to sleep tonight. Will I go back to Mam’s, or sleep here? We’ve already shared a bed in Brighton …

  I consider messaging to say I’ll stay at Mam’s tonight, to show goodwill. But decide that’s putting nail in coffin earlier than necessary, and is an example of making decisions for her, as advised against by Richie, so I leave it be.

  Key in door. I try to spring up from the beanbag, but that would be impossible even for a person with thighs of steel, so Tiffy walks in to find me in a half squat, attempting to extricate myself.

  Tiffy, laughing: It’s like quicksand, isn’t it?

  She looks beautiful. Tight blue top and a long floaty gray skirt with bright pink shoes that she proceeds to balance on her good leg to remove.

  I move to give her a hand but she waves me off, hiking herself up to sit on kitchen counter and make the job easier. Her ankle looks more mobile, though—good sign. Seems to be healing well.

  She raises her eyebrows at me.

  Tiffy: Checking out my ankles?

  Me: Purely medical interest.

  Tiffy grins at me, sliding down from the counter and limping over to examine the pot on the hob.

  Tiffy: Smells amazing.

  Me: Something told me you’d like mushroom stroganoff.

  She smiles over her shoulder, and I want to move behind her, put my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. Resist the urge, on account of it being very presumptuous and inappropriate.

  Tiffy: That was in your cubby hole downstairs, by the way.

  She points to small white envelope on the kitchen counter, addressed to me. I open it. It’s an invite, handwritten in careful, slightly wobbly joined-up letters.

  Dear Leon,

  I am having a birthday party on Sunday because I am going to be eight. Please come!!! Bring your friend Tiffy who likes nitting. Sorry that this is late Mum says your proper invitasion got lost at St. Marks by one of the nurses who is rubbish and then they said we couldn’t have you’re address but they said they will send this for us so I hope they got it rite anyway please come!!

  Holly xoxoxoxoxox

  Smile and show it to Tiffy.

  Me: Maybe not what you had planned for tomorrow?

  Tiffy, looking delighted: She remembers me!

  Me: She was obsessed with you. We don’t have to go, though.

  Tiffy: Are you joking?! We’re totally going. Please. You only turn eight once, Leon.

  47

  TIFFY

  I really didn’t think rocky-road eating could be so sexually charged. We’re sitting on the sofa in front of our television (which is basically just a novelty ornament shelf) with wineglasses in our hands and our legs touching. I’m not far off sitting in his lap, really. That’s definitely where I want to be sitting.

  “Go on,” I say, nudging him with my knee. “Tell me the truth.”

  He lo
oks shifty. I narrow my eyes at him, sliding nearer, my gaze flicking to his lips. He’s doing the same—that eyes-lips-eyes thing that seems to tug you closer, and we hover in the moment like we’re at the top of a rope swing, waiting for gravity to kick in, feeling the tug but not quite going. No doubts this time: I know he’s thinking about kissing me.

  “Tell me,” I say.

  He tilts his head, but at the last moment I pull back just a little, and he lets out a quiet huff, half amused, half frustrated at the teasing.

  “Much shorter,” he says reluctantly, pulling back, too, and reaching for another square of rocky road. I watch him lick chocolate from his fingers. Amazing, really—I’ve always found it weird how in films people think licking things like that is sexy, but here Leon is, proving me wrong.

  “Shorter? That’s it? You told me that already.”

  “And … dumpier.”

  “Dumpier!” I crow. This was the stuff I was after. “You thought I’d be dumpy?”

  “I just—assumed!” Leon says, shifting in and pulling me closer again so I’m almost bundled up against his chest.

  I lean into him, relishing the feeling. “Short and dumpy. And what else?”

  “I thought you would dress weirdly.”

  “Well, I do,” I point out, gesturing to the laundry drying in the corner, which includes my bright red pantaloons and the rainbow knitted jumper Mo got me for my birthday last year (though even I would draw the line at wearing those two items simultaneously).

  “You make it look good, though,” he says. “Like you do it on purpose. It makes you look like you.”

  I laugh. “Well, thanks.”

  “And you?” he asks, shifting his hold on me to take another sip of his wine.

  “And me what?”

  “What did you think I’d look like?”

  “I cheated and looked you up on Facebook,” I admit.

  Leon looks shocked, wine halfway to his mouth. “I didn’t even think of that!”

  “Of course you didn’t. I mean, I would want to know what someone looked like if they were moving in and sleeping in my bed, but you don’t care about appearances much, do you?”

  He pauses to think about it. “I cared about yours once I’d seen it. But otherwise, why would it make a difference? The first rule of the flatshare was that we wouldn’t meet.”

  I laugh despite myself. “We broke that one, then.”

  “That one?”

  “Don’t worry.” I wave him off. I don’t fancy explaining Gerty’s “first rule,” or quite how much time I’ve spent thinking about breaking it.

  “Ahhh,” Leon says suddenly, catching sight of the time on my Peter Pan clock on top of the fridge. Half midnight. “It’s late.” He looks at me worriedly. “Lost track of time.”

  I shrug. “That’s OK?”

  “Can’t get back to Mam’s now—last train was at ten past twelve.” He looks pained. “I’ll just … sleep on the sofa? If that’s all right?”

  “On the sofa? Why?”

  “So you can have the bed?”

  “This sofa is tiny. You’d have to curl up in the fetal position.” My heart’s thumping. “You have your side, I have mine. We’ve stuck to the left and right rule all year so far. Why should we change it now?”

  He watches me, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face like he’s trying to read me.

  “It’s just a bed,” I say, moving closer again. “We’ve shared a bed before.”

  “Not sure … this will be quite as straightforward,” Leon says, in a slightly strangled voice.

  On impulse, I lean forward and press my lips lightly to his cheek, then again, and again, until I’ve kissed a path from his cheekbone to the very edge of his lips.

  I sit back and meet his eyes. My skin is already buzzing, but the look he gives me sends a jolt through me, and now it’s like 80 percent of my body has suddenly become heartbeat. I swallow. We’re as close as two humans can possibly be without kissing. There’s no flicker of panic this time, just blissful, fiery wanting.

  So, at last, I kiss him.

  When I kissed him on the cheek I’d planned to make our first proper kiss soft and slow, the kind of kiss you feel in your toes, but when I actually get there it’s clear there’s been way too much waiting and sexy rocky-road-eating for that. This is a proper kiss, the kind that promises very imminent undressing, the kind that generally happens while in the process of stumbling toward a bed. I’m not surprised, then, to find that when we surface for air, I’m straddling him, my hair hanging down on either side of us, my long skirt ruched to my thighs, his hands on my back pulling me as close as I can possibly be.

  We don’t pause for long. I twist to unceremoniously dump my wineglass on the coffee table and shift a little to ease the angle on my ankle, and then we’re kissing again, hungry, and my body is responding with a heat I genuinely don’t think I’ve felt before. One of his hands shifts to the back of my neck, grazing the side of my breast on route, and I pretty much yelp as the sensation hits. Everywhere and everything seems to be in overdrive.

  I have no idea what will happen next. I actually can’t even consider the question. I’m incredibly grateful for that—all thought of flashbacks and exes has evaporated altogether. Leon’s body is hard and warm and all I can think about is getting all of these clothes out of the way so I can be as close to it as possible. This time when I move to unbutton his shirt, he drops his grip on my waist to help me, shrugging it off and chucking it over the back of the sofa, where it hangs like a flag from the lamp. I run my hands over Leon’s chest, marveling at the strangeness of being able to touch him like this. I break away from him for just long enough to wriggle out of my top.

  He breathes in sharply, and as I lean back in to kiss him again, he stops me, hands on my upper arms, eyes on my body. I’m wearing a thin chemise under the top, its neckline following the line of my bra, dipping to a low V.

  “God,” he says, his voice hoarse. “Look at you.”

  “Nothing you’ve not seen before,” I remind him, already ducking in impatiently to get another kiss. He holds me back again, still staring. I let out a little frustrated noise, but then he moves to press his lips against my collarbone, then lower, kissing across the top of my breasts, and I stop objecting.

  It’s becoming impossible to form thoughts for longer than about two seconds. They just evaporate. I can feel great sections of my brain rededicating themselves to thinking about sex. The part of my brain that deals with pain, for instance, has entirely forgotten about my ankle and is now much more interested in what exactly Leon’s lips are doing as his kisses dip lower and lower to the edge of my bra. The section that usually busies itself wondering if I look fat in things seems to have died off altogether. I’ve resorted to moaning because my brain’s speech center is clearly out of action, too.

  Leon’s hands dip under the waistline of my skirt, touching the silk of my underwear. I wore nice underwear, obviously. I may not have planned for this, but I hadn’t not planned for it.

  I pull away and yank off the chemise—it’s only getting in the way now. I’m going to have to stop straddling him in order for either of us to remove any more clothes, but I really don’t want to. My brain makes a real effort at some long-term thinking, but that’s no use, obviously, so I abandon the problem and hope Leon has some sort of solution.

  “Bed?” Leon says, his lips back up on my neck.

  I nod, but when he shifts underneath me I mumble an objection, dipping my head to kiss him again. I can feel his smile against my lips.

  “Can’t get to bed without you moving,” he reminds me, trying to shift again.

  I make another incoherent objection. He chuckles, lips still pressed against mine.

  “Sofa?” he suggests instead.

  Better. I knew Leon would have a solution. Reluctant, I slide off his lap so he can move. His hands tug at the fabric of my skirt, fingers searching for a zip or button.

  “It’s got a hidde
n zip,” I say, twisting to find the zip tucked in the seam along my hip.

  “Devilish women clothes,” Leon declares, helping me pull the skirt off once it’s undone. Like before, I move to press myself against him again, but he stops me so he can look at me properly. The look in his eyes makes my cheeks glow. I undo his belt and he breathes in sharply, his gaze back on my face as I unbutton his jeans.

  “A little help?” I say, eyebrow raised, as I fumble around with the buttons.

  “Leaving that part to you,” he says. “Take as long as you need.”

  I grin, and he tugs off his jeans, then pulls me to lie down beside him on the sofa. We’re a mess of limbs and cushions and skin. We completely don’t fit. There’s no space. We’re laughing now, but only in between kisses, and wherever his body touches mine it’s like someone’s reprogrammed my nerves to feel five times as much as usual.

  “Whose idea was the sofa?” Leon asks. His head is level with my chest; he kisses his way along the bottom of my bra now, and I moan. I’m incredibly uncomfortable but discomfort is a small price to pay, as far as I’m concerned.

  It’s only when he elbows me in the stomach in an effort to sit up enough to kiss me that I call time. “Bed,” I say firmly.

  “Sensible woman.”

  It takes us another ten minutes or so to actually get moving. He gets up first, then, as I shift to stand, bends to pick me up again and carry me.

  “I can walk fine,” I protest.

  “It’s our thing. Plus, it’s faster.” He’s right—he’s laid me out on the bed in seconds, and then he’s on top of me, his lips hot on mine, his hand on my breast. No laughing now. I can hardly breathe, I’m so turned on. It’s absurd. I can’t possibly wait any longer.

  And then the doorbell rings.

  48

  LEON

  We both freeze. I lift my head to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed red, her lips swollen from kissing, and her hair lies in a tangle of orange against the white pillows. Impossibly sexy.