by Beth O'Leary
Holly: I just want you to know he’s nice, and you’re nice.
She stands on tiptoe, and adds, in a stage whisper:
Holly: So that means there isn’t a doormat.
Tiffy looks up at me, inquiring.
Press lips together as something warm and melting settles in my chest. I step in and pull Tiffy toward me, reaching over to ruffle Holly’s hair. Weird, clairvoyant child.
51
TIFFY
Mo and Gerty come round in the afternoon, once Leon’s headed off to his mum’s place, and I fill them in on the night’s dramas over a much-needed bottle of wine. Mo does his best empathetic nod; Gerty, on the other hand, just keeps swearing. She has some really inventively nasty names for Justin. I think she’s been saving them up for some time.
“Do you want to stay at ours tonight?” Mo says. “You can have my bed.”
“Thanks, but no, I’m fine,” I say. “I don’t want to run away. I know he doesn’t want to hurt me or anything.”
Mo doesn’t look too sure about that. “If you’re certain,” he says.
“Call us anytime and we’ll order a taxi to collect you,” Gerty tells me, finishing off her wine. “And give me a ring in the morning. You need to tell me about having sex with Leon.”
I stare at her. “What!”
“I knew it! I could just tell,” she says, looking pleased with herself.
“Well, actually, we haven’t,” I tell her, sticking my tongue out. “So your radar is off—again.”
She narrows her eyes. “There was nudity, though. And … touching.”
“On that very sofa.”
She jumps up as if she’s been stung. Mo and I snigger.
“Well,” Gerty says to me, brushing down her skinny jeans with distaste, “we’re seeing Leon on Tuesday. So we will make sure to grill him and check his intentions with you are all as they should be.”
“Hang on, you’re what?”
“I’m talking him through where we’re at with the case.”
“And Mo is going along because…” I look at Mo.
“Because I want to meet Leon,” he says, unabashed. “What? Everyone else has met him.”
“Yes, but … but…” I narrow my eyes. “He’s my flatmate.”
“And my client,” Gerty points out, grabbing her handbag off the counter. “Look, meeting Leon may have been a huge rigmarole for you, but we can just drop him a text and meet for brunch like normal people.”
Annoyingly, there’s not much I can say to that. And I can’t exactly fault them for being overprotective friends in the circumstances—without that, without them, I’d still probably be crying myself to sleep in Justin’s flat. Still, I’m not sure I’m ready to be at meeting-the-friends stage with Leon, and the meddling is irritating.
All’s forgiven when I get home from work on Tuesday, though, and find this note on the coffee table.
BAD THINGS REALLY DID HAPPEN. (Mo asked me to remind you.)
But you got through said bad things, and now you are stronger for it. (Gerty told me to pass on … though her version had more swearwords.)
You’re lovely, and I will never hurt you how he hurt you.
(That part was me.)
Leon xx
* * *
“You are going to love me,” Rachel says, standing on tiptoes to talk to me over my wall of potted plants.
I rub my eyes. I’ve just got off the phone to Martin, who has taken to calling me rather than walking down the corridor. I suspect he thinks it makes him seem like he’s busy and important—far too busy and important for getting up off his bum and coming to talk to me. Still, I now have the power to screen his calls, and if I really do have to talk to him then I can make faces at Rachel at the same time, so there are upsides.
“Why? What have you done? Have you bought me a castle?”
She stares at me. “It is so weird you just said that.”
I stare back at her. “Why? Have you actually bought me a castle?”
“Obviously not,” she says, recovering, “because if I could afford a castle I’d buy one for myself first, no offense—but this does involve a castle.”
I reach for my mug and swing my legs out from under the desk. This conversation requires tea. We take our usual route to the kitchen: doubling back past the color room to avoid the head of Editorial and the managing director’s desks, ducking behind the pillar by the photocopier so Hana won’t spot us, hitting the kitchen from an angle that ensures we can see if any senior members of staff are lurking in there.
“Go! Go! Talk!” I tell Rachel as we step into the safety of the kitchen.
“Well. You know that illustrator I commissioned for our bricklayer-turned-designer’s second book, who’s a Lord Somebody?”
“Sure. Lordy Lord Illustrator,” I say. This is how Rachel and I refer to him.
“Well, Lordy Lord has come up with literally the perfect solution for Katherin’s photoshoot.”
Marketing now want to showcase the products from Katherin’s book. The mainstream media have been reluctant to come on board—they still don’t quite get how YouTubers like Tasha Chai-Latte’s words translate into sales—so we’re going to fund the shoot and “seed it across social.” Tasha has promised to share on her blog, and, with just over one week to go until pub date, marketing and PR are having periodic meltdowns about getting the shoot organized.
“He owns a Welsh castle,” Rachel finishes. “In Wales. That we can use.”
“You’re serious? For free?”
“Absolutely. This weekend. And, because it’s so far to drive, he’s said he’ll put us up for Saturday night! In the castle! And the best part is, Martin can’t drop me because I’m just the designer … because Lordy Lord Illustrator is insisting that I bring Katherin!” She claps her hands with glee. “And you’ll be coming, obviously, because Katherin won’t do anything unless you’re there to shield her from the horrors that are Martin and Hana. Welsh castle weekend! Welsh castle weekend!”
I shush her. She has started singing really quite loudly and doing some sort of castle dance (which is quite hip-shaky), and though we have ascertained that there are no senior members of staff in the kitchen, you never know when they’ll show up. It’s like that thing people say about rats—there’s always one six feet away from you at all times.
“Now we just need to find models willing to work for free in two days’ time,” Rachel says. “I almost don’t want to tell Martin. I don’t want him to start liking me or something. It’ll throw off the whole balance of the office.”
“Tell him!” I say. “This is a great idea.”
And it is. But Rachel’s right. Katherin won’t go without me, and that means a whole weekend away from home. I’d really hoped that I could spend some of the weekend with Leon. You know. Naked.
Rachel quirks an eyebrow, clocking my expression. “Ah,” she says.
“No, no, this is great.” I try to rally. “A weekend away with you and Katherin is going to be hilarious. Plus—it’s a free castle visit! I’m going to pretend I’m scouting out my future home.”
Rachel leans back against the fridge, waiting for our teas to brew and watching me carefully. “You really like this boy, don’t you?”
I busy myself removing teabags. I do really like him, actually. It’s kind of scary. Nice-scary, on the whole, but also a bit scary-scary.
“Well, bring him, then, so you don’t miss out on seeing him.”
I look up. “Bring him? How am I swinging that one with the Powers That Be in Charge of Transport Costs?”
“Remind me what this stud looks like?” Rachel says, shifting so I can get the milk from the fridge. “Tall, dark, handsome, with a mysterious sexy smile?”
Only Rachel could say “stud” without irony.
“Reckon he’d model for free?”
I nearly spit out my first mouthful of tea. Rachel grins and passes me a paper towel to help with lipstick damage.
“Leon? Model?”
/>
“Why not?”
“Well … because…” He’d hate it, surely. Or … maybe not, actually—he cares so little about what other people think, someone taking photos of him and putting them on the Internet probably wouldn’t bother him.
But if he did agree to it that would mean inviting him for a proper weekend away together—if a slightly unconventional one. And that definitely seems … serious. Relationship-ish. That thought makes my throat feel tight and starts a little flutter of panic in my stomach. I swallow the feeling away, irritated with myself.
“Go on. Ask,” Rachel insists. “I’m betting he’ll say yes if it means more time with you. And I’ll sort it with Martin. Once I give him this castle, he’ll be kissing my arse for days.”
* * *
It’s very tricky to know exactly how to broach this conversation. I initially thought it would come up naturally on the call, but oddly enough castles and/or modeling don’t come up at all, and now it’s 7:40 and I’ve only got five minutes before I know Leon has to head in to work.
I’m not copping out of asking, though. Since the night when Justin turned up things with Leon have shifted; this is more than sexual tension and flirty Post-it notes now, and for some reason I’m finding that slightly terrifying. When I think about him I get this rush of unstoppable smiley joy chased with a sort of claustrophobic panic. But I suspect that’s probably a Justin hang-up and frankly I’m done letting those hold me back.
“So,” I begin, pulling my cardigan closer round me. I’m on the balcony; it’s become my favorite spot for evening phone calls. “You’re free this weekend, right?”
“Mhmm,” he says. He’s eating his brinner at the hospice while talking to me, so is even less chatty than usual, but I feel that will actually work to my advantage here. I think this proposal needs to be heard in full before it can be discussed.
“So, I have to go to a Welsh castle for the weekend to take photos of knitwear with Katherin, because I am her personal carer and despite the fact that I am paid a pittance it is assumed that I will work weekends when told to and that’s just how it is.”
A moment’s silence. “Mmkay?” Leon says. He doesn’t sound annoyed. Which, now I think about it, he wouldn’t be—it’s not like I’m blowing him off, I have to work. And if anyone understands that, Leon does.
I relax a bit. “But I really want to see you,” I say, before I can second-guess myself. “And Rachel has come up with a potentially terrible idea which could actually be really fun.”
“Mm?” Leon says, sounding a little nervous. He’s heard enough about Rachel to know that her ideas often involve large amounts of alcohol and indiscretion.
“How would you feel about a free weekend in a Welsh castle with me … in exchange for modeling some knitwear while you’re there, to go on the Butterfingers’ social media?”
There is a loud choking noise at the other end of the phone.
“You hate the idea,” I say, feeling my cheeks go pink. There’s a long silence. I should never have suggested this—Leon is all about quiet nights in with wine and good conversation, not parading himself around in front of cameras.
“I don’t hate the idea,” Leon says. “Just … absorbing it.”
I wait, giving him some time. The pause is excruciating, and then, just when I think I know exactly how this whole embarrassing conversation is going to end:
“All right, then,” Leon says.
I blink. Beneath the balcony, Fabio Fox roams by, and then a police car goes screaming past, sirens shrieking.
“All right, then?” I say, when it’s quiet enough for him to hear me. “You’ll do it?”
“Sounds like a relatively small price to pay for a weekend away with you. Plus, the only person who’d likely mock me for it would be Richie, and he doesn’t have Internet access.”
“You’re serious?”
“Are you modeling, too?”
“Oh, Martin probably thinks I’m too big,” I say, waving an arm. “I’ll just be there to Kathperone.”
“Will I meet this Martin we like so much? And you’ll be there to what?”
“Kathperone. Sorry, that’s Rachel’s word for all the Katherin-chaperoning I have to do. And yeah, Martin will be coordinating the whole thing. He’ll be especially insufferable, because he’ll be in charge.”
“Excellent,” Leon says. “I can spend my posing time plotting his downfall.”
OCTOBER
52
LEON
So. I’m standing in between two suits of armor, wearing a woolly jumper, staring into the middle distance.
My life has got stranger with Tiffy in it. Have never been afraid of a strange life, but lately have grown rather … comfortable. Set in my ways, as Kay used to say.
Can’t stay that way for long with Tiffy around.
She’s helping Katherin style us models. The other two are waiflike teens; Martin is staring at them like they’re edible. They’re nice, but conversation dried up after we caught up on this year’s Bake Off, and I’m now just counting down the minutes until Tiffy next gets to come over and adjust my woolly jumper in indiscernible ways that (I’m pretty sure) are just excuses to touch me.
Lordy Lord Illustrator flits around set. He is a pleasant, posh gentleman; his castle is a little ramshackle, but it has rooms and suitably epic views, so everyone seems happy.
Except Martin. I joked with Tiffy about plotting his downfall, but when he’s not salivating over the other models, he looks like he’s trying to work out the easiest way to push me off the battlements. Can’t figure it out. Nobody here knows about Tiffy and me—we thought that was simplest. But am wondering if he’s worked it out. If he does know, though, why would he care enough to glare at me so much?
Ah, well. I do as I’m told and stare in slightly different direction. Am just grateful to get away from the flat this weekend; had a bad feeling Justin would appear. He will eventually. Clearly wasn’t finished when he left last Saturday. And yet he’s been quiet since. No flowers, no texts, no turning up wherever Tiffy is despite having no way of knowing where she might happen to be. Suspicious. I’m worried he is biding his time for something. Men like that don’t go away after a little scare.
Try not to yawn (have been awake for many, many hours, with only small naps). I let my gaze drift in Tiffy’s direction. She’s in wellies and blue tie-dyed jeans, lounging sideways on an enormous Game of Thrones–style chair that stands in the corner of the armory and probably isn’t intended for sitting on. Catch a glimpse of smooth skin as she shifts, her cardigan falling open. Swallow. Return gaze to particular bit of middle distance insisted upon by photographer.
Martin: All right, let’s take a twenty-minute break!
I make a run for it before he can commandeer me into doing something other than talking to Tiffy (so far, have had to spend my breaks moving ancient weaponry, hoovering up errant straw, and checking tiny graze on finger of one of the waiflike models).
Me, on approaching Tiffy’s throne chair: What is that man’s problem with me?
Tiffy shakes her head and swings her legs round to get up.
Tiffy: Really, I have no idea. He’s even more of a dick to you than the rest of us, though, isn’t he?
Rachel, in a hiss, from behind me: Run! Flee! Incoming!
Tiffy doesn’t need telling twice. She grabs my hand and drags me away in the direction of the front hall (gigantic stone cavern with three staircases).
Katherin, shouting after us: Are you leaving me to deal with him on my own?
Tiffy: Bloody hell, woman! Just imagine he’s a Tory MP in the seventies, all right?
I don’t turn around to see Katherin’s reaction, but can hear Rachel’s snort of laughter. Tiffy pulls me into ornate nook that looks like it might once have housed a statue, and kisses me hard on the mouth.
Tiffy: All this staring at you all day. It’s unbearable. And I am viciously jealous of everyone else getting to do it, too.
Feels like sippi
ng something warm—spreads downward from my chest, pulls my lips into a smile. Don’t know quite what to say, so kiss her instead. Her body presses mine against the cold stone wall, her hands twining round my neck.
Tiffy, against my mouth: Next weekend.
Me: Hmm?
(Am busy kissing.)
Tiffy: It’ll be just the two of us. Alone. In our flat. And if anyone interrupts us or drags you off to administer to an eighteen-year-old’s scratched finger, I will personally have them executed.
Pauses.
Tiffy: Sorry. This whole castle setting is clearly getting into my head.
Pull back, search her face. Have I not told her? I must have told her.
Tiffy: What? What is it?
Me: Richie’s trial is on Friday. Sorry. I’m staying at Mam’s for the weekend afterward—didn’t I tell you?
Feel a familiar fear. This will be the start of an unpleasant conversation—have forgotten to tell her something, am changing her plans …
Tiffy: No! Are you serious?
Stomach writhes. Reach to pull her in again, but she bats my hands away, eyes wide.
Tiffy: You didn’t tell me! Leon—I didn’t know. I’m so sorry, but—Katherin’s book launch …
I’m confused now. Why is she sorry?
Tiffy: I wanted to be there, but it’s Katherin’s book launch on the Friday. I can’t believe this. Will you tell Richie to call when I’m in the flat, so I can apologize properly?
Me: For what?
Tiffy rolls her eyes impatiently.
Tiffy: For not being able to come to his appeal!
Stare at her. Blink a bit. Relax as I realize she is in fact not angry with me.
Me: Never would expect …
Tiffy: Are you joking? You didn’t think I was going to be there? It’s Richie!
Me: You really wanted to come?
Tiffy: Yes, Leon. I really, really wanted to come.
Poke her in the cheek with one finger.
Tiffy, already laughing: Ow! What was that for?
Me: You’re real? A real-life human female?
Tiffy: Yes, I’m real, you idiot.