by Beth O'Leary
Rachel grabs my hand and squeezes it tight, then gives me a little shove in Martin’s direction as he gathers up his notebook and papers.
“Martin, can we have a word?” I say.
“Not a great time, Tiffy,” he says, with the air of a very important person who rarely has time for spontaneous meetings.
“Martin, mate, either you step into this meeting room with us or we adopt my plan, which was kicking you in the balls right now in front of everyone,” Rachel says.
A flash of fear crosses his face, and my anxiety evaporates. Look at him. He suspects we know now, so he’s backpedaling. Suddenly I can’t wait to hear what crap he comes up with.
Rachel herds him into the only free meeting room with a door and clicks it shut behind us. She leans back against it, arms folded.
“What’s this about?” Martin asks.
“Why don’t you hazard a guess, Martin?” I say. My voice comes out surprisingly light and pleasant.
“I really have no idea,” he blusters. “Is there a problem?”
“If there is, how long will it be before Justin is informed of it?” I ask.
Martin meets my gaze. He looks like a cornered cat.
“I don’t know what you…” he tries.
“Justin told me. He’s fickle like that.”
Martin sags. “Look, I was trying to help you out,” he says. “He got in touch about our flat back in February, saying he was helping you look for a place, and made a deal with us so we could offer you our spare room for five hundred a month.”
Back in February? Bloody hell.
“How did he even know who you were?”
“We’ve been friends on Facebook for ages. I think he added me when you guys first got serious—at the time I figured he was checking out the guys you work with, you know, the protective type. But I posted the ad about the flat on there and that’s how he got in touch.”
“How much did he offer you?”
“He said he’d pay the difference,” Martin says. “Hana and I thought it was sweet of him.”
“Oh, that’s Justin,” I say through gritted teeth.
“And then when you didn’t take the room, he seemed so down. We’d got chatting when he popped round to discuss the arrangement, and then he asked if I could drop him a line every now and again, just letting him know how you are and what you’re up to so he doesn’t worry.”
“And that didn’t strike you as, I don’t know, creepy?” Rachel asks.
“No!” Martin shakes his head. “It didn’t seem creepy. And he wasn’t paying me or anything—the only time I took money from him was to get Tasha Chai-Latte to come and film, OK?”
“You took money from him for stalking Tiffy?” Rachel says, visibly swelling with rage.
Martin cringes.
“Hang on.” I hold my hands up. “Go back to the start. He asked you to let him know where I was every now and then. So that’s how he knew I’d be at that book launch in Shoreditch, and how he knew I’d be on the cruise ship.”
“I suppose so,” Martin says. He shifts back and forth on his feet like a child who needs the toilet, and I find myself starting to feel a little sorry for him, which I immediately quash because the only thing getting me through this conversation is rage.
“And the trip to Wales for the shoot?” I say.
Martin starts to visibly sweat. “I, ah, he rang me about that one after I texted him to say where you’d be…”
I twitch. It’s so creepy I want to immediately go and shower.
“… And he asked about the guy you’d be bringing to help out with the modeling. I gave him the physical description you’d given me. He went all quiet, and sounded really upset. He told me how much he still loves you, and how he knows this guy and he was going to ruin everything…”
“So you spent the whole weekend running interference.”
“I thought I was helping!”
“Well, you sucked at it anyway because we snuck off and made out in the kitchen at three in the morning so, HA!” I say.
“In danger of losing the higher ground, there, Tiffy,” Rachel says.
“Right, right. So, you debriefed Justin when we got back?”
“Yeah. He wasn’t that happy with how I’d handled things. Suddenly I felt really bad, you know? I hadn’t done enough.”
“Oh, this man is good,” Rachel says under her breath.
“Anyway, then he wanted to plan this big proposal. It was all very romantic.”
“Especially the part where he paid you to get Tasha Chai-Latte to film it,” I say.
“He said he wanted the whole world to see it!” Martin protests.
“He wanted Leon to see it. How much did that even cost? I should have known it couldn’t have come out of the book’s budget.”
“Fifteen thousand,” Martin says sheepishly. “And two for me for organizing.”
“Seventeen thousand pounds?!” Rachel shrieks. “My god!”
“And a bit leftover, so I got Katherin that limo, in case it would persuade her to do that interview with Piers Morgan. I just … figured Justin must really love you,” Martin says.
“No, you didn’t,” I tell him flatly. “You didn’t really care. You just wanted Justin to like you. He has that effect on a lot of people. Has he contacted you since he proposed to me?”
Martin shakes his head, looking nervous. “I figured from the way you left the party that it hadn’t exactly gone as he’d hoped. Do you think he’ll be mad at me?”
“Do I think…” I take a deep breath. “Martin. I do not care if Justin is mad at you. Soon, I will be taking Justin to court for harassment or stalking, once my lawyer has got round to figuring out which of those she likes better.”
Martin goes even paler than he usually is, which is saying something. I’m surprised I can’t see the whiteboard through him.
“So you’d be prepared to testify?” I say briskly.
“What? No!”
“Why not?”
“Well, it’s … this would be very embarrassing for me, and this is a really important time at work—”
“You are a very weak man, Martin,” I tell him.
He blinks. His lip shakes a little. “I’ll think about it,” he says eventually.
“Good. See you in court, Martin.”
I sweep out of the room with Rachel in tow, and as I head to my desk I feel exhilarated. Particularly as Rachel is quietly but unmistakably humming “Eye of the Tiger” as we walk through the office.
* * *
The world seems like a slightly brighter place after the Martin showdown. I sit up taller and decide I’m not ashamed about what happened at the party. So my ex-boyfriend proposed to me and I said no—so what? Nothing wrong with that. In fact, Ruby gives me a silent high-five on my way to the bathroom mid-afternoon, and with Rachel sending me girl-power songs every fifteen minutes I start to feel quite … empowered about it all.
It takes enormous effort to concentrate on work, but in the end I manage it: I am researching a new trend in cupcake icing when I get the call. Almost instantly, I realize that I will always remember this website about icing-bag nozzles. It’s that kind of call.
“Tiffy?” says Leon.
“Yeah?”
“Tiffy…”
“Leon, are you OK?” My heart is pounding.
“He’s out.”
“He’s…”
“Richie.”
“Oh my god. Say it again.”
“Richie is out. Not guilty.”
I let out a shriek that sends every single person in the office staring my way. I make a face and cover the phone for a moment.
“Friend won the lottery!” I mouth to Francine, the nearest nosy person, and let her trundle off to spread that particular piece of news. If I don’t nip this in the bud they’ll all think I’m engaged again.
“Leon, I don’t even … I really thought it would be tomorrow!”
“So did I. So did Gerty.”
“So … is he just … out? In the world? God, I can’t imagine Richie out in the world! What does he even look like, by the way?”
Leon laughs, and the sound makes my stomach flip. “He’ll be at our place tonight. You can finally meet him.”
“This is unbelievable.”
“I know. I can’t actually … I keep thinking it’s a dream.”
“I don’t even know what to say. Where are you now?” I ask, bouncing in my chair.
“I’m at work.”
“Didn’t you have the day off?”
“Didn’t know what to do with myself. You want to come down here after you finish? No worries if it’s too out of your way, I’ll be home by seven, I just thought—”
“I’ll be there at half five.”
“Actually, I should come meet you…”
“I can do it on my own. Really—I’ve had a good day, I can do it. See you at half five!”
72
LEON
Drift around wards, checking charts, giving fluids. Speak to patients and amaze myself by managing to sound normal and to talk about something other than the fact that my brother is finally coming home.
Home.
Richie is coming home.
Keep rearing away from the thought, the way I always had to—my mind pastes Richie back into my life, and then it jumps away like it’s touched something hot, because I’d never let myself finish that thought. It was too painful. Too hopeful.
Except now it’s real. Will be real, in just a few hours’ time.
He’ll meet Tiffy. They’ll talk just like they do on the phone, only face to face, on my sofa. It’s literally too good to be true. Until you remember that he should never have been in jail in the first place, of course, but even that thought can’t kill the euphoria.
I’m in the hospice kitchen making tea when I hear my name, on repeat, very loudly and getting louder all the time.
Tiffy: Leon! Leon! Leon!
I turn around just in time. She piles into me, rain-wet hair, pink cheeks, big smile.
Me: Whoa!
Tiffy, very close to my ear: Leon Leon Leon!
Me: Ouch?
Tiffy: Sorry. Sorry. I just …
Me: Are you crying?
Tiffy: What? No.
Me: You are. You are incredible.
She blinks at me, surprised, eyes bright with happy tears.
Me: You’ve never even met Richie.
She links arms with me, and spins me back to the kettle just as it boils.
Tiffy: Well, I’ve met you, and Richie’s your little brother.
Me: Just to warn you, he’s not that little.
Tiffy reaches for the mug cupboard and pulls out two, then rifles through the teabags and pours the kettle like she’s been in and out of this kitchen for years.
Tiffy: And anyway, I feel like I know Richie. We’ve talked tons of times. You don’t have to meet face to face to know someone.
Me: Speaking of …
Tiffy: Where are we going?
Me: Just come on. I want to show you something.
Tiffy: Teas! Teas!
I pause and wait as she adds milk painstakingly slowly. She shoots a cheeky little glance over her shoulder; I immediately want to undress her.
Me: Are we ready?
Tiffy: OK. We’re ready.
She hands me a mug and I take it, and the hand that offered it, too. Almost everyone we pass along the corridor says, “Oh, hi, Tiffy!” or “You must be Tiffy!” or “Oh my god, Leon really does have a girlfriend!” but I am in too good a mood to find it annoying.
Tug Tiffy back as she goes to open the door to Coral Ward.
Me: Wait, just look through the window.
We both lean in.
Johnny White hasn’t left his side since the weekend. Mr. Prior is asleep, but still his papery, sun-blotched hand rests in Johnny White’s palm. They’ve had three whole days together—more than JW could have hoped for.
Always worth walking through those doors.
Tiffy: Johnny White the Sixth was the real Johnny White? Is this literally the best day ever? Has there been some sort of announcement issued? An elixir in everyone’s breakfast? A golden ticket in the cereal box?
I kiss her firmly on the mouth. Behind us, one of the junior doctors says to another junior doctor, “Amazing—I always assumed Leon didn’t like anyone who didn’t have a terminal illness!”
Me: I think it’s just a good day, Tiffy.
Tiffy: Well, I guess we are all overdue one.
73
TIFFY
“OK, how do I look?”
“Relax,” Leon says, lying back on the bed, one arm behind his head. “Richie already loves you.”
“I’m meeting a member of your family!” I protest. “I want to look good. I want to look … smart and beautiful and witty, and maybe to channel a bit of Sookie in the earlier series of Gilmore Girls?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I huff. “Fine. Mo!”
“Yeah?” Mo calls from the living room.
“Can you tell me if this outfit makes me look cool and sophisticated or tired and mumsy, please?”
“If you’re asking the question, lose the outfit,” Gerty calls.
I roll my eyes. “I didn’t ask you! You don’t like any of my clothes, anyway!”
“That’s not true, I like some of them. Just not in the combinations you choose to adopt.”
“You look perfect,” Leon says, smiling up at me. His whole face looks different today, like someone flicked a switch back there that I didn’t even know about, and now everything is brighter.
“No, Gerty’s right,” I say, shrugging out of the wrap dress and reaching for my favorite green skinny jeans and a loose-knit jumper. “I’m trying too hard.”
“You’re trying just the right amount,” Leon tells me as I hop on one leg, pulling up the jeans.
“Is there any statement I could say this evening that you wouldn’t automatically agree with?”
He narrows his eyes. “A conundrum,” he says. “The answer is no, but saying that would mean I’d contradict myself.”
“He agrees with everything I say, and he’s so clever, too!” I crawl across the bed to straddle him and kiss him, letting my body melt against his. When I pull back to put my top on, he protests, holding me close, and I smile, swatting his hands. “This outfit even you must admit is not appropriate,” I point out.
The buzzer for the building door goes off three times and Leon jumps up so quickly that I’m almost thrown off the bed.
“Sorry!” he calls over his shoulder as he heads to the door. I hear Mo or Gerty lift the receiver to let Richie up into the building.
My stomach flips as I yank on the knitted jumper and run my fingers through my hair. I wait to hear Richie’s voice at our front door, hanging back to give him and Leon the moment they’ve been waiting for.
Instead, I hear Justin.
“I want to talk to you,” he says.
“Oh. Hello, Justin,” Leon says.
At this point, I notice that I’m already hugging my arms close to myself and tucking my body in against the wardrobe so nobody who leans in to check the flat will see me in the bedroom doorway, and I suddenly feel like screaming. He does not get to come here and do this to me. I want him gone, really gone, not just out of my life but out of my head as well. I am done with cowering behind doors and feeling frightened.
Well, I’m not, obviously, because you don’t get over shit like this that quickly, but temporarily I am done with it and I’m going to make the most of this current wave of crazy angry confidence. I round the corner.
Justin is squared up in the doorway, broad, muscled, and visibly angry.
“Justin,” I say, moving to stand beside Leon until I’m only a few feet from Justin. I rest a hand on the door, ready to slam it closed.
“I’m here to talk to Leon,” Justin says shortly. He doesn’t even look at me.
I reco
il despite myself, my confidence instantly drained.
“If you’re thinking of proposing to me, too, the answer’s no,” Leon says pleasantly. Justin’s hands bunch into fists at the joke; he starts forward, body coiled, eyes flashing. I flinch.
“Watch that foot, Justin,” says Gerty sharply from behind me. “If it gets any closer to being inside this flat, your lawyer will have a lot more to talk to me about.”
I watch the thought hit Justin, see him re-evaluate. “I don’t remember your friends being this interfering when we were together, Tiffy.” He snarls the words, and my heart thunders in my chest. I think he’s drunk. That is not good.
“Oh, we wanted to be,” Mo says.
I take a deep, shaky breath. “Leaving me was the best thing you ever did for me, Justin,” I say, doing my best to stand as squarely as he is on the other side of the threshold. “We’re done. That’s it. Leave me alone.”
“We’re not done,” he says impatiently.
“I’m getting a restraining order,” I choke out before he can say anything else.
“No, you’re not,” Justin scoffs. “Come on, Tiffy. Stop being such a child.”
I slam the door in his face so hard everyone jumps, including me.
“Fuck!” Justin yells from the other side of the door, and then there’s the sound of a fist being rammed into the door and the handle rattles hard.
I let out a little whimper despite myself, backing away. I can’t believe I just slammed the door in Justin’s face.
“Police,” Leon mouths at us.
Gerty flicks on her phone and dials the number, reaching with her other hand to clasp my fingers tightly. Mo is at my side in moments, standing at my shoulder as I watch Leon slip the new chain across and lean his weight against the door.
“This is so fucking crazy,” I say weakly. “I can’t believe this is happening.”
“Let me in!” Justin roars from the other side of the door.
“Police,” Gerty says into the phone.
Justin hammers with both fists on the door, and I think of how he pressed his finger against the buzzer all those weeks ago, how he wouldn’t let up until Leon opened the door. I swallow. Each bang seems louder than the last, until I feel like they’re right in my ears. My eyes are wet with tears; Gerty and Mo are all but holding me up. So much for being done with feeling frightened. As Justin roars and rages on the other side of the door, I watch Leon, face drawn and serious, as he looks around for other ways to barricade us in. To my left, Gerty answers questions on the phone.