The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  “He’s mad about you,” Richie says. “He might not say it out loud, but…”

  I feel a twinge of anxiety. I’m crazy about Leon, too. I spend most of my waking hours thinking about him, and a few of the sleeping ones, too. But … I don’t know. The idea of him wanting to be my boyfriend makes me feel so trapped.

  I adjust my dress, wondering if I’m the one having the problem with corsets and nerves. I really like Leon. This is ridiculous. Objectively, I would like to call him my boyfriend, and introduce him to people as such. That’s what you always want when you’re crazy about someone. But …

  What would Lucie say?

  Well, she’d probably say nothing, to be honest. She’d just leave me to stew on the fact that this weird fear of getting trapped is almost certainly to do with the fact that I was in a relationship with a man who never really let me go.

  “Tiffy?” Richie says. “I should probably get going.”

  “Oh, god, yes,” I say, coming to my senses. I don’t know what I’m doing worrying about relationship labels when Richie is about to walk into court. “Good luck, Richie. I wish I could be there.”

  “Maybe see you on the other side,” he says, voice trembling again. “And if not—look after Leon.”

  This time, the request doesn’t sound strange. “I will,” I tell him. “I promise.”

  58

  LEON

  Hate this suit. Last wore it for court case number one, and then shoved it in wardrobe at Mam’s place, tempted to burn it like it was contaminated. Glad I didn’t. Can’t afford to keep burning suits every time the legal system fails to deliver justice. This might not be our last appeal.

  Mam is weepy and shaking. I try so hard to be strong for her, but can’t bear to be in the room with it. Would be easier with any other person, but with Mam, it’s awful. I want her to mother me, not the other way around, and it almost makes me angry seeing her like this, even while it makes me sad.

  I check my phone.

  I’ve just spoken to Richie—he called here for a bit of a morale boost. He’s doing fine. You’re all going to be fine, whatever happens. Text me if there’s anything I can do. I can always duck out for a phone call. Tiffy xx

  I feel warm for a moment, after a morning of sustained cold fear. Remind myself of new resolve to explicitly tell Tiffy how I feel and move things in direction of seriousness, e.g., meeting parents etc.

  Mam: Sweetie?

  One last look in mirror. Thinner, longer-haired, stretched-out Richie stares back at me. I can’t get him out of my head—I keep remembering how he looked when they read out his sentence, the endless barrage of nonsense about his cold-blooded, calculated crime, how his eyes went wide and blank with fear.

  Mam: Leon? Sweetie?

  Me: Coming.

  * * *

  Hello again, courtroom.

  It’s so mundane. Nothing like the wooden seats and vaulted ceilings of American legal dramas—just lots of files on desks, carpet, and tiered benches from which a few bored-looking lawyers and journalists have come to spectate. One of the journalists is trying to find a plug to charge his phone. A law student is inspecting the back of her smoothie bottle.

  It’s bizarre. Earlier this year, I would have wanted to scream at both of them. Pay some fucking attention. You’re watching someone’s life being destroyed. But it’s all part of the peculiar drama of this ritual, and now that we know how to play the game—now that we have a lawyer who knows the rules—the ritual doesn’t bother me so much.

  A wizened man in a long cloak like a Harry Potter character enters with prison guard and Richie. Richie is not cuffed, which is something. But he looks just as bad as I suspected. He’s bulked up in the last few months, exercising again, but with his shoulders slumped the muscle seems to weigh him down. Can barely recognize him as the brother who first walked into court last year, the one with total confidence that if you’re innocent you walk out free. The brother who grew up at my shoulder, matching me step for step, always having my back.

  Almost can’t look at him—it’s too painful seeing the fear in his eyes. Somehow, from somewhere, I manage an encouraging smile when he looks at me and Mam. They put him in a glass box and close the door behind him.

  We wait. Journalist succeeds at plugging in phone, and continues to scroll through what looks like the Reuters homepage, despite enormous sign forbidding use of mobile phones directly above his head. Smoothie-bottle girl is now pulling loose threads out of fluffy scarf.

  Have to keep smiling at Richie. Gerty is here, dressed in that ridiculous outfit, almost indistinguishable from the rest of the lawyers even though I’ve seen her eating Chinese takeaway in my kitchen. I feel myself bristling just at the sight of her. It’s something guttural, instinctive now. Have to remind myself over and over that she’s on our team.

  Wizened robed man: All rise!

  Everyone stands. Three judges file into the room. Is it generalizing to point out that literally all of them are white middle-aged men whose shoes look like they are worth more than my mother’s car? I try to quell my rising hatred as they settle into their seats. Flick through the paperwork in front of them. Look up, finally, at Gerty and the prosecution barrister. Not one of them looks at my brother.

  Judge 1: Shall we begin?

  59

  TIFFY

  Katherin is a tiny, black-clad stick figure on the stage. Behind her, blown up to terrifying proportions, she’s repeated in close-up—one screen is just her hands, so viewers can watch how she uses the crochet hook, and the other two focus on her face.

  It’s amazing. The whole crowd is rapt. We’re so overdressed for a daytime event about crochet, but Katherin insisted on the dress code—despite all her anti-bourgeois values, she bloody loves an excuse to wear something fancy. Women in cocktail dresses gaze up at Katherin’s enormous face, immortalized on the big screens beneath the vaulted ceiling. Men in tuxedos chuckle warmly at Katherin’s witticisms. I even catch one young woman in a satin gown copying the movements of Katherin’s hands, though all she’s holding is a miniature goat-cheese canapé, no crochet hook in sight.

  Despite all of this, all its distracting absurdity, I can’t stop thinking about Richie and the way his voice trembled on the phone.

  Nobody would notice if I just snuck out. I might look a little incongruous for the courtroom, but maybe I could head for my flat, and pick up a change of clothes for the taxi ride …

  God, I can’t believe I’m considering paying for a taxi.

  “Look!” Rachel hisses suddenly, poking me in the ribs.

  “Ow! What?”

  “Look! It’s Tasha Chai-Latte!”

  I follow her pointing finger. A young woman dressed in a subtle lilac cocktail dress has just entered the crowd, a staggeringly attractive boyfriend in tow. An intimidating man in a tux follows the two of them—their bodyguard, presumably.

  Rachel’s right, it’s definitely her. I recognize the chiseled cheekbones from YouTube. Despite myself, I feel my stomach flutter a little—I’m such a sucker for a famous person.

  “I can’t believe she came!”

  “Martin will be ecstatic. Do you think she’ll let me take a picture with her?” Rachel asks. Above us, the gigantic Katherins on their screens smile out at the crowd, and her hands hold up a finished square.

  “It’s the big man in the tux I’d worry about, if I were you.”

  “She’s filming! Look!”

  Tasha Chai-Latte’s impossibly handsome boyfriend has pulled a compact, expensive-looking video camera out of his satchel, and is fiddling with the buttons. Tasha checks her hair and makeup, dabbing a finger along her lips.

  “Oh my god. She’s going to put the event on her YouTube channel. Do you think Katherin will mention you in her thank-you speech? We’ll be famous!”

  “Calm down,” I tell her, exchanging a look with Mo, who is currently working his way through the large pile of canapés he has been hoarding while everyone else is too distracted by croc
het to capitalize on the food.

  Tasha’s boyfriend lifts the camera, training it on Tasha’s face. Immediately she is wreathed in smiles, all thought of hair and makeup forgotten.

  “Get closer, get closer,” Rachel mutters, shooing Mo in the direction of Tasha. We shuffle along, trying to look nonchalant, until we’re just about close enough to hear them.

  “… Amazing lady!” Tasha is saying. “And isn’t this place beautiful? Oh my god, you guys, I feel so lucky to be here, and to be able to share it with all of you—live! You know how I feel about supporting real artists, and that’s exactly what Katherin is.”

  The crowd bursts into applause—Katherin has finished her demonstration. Tasha gives an impatient gesture, telling her boyfriend to do another take. I guess they’re warming up for the live stream.

  “And now a few thank-yous!” Katherin says from the stage.

  “This is it,” Rachel whispers excitedly. “She’ll definitely mention you.”

  My stomach twists. I’m not sure I want her to mention me—there are a lot of people in this room, and an extra few million who will soon be watching via Tasha Chai-Latte’s YouTube channel. I adjust my dress, trying to inch it a little higher.

  I needn’t have worried, though. Katherin starts by thanking her entire network of friends and family, which turns out to be extensive to the point of absurdity (I can’t help wondering if she’s taking the piss a bit—it would be just like her). The crowd’s attention shifts; people begin to move around in search of prosecco and tiny food.

  “And finally,” Katherin says grandly, “there are two people who I just had to save until last.”

  Well, that can’t be me. It’ll be her mum and dad or something. Rachel shoots me a disappointed look, and then returns her attention to Tasha and her boyfriend, who are filming everything with quiet concentration on their faces.

  “Two people without whom this book would never have happened,” Katherin goes on. “These two have worked so hard to make Crochet Your Way possible. And, even better than that, they believed in me from the very start—long before I was lucky enough to gather crowds this large for my events.”

  Rachel and I turn to stare at one another.

  “It won’t be me,” Rachel whispers, suddenly looking very nervous. “She doesn’t even remember my name most of the time.”

  “Tiffy and Rachel have been editor and designer on my books for the last three years, and they are the reason for my success,” Katherin says grandly. The crowd applauds. “I cannot thank them enough for making my book the best it can possibly be—and the most beautiful it can possibly be. Rachel! Tiffy! Will you get up here, please? I have something for you both.”

  We gawp at one another. I think Rachel might be hyperventilating. I have never regretted an outfit choice more than I do now. I have to get up on stage in front of one thousand people wearing something that only just covers my nipples.

  But as we stumble our way to the stage—which really does take quite some time, we weren’t very near the front—I can’t help noticing Katherin smiling down from her giant screens. In fact, she almost looks a little teary. God. I feel like a bit of a fraud. I mean, I have worked pretty much full time on Katherin’s book for the last few months, but I also complained about it a lot, and didn’t actually pay her very much to begin with.

  I’m on stage before I’ve really registered what’s happening. Katherin kisses me on the cheek and hands me an enormous bouquet of lilies.

  “Thought I’d forgotten you two, didn’t you?” she whispers in my ear, with a cheeky smile. “The fame’s not gone quite that far to my head yet.”

  The crowd is clapping, and the sound echoes down from the roof until I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I smile, hoping that sheer willpower will be sufficient adhesive for the top of my dress. The lights are so bright when you’re up here—they’re like starbursts on the insides of my eyes every time I blink, and everything is either very white and shiny or black and shadowy, like someone’s messed with the contrast.

  I think that’s why I don’t really notice the commotion until it reaches the front of the crowd, trembling its way through the throng, sending heads turning and people crying out as they stumble as though they’ve been pushed. Eventually a figure shoves its way through and vaults onto the stage.

  I can’t really see properly, eyes burned with all the lights, lily heads bobbing in front of me as I try to get a good hand-hold on the bouquet of flowers and wonder how I’m going to get down off the stage in these shoes without being able to use the handrail.

  I recognize the voice, though. And once I’ve registered that, everything else drops away.

  “Can I have the mic?” says Justin, because of course, implausibly, impossibly, the figure pushing his way through the crowd was his. “I have something I want to say.”

  Katherin’s passed him the mic before she’s even thought about it. She glances at me at the last moment, frowning, but it’s already in Justin’s hand. That’s Justin: He asks, he gets.

  He turns to face me.

  “Tiffy Moore,” he says. “Look at me.”

  He’s right—I’m not looking at him. As though he is holding me on strings, my head snaps round and my eyes meet his. There he is. Square jaw, perfectly trimmed beard, strong shoulders beneath a tuxedo jacket. Eyes soft and trained on my face like I’m the only girl in the room. You can’t see a trace of the man I have been talking about in counseling, the one who hurt me. This man is a dream come true.

  “Tiffy Moore,” he begins again. Everything feels wrong, like I’ve stepped into my Sliding Doors alternative world, and suddenly all trace of my other life, the one where I didn’t need or want Justin, is threatening to desert me. “I have been lost without you.”

  There’s a pause. A lurching, sickening, echoing silence, like the long raw note in your ears when the music stops.

  Then Justin drops down on one knee.

  All at once I am aware of the crowd’s reaction—they coo and ahh—and I can see the faces on stage around me, Rachel’s twisted in shock, Katherin’s mouth open. I desperately want to run away, though I suspect that even if I could muster the strength, my legs would be too frozen to do everything required of them. It’s like the whole lot of us on stage are performing some sort of tableau.

  “Please,” I begin. Why have I started by pleading? I try the sentence again, but he doesn’t let me.

  “You’re the woman I am meant to be with,” he says. His voice is gentle but carries well with the microphone. “I know that now. I can’t believe I ever lost faith in us. You’re everything I could possibly want and more.” He tilts his head, a gesture I used to find irresistible. “I know I don’t deserve you, I know you’re far too good for me, but…”

  Something twangs inside me like it’s pulled close to snapping. I remember how Gerty said Justin knows exactly how to play me, and there it is: the Justin who got me in the first place.

  “Tiffany Moore,” he says. “Will you marry me?”

  There’s something about his eyes—it was always his eyes that got me. As the silence stretches taut it seems to tighten around my throat. The feeling that I am in two places at once, that I’m two people at once, is so acute it’s almost like being half asleep and tugged between waking and dreaming. Here is Justin, begging for me. The Justin I always wanted. The Justin I had right at the start, who I went through countless rows and breakups for, the one who I always believed was worth fighting to get back.

  I open my mouth and speak, but without the microphone my voice is lost behind the lilies. Even I can’t hear my answer.

  “She said yes!” Justin yells, standing up, stretching his arms out wide. “She said yes!”

  The crowd erupts. The noise is too much. The light sears stripes under my eyelids, and Justin is bundling me in, hugging me close, his mouth on my hair, and it doesn’t even feel strange, it feels like it always used to—his firm body against mine, the warmth of him, all horribly, perfectly famil
iar.

  60

  LEON

  Ms. Constantine: Mrs. Wilson, as our first expert witness, please could you begin by telling the judges what your expertise entails?

  Mrs. Wilson: I’m a CCTV analyst and enhancer. Have been for fifteen years. I work for the UK’s leading CCTV Forensics business—it was my team that pulled that enhanced footage together [gestures to screen].

  Ms. Constantine: Thank you very much, Mrs. Wilson. And in your experience of examining CCTV footage, what can you tell us about these two short clips that we have seen today?

  Mrs. Wilson: Plenty. They’re not the same bloke, to start with.

  Ms. Constantine: Really? You sound absolutely sure of that.

  Mrs. Wilson: Oh, sure as anything. For starters, look at the color of the hoodie in the enhanced footage. Only one hoodie is black. You can tell by the shade that it comes out as, see? The black is a denser color.

  Ms. Constantine: Can we have images from both up on screen, please? Thank you.

  Mrs. Wilson: And then look at how they walk! It’s a fair imitation, all right, but the first bloke is clearly fu—is clearly drunk, my lords. Look at how he’s zigzagging. Almost walks into the display. Then the next guy walks much straighter and doesn’t fumble or anything when he reaches for the knife. Our first bloke nearly dropped the beers!

  Ms. Constantine: And with the new CCTV footage from outside Aldi, we can see the distinctively … zigzagged walk more clearly.

  Mrs. Wilson: Oh, yeah.

  Ms. Constantine: And of the group that we see walking by a few moments after the first figure, who we have identified as Mr. Twomey … would you be able to identify any of those figures as the man with the knife in the off-license?

  Mr. Turner, to the judges: My lords, this is nothing but speculation.

  Judge Whaite: No, we’ll allow it. Ms. Constantine is calling on her witness’s expertise in this area.

  Ms. Constantine: Mrs. Wilson, could any of those men have been the man in the off-license, looking at this footage?