by Beth O'Leary
Me: For you?
Tiffy: What? No!
Me: But nobody I know thinks I’m here at weekends!
Tiffy groans.
Tiffy: Don’t ask me complicated questions. I can’t … do thinking right now.
I press my lips against hers again, but the doorbell rings for a second time. Curse. Roll to side; try to calm down.
Tiffy rolls with me so she’s on top of me.
Tiffy: They’ll go away.
This suddenly seems like by far the best suggestion. Her body is incredible. Can’t stop myself from touching—I know I’m being way too scattergun, hands all over her, but don’t want to miss anything. I should have at least ten more hands, ideally.
Doorbell rings again. And again. Five-second intervals. Tiffy throws herself back to her side of the bed with a growl.
Tiffy: Who the fuck is it?
Me: We should answer.
She reaches out and runs a finger from my belly button to my boxers. Mind goes entirely blank. Want her. Want her. Want her. Want—
Doorbell doorbell doorbell doorbell.
Tiffy: Fuck! I’ll go.
Me: No, I’ll go. I can wear a towel and pretend I was in the shower.
Tiffy looks at me.
Tiffy: How the hell can you think of something like that right now? My brain has stopped functioning. You are clearly much more distracting than I am.
She’s lying there, topless, just a scrap of silk underwear between now and naked. It’s taking enormous inner strength and an insistent, loud buzzing sound to hold me back.
Me: Trust me. You are very distracting.
Tiffy kisses me. Doorbell now buzzing nonstop—is not even pausing. Person has their finger held against buzzer.
Whoever they are, I hate them.
Pull myself away from Tiffy, swear again, and reach for towel on radiator as I stumble through from bedroom to hall. Need to pull self together. Will just answer door, punch person who has interrupted us, then head back to bed. A good, solid plan.
I press the button to let them up, then throw open the front door and wait. It occurs to me, belatedly, that as my hair is dry it will not actually look like I’ve just got out of shower.
The man who appears in the doorway is nobody I’ve met before. He’s also not the sort of man I would back myself to punch. He’s tall, built in the way that suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym. Brown hair, perfectly trimmed beard, expensive shirt. Angry eyes.
Suddenly have a bad feeling about this. Wish I was wearing more than towel.
Me: Can I help you?
He looks confused.
Angry-eyed man: Isn’t this Tiffy’s place?
Me: Yes. I’m her flatmate.
Angry-eyed man does not look at all happy at this information.
Angry-eyed man: Well, is she in?
Me: Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?
Gives me long, angry stare.
Angry-eyed man: I’m Justin.
Ah.
Me: No, she’s not in.
Justin: I thought she had this place at weekends.
Me: Did she tell you that?
Justin looks shifty for a moment. Covers well, though.
Justin: Yeah, she mentioned it when I saw her last. Your arrangement. The whole bed-sharing thing.
She definitely wouldn’t have told Justin about that. Pretty clear she’d know he wouldn’t like it. Extremely hostile body language suggests that he does indeed not like it.
Me: Room sharing. But yes. She normally has the place on weekends, but she’s away.
Justin: Where?
Shrug. Look bored. Simultaneously stand that little bit taller, just so he clocks we’re the same height. It’s a bit cavemanish of me, but feels good all the same.
Me: How should I know?
Justin, suddenly: Can I see the flat?
Me: What?
Justin: Can I see the place. Just have a look around.
He’s already moving toward me like he’s coming in. Suppose this is how he always gets his way: asking unreasonable things and then going ahead and taking them.
I don’t move. Eventually he has to stop walking, because I am directly in his way.
Me: No. Sorry. You can’t.
He senses my hostility now. He’s riled. He was already angry when he got here; he’s like dog on leash, snapping for a fight.
Justin: Why not?
Me: Because it’s my flat.
Justin: And Tiffy’s. She’s my …
Me: Your what?
Justin doesn’t finish the lie. He knows, perhaps, that I will at least know whether Tiffy is single or in relationship.
Justin: It’s complicated. But we’re very close. I can promise you she wouldn’t mind me looking around the place, checking it’s up to standard for her. I presume you have a sub-letting agreement, the two of you? All signed off by the property owner?
Do not want to get into this with this man. Also, do not have sub-letting agreement. Landlord hasn’t spoken to me in years, so just haven’t … brought Tiffy up.
Me: You can’t come in.
Justin squares up to me. I’m wearing nothing but a towel around waist; we’re eye to eye. Really don’t think Tiffy would enjoy it coming to a fight.
Me: I’ve got a girl in there, man.
Justin jerks his head back. He wasn’t expecting that.
Justin: You have?
Me: Yeah. So I’d appreciate it if you …
His eyes narrow.
Justin: Who is it?
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
Me: What does it matter to you?
Justin: It’s not Tiffy, then?
Me: Why would you think it was Tiffy? I just told you—
Justin: Yeah. She’s away this weekend. Except I know she’s not with her parents, and Tiffy doesn’t leave London on her own for anything except a visit home. So—
He tries to push past me, but I’m ready for it. I put my weight into him, knocking him off balance.
Me: Get out of here. Now. I don’t know what your problem is, but as soon as you entered my flat you broke the law, so if you don’t want me to call the police—if the woman in my bedroom hasn’t done it already—then get the fuck out of here.
I can see his nostrils flaring. He wants to fight; it’s taking all his energy not to. Not a pleasant sort of man. Though I notice that I’m ready for a fight, too. I’m almost hoping he’ll punch me.
He doesn’t, though. His eyes flick to bedroom door, and then take in the sight of my jeans spread out on the floor. My shirt, hanging off Tiffy’s ridiculous monkey lamp. Thank god Tiffy’s clothes aren’t visible—he’d recognize them, I imagine. What an unpleasant thought.
Justin: I’ll be back to see Tiffy.
He backs out.
Me: Maybe call ahead next time to check she’s in. And wants to see you.
Slam the door behind him.
49
TIFFY
I mean, nobody would say it’s nice, having your ex-boyfriend turn up as you’re getting with the new guy. Nobody would wish for something like that to happen, except perhaps for weird sexual reasons.
But surely nobody else would be quite this upset.
I am shaking—not just my hands, but my legs, too, all the way up past my knees. I try to dress as quietly as I can, paralyzed with the thought of Justin coming in here and seeing me in just my knickers, but I only get halfway before the fear of being heard overrules that impulse, and I sink back onto the bed in just my underwear and a giant jumper with Santa on it (it was the closest thing in the wardrobe).
When the door to the flat slams, I jump like someone’s pulled a trigger. It’s ridiculous. My face is wet with tears and I am really, truly scared.
Leon knocks gently on the bedroom door.
“It’s just me,” he calls. “Can I come in?”
I take a deep, wobbly breath and wipe the tears from my cheeks. “Yeah, come in.”
He takes one look at me and does what
I did—heads for the wardrobe and pulls out the nearest thing. Once he’s dressed, he comes and sits on the far end of the bed. I’m grateful. Suddenly I don’t want to be near anybody naked.
“Is he definitely gone?” I ask him.
“I waited until I heard the building door close, too,” Leon tells me. “He’s gone.”
“He’ll be back, though. And I cannot face the idea of ever seeing him again. I can’t … I hate him.” I take another deep, juddering breath, feeling tears leaking out again. “Why was he so angry? Was he always like that, and I’ve just forgotten?”
I stretch out a hand toward Leon; I want to be held. He shifts across the bed and pulls me in against him, laying me down so he’s behind me, my body tucked into his.
“He can feel he’s losing his grip on you,” Leon says quietly. “He’s scared.”
“Well, I’m not going back this time.”
Leon kisses my shoulder. “You want me to call Mo? Or Gerty?”
“Will you just stay with me?”
“Of course.”
“I just want to go to sleep.”
“Then sleep it is.” He reaches round for the Brixton blanket, pulling it over the two of us, and then leans to flick off the lamp. “Wake me if you need me.”
* * *
I don’t know how, but I sleep all the way through, only waking to the sound of the guy upstairs doing whatever it is he always does at seven a.m. (it sounds like some kind of energetic aerobics involving lots of hopping. I’d be angry, but it is much better than my alarm for waking me up for work).
Leon is gone. I sit up, bleary eyed from falling asleep after crying, and try to get a handle on reality again. Just as I’m working my way through yesterday—sadly finishing up with the good, sofa bit and remembering Justin’s arrival—Leon pokes his head in.
“Tea?”
“Did you make it?”
“No, I got the house elf to do it.”
I smile at that.
“Don’t worry. I told him to make yours especially strong,” he says. “Can I come in?”
“Of course you can. It’s your bedroom, too.”
“Not when you’re here.” He hands me a suitably strong cup of tea. This is the first cup of tea he’s ever made me, but—just like I know how milky he likes his—he must’ve figured out how I drink mine. It’s weird how easily you can get to know someone from the traces they leave behind when they go.
“I’m so sorry about last night,” I begin.
Leon shakes his head. “Please don’t. It’s not your fault, is it?”
“Well. I did date him. Voluntarily.”
My tone’s light, but Leon frowns. “Relationships like that stop being about ‘voluntarily’ very quickly. There’s lots of ways someone can make you stay with them, or think you want to.”
I tilt my head, looking at him as he sits on the edge of the bed, forearms on his knees, both hands around his mug of tea. He’s talking to me half over his shoulder, and every time he meets my eyes I want to smile. He’s redone his hair—it’s the neatest I’ve ever seen it, smoothed behind his ears and flicking into curls at the base of his neck.
“You seem very well informed,” I say carefully.
He’s not looking at me now. “Mam,” he says by way of explanation. “She spent a lot of her time with men who abused her.”
The word makes me flinch. Leon clocks it.
“Sorry,” he says.
“Justin never hit me or anything,” I say quickly, my cheeks flushing. Here’s me, making a fuss about a boyfriend who bosses me about a bit, when Leon’s mum has been through—
“That’s not the sort of abuse I meant,” Leon says. “I meant emotional.”
“Oh.” Was that what it was, with Justin?
Yes, I think immediately, before I have time to second guess myself. Of course it bloody was. Lucie and Mo and Gerty have all been saying as much without saying it for months, haven’t they? I swallow a gulp of tea, hiding behind my mug.
“It was hard to watch,” Leon says, staring down at his tea. “She’s on the mend now. Lots of counseling. Good friends. Getting to the root of the problem.”
“Mm. I’m trying that … counseling thing, too.”
He nods. “That’s good. That’ll help.”
“It is already, I think. It was Mo’s idea, and he’s literally always right about things.”
I could do with one of Mo’s audio hugs right now, actually. As I look around for my phone, Leon points to where it lies on the bedside table.
“I’ll give you a minute. And don’t worry about Holly’s birthday. Bet it’s probably the last thing you…”
He trails off at my outraged expression.
“You think I’m missing Holly’s birthday because of last night?”
“Well, I just thought it must’ve taken it out of you, and…”
I’m shaking my head. “Absolutely not. The last thing I want to do is let this … Justin stuff get in the way of the important things.”
He smiles, his eyes lingering on my face. “Well, OK. Thanks.”
“We need to leave early enough to buy a present!” I call after him as he leaves.
“I gave her the gift of good health!” he calls back through the door.
“That won’t cut it—it needs to be something from Claire’s Accessories!”
50
LEON
Holly’s mum’s home is a poky, crumbling town house in Southwark. Paint peels everywhere and pictures lean on walls, unhung, but it feels friendly. Just a little tired.
Streams of children are darting in and out of the front door when we arrive. Feel slightly overwhelmed. I’m still processing last night, still buzzing with adrenaline from the altercation with Justin. We reported the incident to the police, but I want to do more. She should get a restraining order. Can’t suggest it, though. Her choice. I’m helpless.
We step inside the house. There are many party hats and a few crying babies, possibly baited into tears by boisterous eight-year-olds.
Me: Can you see Holly?
Tiffy stands on one tiptoe (her good foot).
Tiffy: Is that her? In the Star Wars outfit?
Me: Star Trek. And no. Maybe over there by the kitchen?
Tiffy: Pretty sure that’s a boy. Did you tell me this was fancy dress?
Me: You read the invite, too!
Tiffy ignores this, picks up abandoned cowboy hat, and plants it on my head.
I turn to the hall mirror to admire the effect. The hat perches on top of my hair precariously. Pull it off and put it on Tiffy instead. Much better. A sort of sexy cowgirl thing. Very cliché, of course, but sexy nonetheless.
Tiffy checks her reflection and yanks the hat down farther.
Tiffy: Fine. You’re a wizard, then.
She pulls a moon-covered cape off the back of a chair and reaches up to drape it over my shoulders, fixing it with a bow at my throat. Just the feel of her fingers makes me think of last night. It’s a highly inappropriate location for these sorts of thoughts, so I try to ward them off, but she is not helping. She trails her hands down my chest in a gesture familiar from time on sofa.
Grab her hand.
Me: Can’t be doing that.
Tiffy quirks an eyebrow, mischievous.
Tiffy: Doing what?
At least if she’s planning on torturing me in this fashion it must mean she’s feeling a little better.
* * *
Eventually locate Holly sitting on stairs and realize why she was so hard to spot. She looks completely transformed. Bright eyes. Hair thicker and healthier, falling forward to be blown back impatiently as she talks. She’s actually looking a little chubby.
Holly: LEON!
She skids downstairs then stops short at bottom. She’s dressed as Elsa from Frozen, much like every girl hosting a birthday party in the Western hemisphere since 2013. She’s a little old for it, but then, she missed out on most of her time being little, so.
Holly: Where�
��s Tiffy?
Me: She’s here, too. She’s just gone to the bathroom.
Holly looks placated. Links her arm through mine and drags me off to living room to try and feed me small sausage rolls that have been fingered by many unclean children.
Holly: Are you dating Tiffy yet?
I stare down at her, plastic cup of tropical juice halfway to mouth.
Holly does her classic eye roll, thus convincing me that she is still the same person, not chubbier lookalike.
Holly: Come on. You two are Meant to Be!
I look around nervously, hoping Tiffy is not within hearing. But I’m smiling, too, it seems. Think fleetingly of my reaction to similar comments made about me and Kay—generally was the sort of response that made Kay call me a commitment-phobe. Admittedly those comments rarely came from the mouth of a small, precocious child wearing a fake plait around her neck (guess it fell off her head a while ago).
Me: As it happens …
Holly: Yes! I knew it! Have you told her you love her?
Me: It’s a bit soon for that.
Holly: Not if you’ve been in love with her for ages.
Pause.
Holly: Which you have. By the way.
Me, gently: I’m not sure about that, Holly. We’ve been friends.
Holly: Friends who love each other.
Me: Holly—
Holly: Well, have you told her you like her?
Me: She definitely knows.
Holly narrows eyes.
Holly: Does she, Leon?
I feel slightly discomposed. Yes? She does? The kissing is a clear clue, no?
Holly: You’re terrible at telling people how you really feel about them. You hardly ever told me how you liked me better than all the other patients. But I know you did.
She stretches out her hands, like, case in point. I try not to grin.
Me: Well, I’ll make sure she knows.
Holly: It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell her anyway.
And she’s off, darting through the crowd. Shit.
Me: Holly! Holly! Don’t say any—
I eventually find them together in the kitchen. Burst in at the end of what is clearly an intervention on Holly’s part. Tiffy is leaning down to hear her, smiling, hair shining red-gold under the over-bright kitchen lights.