The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  66

  LEON

  Move between wards like I’m haunting the place. Should I be able to focus enough to take blood from a vein when even breathing feels like an effort? It’s easy, though—blissfully routine. Here’s something I can do. Leon, charge nurse, quiet but reliable.

  Notice after a few hours that I’m circling Coral Ward. Dodging it.

  Mr. Prior’s there, dying.

  Eventually the junior doctor on shift says a morphine dose on Coral Ward needs countersigning. So. No more hiding. Off I go. White-gray corridors, bare and scratched, and I know every inch of them, maybe better than the walls of my own flat.

  Pause. There’s a man in a brown suit outside the ward, forearms on knees, staring at the floor. Odd to see someone here at this time of the morning—no visitors on the night shift. He’s very old, white-haired. Familiar.

  I know that posture: That’s the posture of a man Mustering Courage. I’ve struck that pose enough times outside prison visiting halls to know how it looks.

  Takes a little while for it to click—I’m barely thinking, just moving on autopilot. But that white-haired man staring at the floor is Johnny White the Sixth, from Brighton. The thought seems ridiculous. JW the Sixth is a man from my other life. The one full of Tiffy. But here he is, so. Looks like I found Mr. Prior’s Johnny after all, even if it took him a little while to admit it.

  Should feel pleased, but can’t.

  Look at him. Aged ninety-two, he’s tracked Mr. Prior down, put his best suit on, traveled all the way up from the coast. All for a man he loved a lifetime ago. He sits there, head bowed like a man in prayer, waiting for the strength to face what he left behind.

  Mr. Prior has days to live. Hours, possibly. I look at Johnny White and feel it like a punch in the gut. He left it so. Fucking. Late.

  Johnny White looks up, sees me. We don’t speak. The silence stretches down the corridor between us.

  Johnny White: Is he dead?

  His voice comes out husky, breaking halfway.

  Me: No. You’re not too late.

  Except he is, really. How much did it hurt to come all this way knowing it was just to say goodbye?

  Johnny White: It took me a while to find him. After you visited.

  Me: You should have said something.

  Johnny White: Yes.

  He looks back at the floor. I step forward, bridge the silence, take the seat beside him. We examine the scratched lino side by side. This isn’t about me. This isn’t my story. But … Johnny White on that plastic seat, head bowed, that’s what the other side of not-trying looks like.

  Johnny White: I don’t want to go in there. I was thinking about leaving, when I saw you.

  Me: You’ve made it to here. There’s just the doors, now.

  He lifts his head like it’s something heavy.

  Johnny White: Are you sure he’ll want to see me?

  Me: He may not be conscious, Mr. White. But even so, I have no doubt he’ll be happier with you there.

  Johnny White stands, brushes down his suit trousers, squares his Hollywood chiseled jaw.

  Johnny White: Well. Better late than never.

  He doesn’t look at me, he just pushes his way through the double doors. I watch them swing behind him.

  Left to my own devices, I’m the sort of man who’d never walk through those doors. And where’s that ever got anybody?

  I get up. Time to move.

  Me, to junior doctor: On-call nurse will countersign on the morphine. I’m not on shift.

  Junior doctor: I did wonder why you weren’t in scrubs. What the hell are you doing here when you’re not on the rota? Go home!

  Me: Yes. Good idea.

  * * *

  It’s two in the morning; London is still and muffled in darkness. Turn on my phone as I jog for the bus, heartbeat thumping high in my throat.

  Endless missed calls and messages. I stare at them, startled. Don’t know where to start. Don’t have to, though, because the phone buzzes into life with an unknown London number almost as soon as I’ve turned it on.

  Me: Hello?

  My voice is wobbly.

  Richie: Oh, thank fuck for that. The guard is getting really tetchy. I’ve been ringing you for the past ten minutes. I had to give a long explanation of how this was still my one phone call, because you weren’t picking up. We’ve got about five minutes’ credit, by the way.

  Me: Are you all right?

  Richie: Am I all right? I’m fine, you dickhead, other than being mightily pissed off with you—and Gerty.

  Me: What?

  Richie: Tiffy. She didn’t say yes. That mad Justin bloke just answered for her, didn’t you notice?

  Stop stock still ten yards from bus stop. I … can’t absorb it. Blink. Swallow. Feel a bit sick.

  Richie: Yeah. Gerty rang her and started laying in to her for going back to Justin, then Mo went mental at her. Told her she was a terrible friend for not having enough faith in Tiffy to at least ask the question before assuming she’d gone back to him.

  I find my voice.

  Me: Is Tiffy all right?

  Richie: She’d be a lot better if she could speak to you, man.

  Me: I was already on my way, but—

  Richie: You were?

  Me: Yes. Had a visit from the Ghost of Christmas Future.

  Richie, confused: Bit early in the year for that sort of thing, isn’t it?

  Me: Well. You know what they say. Gets earlier every year.

  Lean against the bus shelter. Giddy and sick all at once. What was I doing? Coming here, wasting all that time?

  Me, belatedly, and with a rush of fear: Is Tiffy safe?

  Richie: Justin’s still on the loose, if that’s what you mean. But her mate Mo is with her, and according to Gerty he reckons Justin won’t come back for a while—he’ll go nurse his wounds and come up with another plan. He tends to have a plan for everything—that’s part of his whole deal, Mo says. You know the prick was using Marvin from Tiffy’s work to find out information about where Tiffy would be the whole time?

  Me: Martin. And … oh. Fuck.

  Richie: This was all about breaking the two of you up, man. Getting that YouTuber to film it all so you’d see it for sure.

  Me: I can’t … can’t believe I just assumed.

  Richie: Hey, bro, just go fix it, OK? And tell her about Mam.

  Me: Tell her what about Mam?

  Richie: I don’t need to be a therapist to figure out that you leaving Mam at court with Gerty and not going back to her place had something to do with all this. Look, I get it, man—we both have mummy issues.

  Bus approaching.

  Me: Not … entirely sure how this is relevant?

  Richie: Just because Mam always went back to the men who treated her like shit, or found another version of the same guy, that doesn’t mean Tiffy’s the same.

  Me, automatically: It wasn’t Mam’s fault. She was abused. Manipulated.

  Richie: Yeah, yeah, I know, you’re always saying that. But it doesn’t make it any easier when you’re twelve, does it?

  Me: You think …

  Richie: Look, I have to go. But just go tell Tiffy you’re sorry, and you fucked up, and you were raised by an abused single mother and basically had to look after your younger brother single-handed. That ought to do it.

  Me: That’s a bit … emotional blackmail-y, no? Also, will she enjoy the comparison with my mother?

  Richie: Point taken. Fine. You do you. Just sort it, and get her back, because that woman is the best thing that’s ever happened to you. All right?

  67

  TIFFY

  We completely forgot about eating, and now it’s 2:30 a.m. and I’ve just remembered to be hungry. Mo has gone out to get takeaway. He’s left me on the balcony with a large glass of red wine and an even larger bowl of Munchies from the cupboard, which I’m pretty sure were Leon’s, but who cares—if he thinks I’d go off and marry someone else, he might as well think I’m a snack thi
ef, too.

  I’m not sure who I’m angry with anymore. I’ve sat here for so long my legs have cramped up, and I’ve been through pretty much all the available emotions in that time, and now they’re all muddled together in a big ugly soup of misery. The only thing I can think of with any certainty is that I wish I had never met Justin.

  My phone buzzes.

  Leon calling.

  I’ve waited all night to see those words. My stomach drops. Has he spoken to Richie?

  “Hello?”

  “Hey.” His voice sounds ragged and strangely unfamiliar. It’s like the energy has gone out of him.

  I wait for him to say something else, staring out at the traffic sliding by below, letting the headlights draw yellow-white streaks on the insides of my eyes.

  “I am holding an enormous bunch of flowers,” he says.

  I don’t say anything.

  “I felt like I needed a physical symbol of the enormity of my apology,” Leon goes on. “But I’ve realized Justin also left you an enormous bunch of flowers—actually, much nicer, more expensive flowers—so now I’m thinking, flowers, not so good. Then I thought, I’d just come home and tell you in person. But then I realized once I got here that I left my key to the flat at Mam’s place because I’m supposed to be staying there tonight. So I’d have to knock on the door, which I thought would probably scare you, since you have an unhinged ex-boyfriend to contend with.”

  I watch car after car drive by. That might be the longest I’ve ever heard Leon speak in one go.

  “So where are you now?” I ask eventually.

  “Look up. Opposite pavement, by the bakery.”

  I see him now. He’s silhouetted against the bright yellow light of the bakery’s sign, the phone to his ear, his other arm cradling a bouquet of flowers. He’s wearing a suit—of course, he won’t have changed since court.

  “I’m guessing you’re feeling very hurt,” he says. His voice is gentle, and it makes me melt.

  I’m crying again.

  “I am so sorry, Tiffy. I should never have assumed. You needed me today, and I wasn’t there for you.”

  “I did need you,” I sob. “Mo and Gerty and Rachel are all great and I love them and they have helped so much but I wanted you. You made me feel like it didn’t matter that Justin happened. That you cared about me anyway.”

  “I do. And it doesn’t.” He’s crossing the road now, coming over to this side of the pavement. I can make out his face, the smooth, sharp lines of his cheekbones, the soft curve of his lips. He’s looking up at me. “Everyone kept telling me I was going to lose you if I didn’t tell you how I feel, and then in comes Justin, king of the romantic gesture…”

  “Romantic?” I splutter. “Romantic? And I don’t bloody want romantic gestures, anyway! Why would I want that? I’ve had that, and it was shit!”

  “I know,” Leon says. “You’re right. I should have known.”

  “And I liked that you weren’t pushing things—the idea of committing to a serious relationship scares the hell out of me! I mean, look at how hard it was to get out of the last one!”

  “Oh,” says Leon. “Yes. That’s … yes, I see.” He mutters something that sounds like it might be bloody Richie.

  “I can hear you without the phone now, you know,” I say, raising my voice enough for it to carry over the traffic noise. “Plus I’m quite enjoying the excuse to shout.”

  He hangs up and backs away a little. “Let’s shout, then!” he calls.

  I narrow my eyes, and then I pull off all my blankets, put down my wine and munchies, and move to the railings.

  “Whoa,” Leon says, voice dropping so I can only just catch the words. “You look incredible.”

  I look down at myself, a little surprised to find I’m still wearing the off-the-shoulder dress from the party. God knows what my hair looks like, and my makeup is definitely at least two inches farther down my face than it was this morning, but the dress is pretty spectacular.

  “Don’t be nice!” I shout. “I want to be angry with you!”

  “Yes! Right! Shouting,” Leon calls, tightening his tie and re-buttoning his collar as though he’s preparing himself.

  “I am never going back to Justin!” I shout, and then, because of how good it feels, I try it again. “I am never fucking going back to Justin!”

  A car alarm goes off somewhere nearby, which I know is coincidental, but still feels pretty good—now all I need is a cat to yowl and a bunch of dustbins to fall over. I take a deep breath and open my mouth to keep yelling, then pause. Leon has a hand up.

  “Can I say something?” he calls. “I mean, shout something?”

  A driver slows down as he passes, staring with interest at the pair of us bellowing at one another, two storeys apart. It occurs to me now that Leon has probably never shouted in the street before. I close my mouth, a little taken aback, then nod.

  “I fucked up!” Leon yells. He clears his throat and tries a little louder. “I got scared. I know it’s no excuse, but all this is scary for me. The trial. You, us. I’m not good when things are changing. I get…”

  He flounders, like he’s run out of words, and something warm gives way in my chest.

  “Squirrelly?” I offer.

  In the light from the streetlamp I watch his lips move into a lopsided smile.

  “Yeah. Good word.” He clears his throat again, moving closer to the balcony. “Sometimes it feels easier to just be the way I was before you. Safer. But … look what you’ve been able to do. How brave you’ve been. And that’s how I want to be. OK?”

  I rest my hands on the railing and look down at him. “You’re doing a lot of talking down there, Leon Twomey,” I call.

  “It seems in times of emergency I can be quite verbose!” he yells.

  I laugh. “Don’t be doing too much changing, now. I like you as you are.”

  He grins. He’s disheveled and shabbily handsome in his suit, and suddenly all I want to do is kiss him.

  “Well, Tiffy Moore, I like you, too.”

  “Say again?” I call, cupping a hand around my ear.

  “I really, really like you!” he bellows.

  A window above me flies open with a clatter. “Do you mind?” shouts the strange man from Flat 5. “I’m trying to sleep up here! How am I supposed to get up in time to do my antigravity yoga if I’m kept up all night?”

  “Antigravity yoga!” I mouth down at Leon, delighted. I’ve been wondering what he did every morning since the first day I moved in here!

  “Don’t let the fame go to your head, Leon,” warns the strange man from Flat 5, then he reaches to close the window again.

  “Wait!” I call.

  He looks down at me. “Who are you?”

  “I’m your other neighbor. Hello!”

  “Oh, you’re Leon’s girlfriend?”

  I hesitate, then grin. “Yes,” I say firmly, and hear a little whoop from street level. “And I have a question.”

  He just stares at me with the air of a man waiting to see what a small child will do next.

  “What do you do with all the bananas? You know—the bananas from the empty crates that live in your parking space?”

  To my surprise, he breaks into a big, half-toothless smile. He looks quite friendly when he’s smiling. “I distill them! Lovely cider!”

  And with that, he slams the window.

  Leon and I look at each other and simultaneously burst out into giggles. Before long I am laughing so hard I’ve started to cry; I’m holding my stomach, ugly-laughing, gasping for breath, and screwing my face up hard.

  “Antigravity yoga!” I hear Leon whisper, his voice just carrying on a gap in the traffic noise. “Banana cider!”

  “I can’t hear you,” I say, but I don’t shout for fear of waking the ire of the strange man from Flat 5 again. “Come closer.”

  Leon looks around, and then backs up a few steps.

  “Catch!” he calls in a stage whisper, and then he chucks the bouquet up
to me. It soars lopsidedly through the air, shedding leaves and the odd chrysanthemum as it goes, but, with a dangerous lunge toward the railings and a squeaky sort of shriek, I manage to catch it.

  By the time I’ve got a good hold on the flowers and laid them on the table, Leon has disappeared. I lean over the edge of the balcony in confusion.

  “Where have you gone?” I call.

  “Marco!” comes a voice from somewhere nearby.

  “Polo?”

  “Marco.”

  “Polo! This is not helping!”

  He’s scaling the drainpipe. I burst out laughing again.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Getting closer!”

  “I did not have you down as a drainpipe-climbing man,” I say, wincing as he reaches for another handhold and hauls himself up a little higher.

  “Me neither,” he says, turning to look at me as he scrabbles about for a spot for his left foot. “You clearly bring out the best in me.”

  He’s only a few yards away from me now; the drainpipe passes right up by our balcony, and he can almost reach our railings.

  “Hey! Are those my Munchies?” he says as he reaches an experimental hand up.

  I just give him a look.

  “… Yeah, fair enough,” he says. “Give a fella a hand?”

  “This is insane,” I tell him, but I move to help anyway.

  Carefully, he lets one foot dangle, and then the other, until he’s hanging by his hands from our balcony railings.

  “Oh my god,” I say. It’s almost too terrifying to look at, but I can’t look away, specifically because then I won’t be paying attention if he lets go and that idea is much worse than watching him hanging there, scrabbling to find a foothold on the bottom edge of the railings.

  He pulls himself up; I give him a hand with the last yank, my hand grasping his as he swings himself over.

  “There!” he says, brushing himself down. He pauses, breathless, and looks at me.

  “Hi,” I say, suddenly feeling a little shy in my over-the-top dress.

  “I’m so sorry,” Leon says, opening his arms for a hug.

  I lean into him. His suit smells of autumn, that outdoor-air smell that clings to your hair at this time of year. The rest of him smells of Leon, just the way I want it to, and as he pulls me close I shut my eyes and breathe him in, feeling the solid strength of his body against mine.