The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  I keep it brief.

  I’m glad you’ve taken well to your new life of celebrity. I, on the other hand, am now embarrassingly jealous of about a hundred women on the Internet who think you are “so yummy lol,” and have decided I much prefer it when it’s just me that gets to stare at you.

  I’m crossing my fingers that Johnny White the Eighth is The One! xx

  When the reply comes the next evening I can tell Leon’s exhausted. It’s something about the handwriting—it’s looser than usual, like he couldn’t muster the energy to hold the pen tight.

  Johnny White the Eighth is not our guy. Is actually very unpleasant and homophobic. Also made me eat a lot of out-of-date fig rolls.

  Richie says hi. He’s OK. Holding up. x

  Hmm. Richie may be holding up, but I’m not convinced that Leon is.

  56

  LEON

  Late for work. Talked to Richie for twenty minutes he couldn’t really afford about PTSD. It’s the first time in a long time that I’ve talked to Richie about something other than the case, which is strange as appeal is in three days’ time. Think Gerty has spoken to him so often he actually wanted a change of topic.

  Asked him about restraining orders, too. He was clear on the subject: It’s for Tiffy to decide. Would be bad idea for me to seem to be imposing decisions on her—I must let her come to that conclusion on her own. Still hate that the ex knows where she lives, but must remember it is not my place to say.

  Late late now. Button up shirt on way out of building. I’m an expert at efficient flat departure. It’s all in the shaved-off seconds and the forgoing of brinner, which will come to haunt me at eleven p.m. when day nurses have eaten all the biscuits.

  Strange man from Flat 5: Leon!

  Look up as building door slams shut behind me. It’s strange man from Flat 5, the one who (according to Tiffy) does energetic aerobics at seven a.m. sharp, and accumulates banana crates in his parking space. Surprised to discover he knows my name.

  Me: Hi?

  Strange man from Flat 5: I never believed you were a nurse!

  Me: Right. Am running late for work, so—

  Strange man from Flat 5 waves his mobile phone at me, like I should be able to discern what is on screen.

  Strange man, triumphantly: You’re a famous person!

  Me: Pardon?

  Strange man: You’re in the Daily Mail! Wearing a poncey famous-person jumper!

  Me: Poncey is no longer a politically correct term, strange man from Flat 5. Got to go. Enjoy the rest of “Femail!”

  Scarper as quickly as possible. Decide, on reflection, not to pursue life of celebrity.

  * * *

  Mr. Prior is awake for long enough to see the photos. He’ll drop off again soon, but I know this will amuse him, so make sure to take the opportunity and get pictures up on phone screen.

  Hmm. Fourteen-thousand likes on a photo of me staring into distance in a black T-shirt and enormous crocheted scarf. Odd.

  Mr. Prior: Very dashing, Leon!

  Me: Why, thank you.

  Mr. Prior: Now, am I right that a certain fine young lady persuaded you to humiliate yourself in this fashion?

  Me: Eh. Um. It was Tiffy’s idea.

  Mr. Prior: Ah, the flatmate. And … the girlfriend?

  Me: No, no, not “girlfriend.” Not yet.

  Mr. Prior: No? Last we spoke I got the impression you were rather smitten with each other.

  Check Mr. Prior’s chart, keeping face carefully blank. Deranged liver function tests. Not good. To be expected, but still, not good.

  Me: I’m … yes. I’m that. Just don’t want to rush things. I don’t think she does, either.

  Mr. Prior frowns. His little beady eyes almost disappear under the folds of his eyebrows.

  Mr. Prior: May I offer you some advice, Leon?

  I nod.

  Mr. Prior: Don’t let your natural … reticence hold you back. Make it clear how you feel about her. After all, you’re something of a closed book, Leon.

  Me: Closed book?

  Notice that Mr. Prior’s hands tremble as he smooths down the bedspread, and try not to think about prognostics.

  Mr. Prior: Quiet. Brooding. I’m sure she finds it very attractive, but don’t let it be a barrier between you. I left it too long to tell my—I left things too late, and now I wish I’d just said what I wanted when I still could. Think what my life could have been. Not that I’m not happy with my lot, but … you do waste an awful lot of time when you’re young.

  Can’t do anything around here without someone imparting wisdom in your direction. But Mr. Prior has made me a little nervous. Felt after Wales I shouldn’t rush things with Tiffy. But maybe I’m holding back too much. I tend to, apparently. Wish I’d mentioned about changing to day shifts now. Still, I did go to a Welsh castle for her, and pose against windswept tree in large cardigan. Surely that makes my feelings clear?

  * * *

  Richie: You’re not a naturally open person.

  Me: I am! I am … I’m forthcoming. Expressive. An open book.

  Richie: You’re not bad at the old talking-about-feelings with me, but that doesn’t count, and it’s usually because I do it first. You should take a leaf from my book, bro. I’ve never had any time for the whole hard-to-get thing. Easy-to-get and put-it-on-the-line has always worked for me.

  Feel a bit wrong-footed. Was feeling good about everything with Tiffy, and am anxious now. Shouldn’t have told Richie what Mr. Prior said—should’ve known what his opinion would be. Richie was writing love songs to serenade girls in school corridors when he was ten years old.

  Me: What am I meant to do, then?

  Richie: Fucking hell, man, just tell her you like her and you want to make things official. You clearly do, so it can’t be that hard. I have to go. Gerty’s got me talking her through the ten minutes after leaving the club again, seriously, I’m not sure that woman is human.

  Me: That woman is—

  Richie: Don’t worry, don’t worry. I won’t hear a word against her. I was going to say superhuman.

  Me: Good.

  Richie: Hot, too.

  Me: Don’t you even—

  Richie belly-laughs. I find myself grinning; I can never resist smiling with him when he laughs like that.

  Richie: I’ll be good, I’ll be good. But if she gets me out of here, I’m buying her dinner. Or asking for her hand in marriage, maybe.

  Smile fades a little. I feel a twinge of worry. The appeal is really happening. Two days to go. Haven’t even let myself imagine scenario where Richie is found not guilty, but my brain keeps going there against my will, playing out the scene. Bringing him home to sit on Tiffy’s paisley beanbag, drink beers, be my little brother again.

  Can’t find the words for what I want to tell him. Don’t get your hopes up? But of course he will—I have, too. That’s the whole point. So … don’t let it get to you if it doesn’t work? Also ridiculous. No good words for the magnitude of the problem.

  Me: See you Friday.

  Richie: That’s the open book I know and love. See you Friday, bro.

  57

  TIFFY

  It’s first thing on Friday. The Day.

  Leon is at his mum’s place—they’re going to court together. Rachel and Mo are at mine. Mo’s tagging along to the book launch—given everything I’ve done for this book, even Martin could not deny me a plus-one.

  Gerty pops in with Mo when he arrives for a quick, cursory hug and a very hurried chat about Richie’s case. She is already dressed in her ridiculous lawyer wig, like she’s doing an impression of an eighteenth-century painting.

  Mo is in his tux, looking adorable. I love it when Mo dresses up smartly. It’s like when you see photos of puppies dressed up as humans. He is visibly uncomfortable, and I can tell he’s itching to at least take off his shoes, but if he so much as reaches for his shoe laces then Gerty snarls at him and he withdraws, whimpering. When Gerty leaves, he looks visibly relieved.


  “Just so you know, Mo and Gerty are totally shagging,” Rachel tells me, passing me my hairbrush.

  I stare at her in the mirror. (There are nowhere near enough mirrors in this flat. We should have got ready at Rachel’s, which has an entire wall of mirrored cupboards in the bedroom for what I suspect to be sexual reasons, but she refuses to let Gerty in her flat since she made a comment about how messy it was at Rachel’s birthday party.)

  “Mo and Gerty are not shagging,” I say, coming to my senses and snatching the hairbrush. I’m attempting to tame my mane into a sleek updo from one of our DIY hairstyling books. The author promised me that it was easy, but I’ve been on step two for fifteen minutes. There are twenty-two steps in total and half an hour left on the clock.

  “They are,” Rachel says matter-of-factly. “You know I can always tell.”

  I just about refrain from informing Rachel that Gerty also thinks she can “always tell” when a friend is sleeping with someone. I don’t want this to become a competition, especially as I’ve still not had sex with Leon.

  “They live together,” I say, through a mouthful of hairpins. “They’re more comfortable with each other than they used to be.”

  “You only get that comfortable if you get naked together,” Rachel insists.

  “That’s weird and gross. Anyway, I’m pretty sure Mo is asexual.”

  Belatedly, I check that the bathroom door is closed. Mo is in the living room. He has spent the last hour looking either patient or bored, depending on whether he thinks we’re looking.

  “You want to think that, because of the whole he’s-like-a-brother-to-you thing. But he’s definitely not asexual. He came on to my friend Kelly at a party last summer.”

  “I cannot handle these sorts of revelations right now!” I say, spitting out the hairpins. I put them between my teeth way too early. They’re for step four, and step three still has me flummoxed.

  “Come here,” Rachel says, and I breathe out. Thank god.

  “You really left me hanging there,” I tell her, as she takes the hairbrush, smooths out the damage I have done so far, and flicks through the updo instructions with one hand.

  “How else will you ever learn?” she says.

  * * *

  It’s ten a.m. It’s weird being in formal dress this early in the morning. For some reason I am incredibly paranoid about dripping tea down the front of my fancy new dress, though I’m pretty sure if I was drinking a martini I wouldn’t have the same anxieties. It’s just weird drinking from a mug while wearing silk.

  Rachel has outdone herself—my hair is all smooth and shiny, knotted at the nape of my neck in a series of mysterious swirls just like in the picture. The side-effect, though, is that a copious amount of my chest is on show. When I tried this dress on I had my hair down—I didn’t really notice quite how much skin the off-the-shoulder sleeves and structured sweetheart neckline leave exposed. Oh well. This is my night, too—I’m the acquiring editor. I’m perfectly entitled to dress inappropriately.

  My alarm beeps to remind me to check in on Katherin. I call her, trying not to notice that she’s higher up on my most-called list than my own mother.

  “Are you ready?” I ask as soon as she picks up.

  “Almost!” she trills. “Just made a quick adjustment to the outfit, and—”

  “What quick adjustment?” I ask, suspicious.

  “Oh, well when I tried it on again I realized how dour and boring this dress that your PR people picked makes me look under the bright lights of the day,” she says, “so I’ve tweaked the hemline and the neckline.”

  I open my mouth to tell her off, and then close it again. Firstly, the damage is clearly already done—if she’s re-hemmed, the dress is unsavable. And secondly, my risqué dress choice will look much better next to someone else who has also decided to show an unprofessional amount of skin.

  “Fine. We’ll pick you up at half past.”

  “Toodles!” she says, hopefully ironically, though I’m not sure.

  I check the time as I hang up. Ten minutes to spare. (I had to factor in time for Rachel to get ready, which always takes at least 50 percent longer than you think it will. She’ll blame it on me for making her do my hair, obviously, but it’s really because she is the self-proclaimed queen of contouring and spends at least forty minutes subtly altering the shape of her face before she even gets started on her eyes and lips.)

  I’m just about to text Leon and see how he is when the flat phone rings.

  “What the fuck is that?” shouts Rachel from the bathroom.

  “It’s our landline!” I yell, already making a dash for the sound (it seems to be coming from the vicinity of the fridge). Dashing is not easy in this outfit—there’s a lot of billowing in the skirt region, and at least two risky moments where my bare foot catches in the tulle as I go. I wince as it yanks at my bad ankle. I can walk on it now, but it’s not enjoying this running thing. Not that my good ankle likes running, either.

  “It’s your what?” Mo asks, sounding amused.

  “Our landline,” I repeat, fumbling around with the unbelievably large quantity of things on our kitchen surfaces.

  “I’m sorry, you didn’t tell me this was the 1990s,” calls Rachel, just as I find the phone.

  “Hello?”

  “Tiffy?”

  I frown. “Richie? Are you all right?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Tiffy,” he says, “I’m shitting myself. Not literally. Though it might be a matter of time.”

  “Whoever it is, I hope they’re enjoying the latest Blur CD,” Rachel calls.

  “Hang on.” I head for the bedroom and close the door firmly behind me. With difficulty, I rearrange my skirt so that I can perch on the edge of the bed without anything ripping. “Shouldn’t you be, I don’t know, in a van or something? How are you calling me? They have remembered your court date, right?”

  I’ve heard enough horror stories from Gerty and Leon now to know that prisoners don’t always make it to court when they should, thanks to the various prison-related bureaucracies that are required to overlap in this situation. They moved Richie down to a (even grimmer) London prison a few days ago so he’d be in the area for the trial, but there’s still the journey from the prison to the courthouse. I feel physically sick at the thought of all this preparation going to waste because someone forgot to call someone else about transportation.

  “No, no, I’ve done the van bit,” Richie says. “Barrel of laughs, let me tell you. Somehow spent five hours in there, though I could have sworn we weren’t moving for half of it. No, I’m at the courthouse now, in a holding cell. I’m not really allowed a phone call, but the guard is an Irish lady, and she says I remind her of her son. And that I look terrible. She told me to call my girlfriend, but I don’t have one, so I thought I’d call you, since you’re Leon’s girlfriend and that’s close enough. It was that or Rita from school, who I don’t think I ever technically broke up with.”

  “You’re rambling, Richie,” I tell him. “What’s the matter? Is it nerves?”

  “‘Nerves’ makes me sound like I’m an old lady. It’s terror.”

  “That does sound better. More horror movie. Less fainting because your corset is too tight.”

  “Exactly.”

  “Is Gerty there?”

  “I can’t see her yet. She’s busy doing whatever lawyers do, anyway. I’m on my own now.” His tone is light and self-deprecating, as always, but you don’t have to listen hard to hear the tremor in his voice.

  “You are not on your own,” I tell him firmly. “You have all of us. And remember—when we first spoke you told me you’re coming to terms with being in prison. Well, that’s the worst-case scenario here. More of what you have already coped with.”

  “What if I vomit in the courtroom?”

  “Then someone will clear the room and call a cleaner, and you’ll pick up where you left off. It’s not exactly going to make the judges think you’re an armed robber, is it?”r />
  He gives a strangled version of a chuckle. For a moment there is silence.

  “I don’t want to let Leon down,” he says. “He’s got his hopes up so high. I don’t want—I can’t bear to let him down again. Last time was the worst thing. Honestly, it was the worst. Seeing his face.”

  “You have never let him down,” I say. My heart is thumping. This is important. “He knows you didn’t do it. The … the system let you both down.”

  “I should have just taken it. Served my sentence and got out, and let him get on with his life in the meantime. All this—it’s only going to make everything worse for him.”

  “Leon was going to fight no matter what you did,” I say. “He was never just going to let his little brother get picked on. If you’d given up, that would have hurt him.”

  He takes a big, juddering breath, and lets it out again.

  “That’s good,” I say. “Breathing. I hear that’s a good one for those with delicate nerves. Have you got any smelling salts?”

  That gets another chuckle, a little less strangled this time.

  “Are you calling me a pussy?” Richie asks.

  “I fully believe that you’re a very brave man,” I tell him. “But yes. I’m calling you a pussy. In case that helps you remember how brave you are.”

  “Ah, you’re a good girl, Tiffy,” Richie says.

  “I’m not a dog, Richie. And—now that you’re hopefully less green … Can we go back to how you just said ‘Leon’s girlfriend’?”

  There’s a pause.

  “Not Leon’s girlfriend?” he says.

  “Not yet,” I tell him. “Well, I mean, we’ve not discussed that. We’ve only been on a few dates, technically.”