The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  Mo appears in the doorway, fish and chips in a plastic Something Fishy bag in his hands. I didn’t even hear him come in, and I jump a little, but with Leon’s arms around me the idea of Justin turning up in the flat doesn’t feel nearly so terrifying.

  “Ah,” Mo says, seeing the pair of us. “I’ll take my fish and chips elsewhere, shall I?”

  68

  LEON

  Me: It’s probably not the right time.

  Tiffy: I sincerely hope you’re joking.

  Me: Not joking, but definitely hoping you’ll tell me I’m wrong.

  Tiffy: You are wrong. Now is the perfect time. We are alone, in our flat, together. It literally does not get better than this.

  We stare at each other. She’s still wearing that incredible dress. Looks like it would tip off her shoulders to the floor with one tug. I’m desperate to try it. I resist, though—she says she’s ready, but it’s not been the sort of day for tear-my-clothes-off sex. Slow, lovely, clothes-staying-on-for-tantalizingly-long-time sex, maybe.

  Tiffy: Bed?

  That voice—exactly like Richie described it. Deep and sexy. Much sexier when it says things like “bed,” too.

  We stand at the foot of the bed and turn to face one another again. I lean to take her face between my hands and kiss her. Feel her body melt against mine as we kiss, feel the tension leave her, and pull back to see her eyes have gone fiery behind the blue. The desire is instant, on the moment our lips touch, and it takes enormous effort to just rest my hands on her bare shoulders.

  She reaches to loosen my tie and shrug off my jacket. Unbuttons my shirt slowly, kissing me as her fingers move. There’s still air between us now, like we’re keeping a respectful distance, despite the kissing.

  Tiffy turns, holding her hair out of the way so I can unzip her dress. I take her hair into my hands instead, pulling a little as I twist the bunch around my wrist, and she moans. Can’t handle that sound. Close that space between us, kissing along her shoulders, up her neck to where her hair meets her skin, pressing as close as I can until she shifts to loosen her own zip.

  Tiffy: Leon. Focus. Dress.

  I take the zip from between her fingers and pull it down slowly, slower than she wants. She wriggles, impatient. Backs up into me until my legs hit the bed and we’re pressed close again, bare skin and silk.

  Eventually the dress falls to the floor. It’s almost cinematic—a shimmer of silk, then she’s there, black underwear and nothing else. She turns in my arms, her eyes still fiery, and I hold her away to look at her.

  Tiffy, smiling: You always do that.

  Me: Do what?

  Tiffy: Look at me like that. When I … take something off.

  Me: Want to see everything. It’s too important for rushing.

  Tiffy quirks an eyebrow, unbearably sexy.

  Tiffy: No rushing?

  She traces her fingers along the top of my boxers. Dips her hand below it, only millimeters from where I want her.

  Tiffy: You’re going to regret saying that, Leon.

  I’m already regretting, as soon as she says my name. Her fingers trace across my lower belly, and then, painfully slowly, reach for the buckle of my belt. After she’s eased the zip down I step out of my suit trousers and kick off my socks, conscious of how her eyes follow me like a cat’s. When I move to pull her close to me again she puts a firm hand on my chest.

  Tiffy, throatily: Bed.

  That air between us is back for an instant; we move automatically to our old sides of the bed. She’s left, I’m right. We watch each other as we slide under the covers.

  I lie sideways, looking at her. Her hair spreads across the pillow, and though she’s under the duvet I can sense how bare she is, how much of her there is to touch. I place my hand in the space between us. She takes it, bridging the line we’d drawn back in February, and kisses my fingers, then slides them between her lips, and suddenly that space is gone and she’s pressed up against me where she should be, skin on skin, not a fraction of an inch between us.

  69

  TIFFY

  “You’ve seen me naked now. You’ve had your wicked way with me. And you’re still looking at me like that.”

  His smile drops into that gorgeous lopsided thing, the smile that got me all those weeks ago in Brighton.

  “Tiffany Moore,” he says, “I have every intention of continuing to look at you in this fashion for many moons to come.”

  “Many moons!”

  He nods solemnly.

  “How very charming and ingeniously non-specific of you.”

  “Well, something told me a suggestion of long-term commitment might have you running for the hills.”

  I think about it, resettling my head against his chest. “I see your point, but actually, it seems to have just made me feel curiously warm and fuzzy.”

  He doesn’t say anything, he just kisses the top of my head.

  “Also I would not be capable of running nonstop to the nearest hill.”

  “Herne Hill, maybe? You could take Herne Hill.”

  “Well,” I say, turning onto my front and propping myself up on my elbows, “I have no interest in running to Herne Hill. I like the many-moons plan. I think it’s … hey, are you even listening to me?”

  “Yes?” Leon tries, lifting his gaze. He smiles. “Sorry. You have managed to distract me even from yourself.”

  “And there was me thinking you were un-distractible.”

  He kisses me, his hand moving to stroke rough circles on my breast. “Sure. Un-distractible,” he says. “And you are…”

  I already can’t think straight. “Putty in your hands?”

  “I was going to say, ‘excellently easy to distract.’”

  “I’m playing hard to get this time.”

  He does something with his hand that nobody has ever done before. I have no idea what’s happening but it seems to involve his thumb, my nipple, and about five thousand prickly hot licks of sensation.

  “I’m reminding you of that in ten minutes’ time,” Leon says, kissing his way down my neck.

  “You’re smug.”

  “I’m happy.”

  I pull away to look at him. I realize that my cheeks are starting to hurt, and I think it’s genuinely from all the smiling. When I tell Rachel that I know exactly what she’ll do: stick her finger in her mouth and gag. But it’s true—despite everything that’s happened today, I am sickeningly, dizzyingly happy.

  He raises his eyebrows at me. “No witty comeback?”

  I gasp as his fingers shift across my skin, tracing patterns I can’t follow.

  “I’m just working on one … just give me … a minute…”

  * * *

  Whilst Leon is in the shower, I write our to-do list for the next day and stick it to the fridge. It reads as follows.

  1. Try very hard not to think about the judges’ verdict.

  2. Get restraining order.

  3. Talk to Mo and Gerty about, well, Mo and Gerty.

  4. Buy milk.

  I fidget, waiting for him to appear, and then give up and reach for my phone. I’ll just have to listen out for the shower.

  “Hello?” comes Gerty’s muffled voice down the line.

  “Hi!”

  “Oh, thank god,” Gerty says, and I can almost hear her slumping back against the pillows again. “You and Leon worked things out?”

  “Yeah, we worked things out,” I tell her.

  “Oh, and you slept with him?”

  I grin. “Your radar’s back on.”

  “So I haven’t ruined everything?”

  “You haven’t ruined everything. Although, to be clear, it would have been Justin who ruined everything, not you.”

  “God, you are feeling benevolent. Were you safe?”

  “Yes, Mother, we were safe. Were you and Mo safe when you made up this morning?” I ask sweetly.

  “Don’t,” Gerty says. “It’s bad enough me thinking about Mo’s penis, you shouldn’t have to do it, too.�
��

  I laugh. “Can we have coffee tomorrow, just the three of us? I want to hear about how you got together. Vaguely, and with no penis-related details.”

  “And talk about how to get a restraining order?” Gerty suggests.

  “Is that Tiffy?” I hear Mo say in the background.

  “So sweet that he hears ‘restraining order’ and thinks of me,” I say, heart sinking a little at the change of subject. “But yeah. We should talk about that.”

  “Do you feel safe?”

  “Are we back on the contraception subject again?”

  “Tiffy.” Gerty has never stood for my arts of deflection. “Do you feel safe in the flat?”

  “With Leon here, yeah.”

  “OK. Good. But even so, we need to talk about getting an emergency injunction to cover you before the hearing.”

  “An … wait, there’s a hearing?”

  “Let the poor woman think,” Mo says in the background. “I’m glad you and Leon are good again, Tiffy!” he calls.

  “Thanks, Mo.”

  “Have I killed your buzz?” Gerty asks.

  “A little. But it’s all right. I’ve still got Rachel to call.”

  “Yes, go discuss all the sordid details with Rachel,” Gerty says. “Coffee tomorrow, text us where and when.”

  “See you,” I say, hanging up and pausing to listen.

  The shower is still on. I call Rachel.

  “Sex?” she says when she answers the phone.

  I laugh. “No thanks, I’m taken.”

  “I knew it! You guys made up?”

  “And then some,” I say, in an exaggeratedly sexy sort of way.

  “Details! Details!”

  “I’ll fill you in properly on Monday. But … I have discovered that my boobs have been underperforming for my entire adult life.”

  “Ah, yes,” Rachel says knowledgeably. “A common problem. You know there are…”

  “Shh!” I hiss. The shower’s stopped. “Got to go!”

  “Don’t leave me hanging like this! I was going to tell you all about nipples!”

  “Leon is going to find it very weird that I have rung round my best friends after sex,” I whisper. “It’s early days. I still have to pretend to be normal.”

  “Fine, but I’m scheduling in a two-hour meeting on Monday morning. Subject: Boobs 101.”

  I hang up and a moment later Leon wanders in in his towel, hair smoothed back, shoulders gleaming with droplets, and pauses to examine my to-do list.

  “Seems manageable,” he says, opening the door and reaching in for the orange juice. “How’re Gerty and Rachel?”

  “What?”

  He smiles at me over his shoulder. “Do you want me to get back in? I figured I only needed to allow for two phone calls since Gerty would be with Mo.”

  I feel my cheeks flushing. “Oh, I, uh…”

  He leans over, orange juice in hand, and kisses me on the lips. “Don’t worry,” he says. “I plan on remaining blissfully unaware of how much you overshare with Rachel.”

  “When I’m finished filling her in she’ll think you’re a god amongst men,” I say, relaxing and reaching for the orange juice.

  Leon winces. “Will she be able to look me in the face again?”

  “Sure. She’ll probably opt for looking somewhere else instead, though.”

  70

  LEON

  The weekend comes and goes in a blur of guilty pleasure. Tiffy barely leaves my arms, except to go for coffee with Gerty and Mo. Was right that we’d have a few triggers to work around; briefly lost her to a bad memory on Saturday morning, but am already learning how to help bring her back again. Is rather satisfying.

  She’s definitely more nervous about Justin than she’s letting on—came up with elaborate heavy-milk-buying ruse to get me to come and meet her at the coffee place and walk her back here. The sooner we can get that restraining order sorted the better. I fixed a chain on the door while she was out, and mended the balcony door, just to be doing something.

  Got Monday off, so walk Tiffy to the tube and then cook myself an elaborate fry-up involving black pudding and spinach.

  Sitting still alone is not good. Odd—normally I’m all for lonesome sitting. But when Tiffy is out, I feel her absence like a missing tooth.

  Eventually, after much pacing and not looking in the direction of my phone, I call my mother.

  Mam: Leon? Sweetie? Are you OK?

  Me: Hi, Mam. I’m fine. Sorry for walking out like that on Friday.

  Mam: It’s OK. We were all upset, and what with your new girlfriend marrying that other guy … oh, Lee, you must be heartbroken!

  Ah, of course—who would have filled Mam in?

  Me: It was a misunderstanding. Tiffy has a, uh, bad-news sort of ex-boyfriend. That was him. She didn’t actually say yes to marrying him, he just tried to force her into it.

  Dramatic, soap-opera style gasp down the phone. I try very hard not to find it annoying.

  Mam: Poor little thing!

  Me: Yes, well, she’s doing fine.

  Mam: Have you gone after him?

  Me: After him?

  Mam: The ex! After what he’s done to your Tiffy!

  Me:… What are you suggesting, Mam?

  I decide not to give her time to answer.

  Me: We’re looking into getting a restraining order.

  Mam: Oh, sure, those are great.

  Awkward pause. Why do I find these conversations so difficult?

  Mam: Leon.

  Wait. Fidget. Look at the floor.

  Mam: Leon, I’m sure your Tiffy’s nothing like me.

  Me: What?

  Mam: You were always a sweetheart about it, not like Richie with all his screaming and running off and all, but I know you hated the men I dated. I mean, I hated them, too, but you hated them right from the start. I know I set a … I know I set a terrible example.

  I feel deeply, profoundly uncomfortable.

  Me: Mam, it’s fine.

  Mam: I really am getting sorted now, Lee.

  Me: I know. And it wasn’t your fault.

  Mam: You know, I think I nearly believe that?

  Pause. Think.

  I nearly believe that, too. Who’d have thought—you say something true enough times, you try hard enough, and maybe it sinks in.

  Me: Love you, Mam.

  Mam: Oh, sweetheart. I love you, too. And we’ll get our Richie back, and we’ll look after him, won’t we, like we always have.

  Me: Exactly. Like always.

  * * *

  It’s still Monday. Monday is interminable. I hate days off—what do people do on days off? I just keep thinking trial, hospice, Justin, trial, hospice, Justin. Even warm, fuzzy Tiffy thoughts are struggling to keep me afloat now.

  Me: Hi, Gerty, it’s Leon.

  Gerty: Leon, there is no news. The judges have not called us back for a verdict. If the judges call us back for a verdict, I will call you, and then you will know about it. You do not need to call me to check in.

  Me: Right. Sure. Sorry.

  Gerty, relenting: I suspect it will be tomorrow.

  Me: Tomorrow.

  Gerty: It’s like today, but plus one.

  Me: Today plus one. Yes.

  Gerty: Don’t you have a hobby or something?

  Me: Not really. Sort of just work all the time, generally.

  Gerty: Well, you live with Tiffy. There will be no shortage of hobby-related reading material. Go read a book about crochet or building things out of cardboard or whatever.

  Me: Thanks, Gerty.

  Gerty: You’re welcome. And stop calling me, I am very busy.

  She hangs up. It’s still a little unnerving when she does that, no matter how many times you’ve endured it.

  71

  TIFFY

  I can’t believe Martin had the guts to come into work. I always had him down as a coward, but actually, of the two of us, I seem the most nervous about facing him. It’s like … talking to Justin by p
roxy. Which is frankly terrifying, no matter how much I tell Leon I’m feeling fine. Martin, on the other hand, is swanning about as usual, gloating about the success story of the party. I guess he probably doesn’t know I know yet.

  He’s yet to mention the proposal, I notice. Nobody in the office has. Rachel put out the memo that I wasn’t actually engaged, which has at least saved me a morning of warding off congratulations.

  Rachel [10:06 a.m.]: I could just walk over, kick him in the balls, and we’d be done with it.

  Tiffany [10:07 a.m.]: Tempting.

  Tiffany [10:10 a.m.]: I don’t know why I’m being such a wuss. I had this conversation totally planned out in my head yesterday. Seriously, I had some great one-line putdowns cued up. And now they’ve just gone, and I feel a bit freaked out.

  Rachel [10:11 a.m.]: What would Someone Who Isn’t Mo say, do you reckon?

  Tiffany [10:14 a.m.]: Lucie? She’d tell me it’s natural to be freaked out after what happened on Friday, I guess. And that talking to Martin feels a bit like confronting Justin.

  Rachel [10:15 a.m.]: Right, I can see that, except … Martin is Martin. Weedy, petty, malicious Martin. Who kicks my chair and undermines you in meetings and kisses the head of PR’s arse like it’s Megan Fox’s face.

  Tiffany [10:16 a.m.]: You’re right. How can I possibly be afraid of Martin?

  Rachel [10:17 a.m.]: Want me to come with you?

  Tiffany [10:19 a.m.]: Is it pathetic if I say yes?

  Rachel [10:20 a.m.] It would make my day.

  Tiffany [10:21 a.m.]: Then yes. Please.

  We wait until the morning team meeting is over. I grit my teeth through all the congratulations Martin gets for the party. A few curious glances are shot in my direction, but it’s glossed over. I flush with shame anyway. I hate that everyone in this room knows that I have ex-boyfriend drama. I bet they’re all concocting their own outlandish reasons why I am no longer engaged, and not one of them has come up with the truth.