The Flatshare

by Beth O'Leary

  And then, suddenly, all the madness and noise stops. Leon gives us a questioning look, then checks the handle—the door is still locked.

  “Why’s he stopped?” I ask, gripping Gerty’s hand so tight I can see my fingers going white.

  “He’s stopped banging on the door,” Gerty says into the phone. I hear a tinny voice respond. “She says he may be trying to find a way to break down the door. We should move into another room. Step away from the door, Leon.”

  “Wait,” Leon whispers, leaning to listen to what’s going on outside in the corridor.

  His face breaks into a grim smile. He gestures for all of us to come closer; tentative, with shaking knees, I let Mo lead me to the door. Gerty stays back, speaking quietly into her phone.

  “You’d love prison, Justin,” says a warm voice on the other side of the door, with an unmistakable accent. “Really. Loads of guys like you there.”

  “Richie!” I whisper. “But—he mustn’t…” We’ve just got Richie out of prison. A fight with Justin will not end well for Richie, even if in the short term it means getting him out of the building.

  “Good point,” Leon says, eyes widening. He reaches to unlock the door, and I notice his hands are shaking slightly, too. From the sounds of their voices Richie seems close to the door, and Justin farther away, toward the stairs, but still. I scrub my eyes fiercely. I don’t want Justin to know what he does to me. I don’t want to give him that power.

  Justin makes a rush for us as Leon swings the door open, but Richie pushes him nonchalantly, and Justin stumbles into the wall, swearing, as Richie steps inside and Leon pulls the door closed quickly behind him. It’s over in a couple of seconds; I barely have time to process the look on Justin’s face as he lunged toward me, desperate to force his way in through the door. What’s happened to him? He was never like this. Never violent. His anger was always tightly controlled; his punishments were clever and cruel. This is messy and desperate.

  “Nice bloke, your ex,” Richie says to me with a wink. “Serious case of the red mist going on out there. He’s going to regret punching the door so much in the morning, I can tell you that.” He chucks a spare set of keys down on the sideboard—that must’ve been how he got in the building without buzzing.

  I blink a few times and take a proper look at him. No wonder Justin went quiet when Richie turned up in the corridor. He is enormous. Six foot four at least, and the kind of muscular that only happens when you’ve got nothing to do with your time except exercise. His black hair is buzzed short, and there are strings of tattoos down his forearms and one curling up his neck, peeking up under the collar of his court shirt—along with a cord necklace, which I’d bet matches Leon’s. He has the same thoughtful, deep-brown eyes as Leon, too, though they’re a little more mischievous-looking.

  “The police will be here in ten minutes,” Gerty says calmly. “Hello, Richie. How are you?”

  “Devastated to discover you have a boyfriend,” Richie says, clapping Mo on the shoulder with a grin. I could swear Mo sinks an inch or so deeper into the carpet. “I owe you a dinner out!”

  “Oh, don’t let me stop you,” Mo says hastily.

  Richie hugs Leon so hard I can hear their bodies colliding. “Don’t worry about that prick outside,” he says to both of us as he pulls back. Through the door, Justin throws something; whatever it is smashes against the wall and I wince bodily. I’m shaking all over—I have been since I first heard his voice—but Richie just gives me a friendly, unquestioning smile, and it’s like an echo of Leon’s lopsided grin—a warm smile, the sort that makes you instantly feel more comfortable. “Pleasure to meet you in the flesh, Tiffy,” he says. “And thank you for looking after my brother.”

  “I’m not sure this counts,” I manage, pointing to the door as it shakes in the frame.

  Richie waves a hand. “Honestly. If he gets in here, he’ll have to deal with me and Leon—and … sorry, man, we’ve not been introduced.”

  “Mo,” Mo says, looking very much like the sort of man who sits in a chair and talks for a living, and has suddenly stumbled upon a scenario where this might put him at a disadvantage.

  “And me and Tiffy,” Gerty says sharply. “What is this, medieval times? I bet I’m better at punching people than Leon.”

  “Let me the fuck in!” Justin roars through the door.

  “He’s drunk, too,” Richie says cheerfully, and then he lifts our armchair and shuffles us out the way so he can dump it in front of the door. “There. No use us hanging about in here now, is there? Lee, balcony still where it used to be?”

  “Um, yeah,” Leon begins, looking slightly shell-shocked. He’s moved round to take Mo’s place beside me, and I lean into his hand as he strokes my back, letting that sensation pull me back together again. Every time Justin yells or thumps the door I flinch, but now that Richie is here weightlifting furniture, and Leon has his arm around me, the flinching is no longer accompanied by totally blinding fear and panic. Which is nice.

  Richie ushers us all out onto the balcony and shuts the glass door behind us. We barely fit; Gerty curls into Mo in one corner and I fit myself in front of Leon in the other, leaving Richie most of the space, which is exactly what he needs. He breathes in and out deeply, beaming at the view from the balcony.

  “London!” he says, spreading his arms out wide. “I’ve missed this. Look at it!”

  Behind, back in the flat, the door thuds over and over again. Leon pulls me tight against him, burying his face in my hair and breathing warm, calming breaths against my neck.

  “And we even get a great vantage point for when the police turn up,” Richie tells us, turning to wink at me. “Didn’t think I’d be seeing them again so soon, I have to say.”

  “Sorry,” I say, miserable.

  “Don’t be,” Richie says firmly, in the same moment that Leon shakes his head into my hair, and Mo says, “Don’t apologize, Tiffy.” Even Gerty rolls her eyes in an affectionate sort of way.

  I look around at them all, huddled out on the balcony with me. It helps—only a little, but I don’t think anything could help more than a little right now. I close my eyes and lean into Leon, concentrating on my breathing the way Lucie told me to, and try to imagine that the banging noise is just that—a noise and nothing more. It’ll stop eventually. Breathing deep, Leon’s arms around me, I feel a new sort of certainty settle. Even Justin cannot last forever.

  74

  LEON

  The police take Justin away. He’s basically foaming at the mouth. One look at him and you can see what’s happened: a man who has always had control has lost it. But, as Gerty points out, this will at least make the restraining order more straightforward.

  We inspect the door. He’s dented the wood with kicking and chipped off chunks of paint with his fists. There’s blood, too. Tiffy turns her head aside as she sees it. I wonder what it can possibly feel like, seeing that after everything she’s been through. Knowing that she loved this man, and that he loved her, in his way.

  Thank god for Richie. The man radiates joy tonight. As Richie launches into yet another story about the lengths “Bozo” would go to for first dibs on the weights machine, I watch the color come back into Tiffy’s cheeks, her shoulders lift, her lips slide into a smile. Better. I’m relaxing, too, with each sign of improvement. I couldn’t bear to see her that way, jumping, crying, afraid. Even watching Justin carted away by a police officer wasn’t enough to ease the rage.

  But now, three hours post police drama, we’re scattered around the living room just like I imagined it. If you squinted, you’d hardly even notice that the evening I’ve been looking forward to for the last year was briefly interrupted by an irate man attempting to break and enter. Tiffy and I have taken the beanbag. Gerty has pride of place on the sofa, leaning up against Mo. Richie is ruling the room from the armchair, which hasn’t quite returned to its usual place since it was used to blockade the door, so now just sits somewhere between the hall and living room.


  Richie: I called it. Just saying.

  Gerty: When, though? Because I called it, too, but I don’t believe you could have called it right from the—

  Richie: From the moment Leon told me he was getting some woman in to sleep in his bed when he wasn’t there.

  Gerty: Not possible.

  Richie, expansively: Come on! You can’t share a bed and not share anything else, if you know what I’m saying.

  Gerty: What about Kay?

  Richie waves a hand dismissively.

  Richie: Eh. Kay.

  Tiffy: Come on, now—

  Richie: Oh, she was sweet enough, but she was never right for Leon.

  Me, to Gerty and Mo: What did you think at the start?

  Tiffy: Oh, god, don’t ask them that.

  Gerty, promptly: We thought it was a dreadful idea.

  Mo: Bear in mind you could have been anyone.

  Gerty: You could have been a disgusting pervert, for instance.

  Richie roars with laughter and reaches for another beer. He has not had a drink in eleven months. I consider telling him that his tolerance will not be what it once was, and then contemplate how Richie will react to this suggestion (almost certainly drinking more to prove me wrong) and decide not to bother.

  Mo: We even tried to give Tiffy money so she wouldn’t do it—

  Gerty: Which she said no to, obviously—

  Mo: And then it became clear that this was part of getting away from Justin, and we just had to let her do it her own way.

  Richie: And you didn’t see it coming? Tiffy and Leon?

  Mo: No. To be honest, I didn’t think Tiffy would have been ready for a guy like Leon yet.

  Me: What sort of guy is that?

  Richie: Fiendishly handsome?

  Me: Gangly? Big-eared?

  Tiffy, wryly: He means a non-psychotic guy.

  Mo: Well, yes. It takes a long time to escape from relationships like that—

  Gerty, briskly: No Justin talk.

  Mo: Sorry. I was just trying to say how well Tiffy did. How hard it must have been for her to break out of that before it became a pattern.

  Richie and I exchange glances. I think of Mam.

  Gerty rolls her eyes.

  Gerty: Honestly. Dating a counselor is dreadful, by the way. This man has no concept of lightheartedness.

  Tiffy: And you do?

  Gerty pokes Tiffy with one foot in response.

  Tiffy, grabbing the foot and pulling: Anyway, this is really what we want to hear about. You never did fill me in properly about you and Mo! How? When? Excluding penis-related details, as discussed.

  Richie: Eh?

  Me: Just go with it. It’s best to let the in-jokes wash over you. Eventually they start to make some sort of sense.

  Tiffy: Just wait until you meet Rachel. Queen of the inappropriate in-joke.

  Richie: Sounds like my kind of girl.

  Tiffy looks thoughtful at this, and I raise my eyebrows warningly at her. Bad idea to match-make Richie. As much as I love my brother, he does tend to break hearts.

  Me: Go on, Mo, Gerty?

  Mo, to Gerty: You tell it.

  Tiffy: No, no, Gerty’s version will sound like something she’d read out in court—Mo, give us the romantic version of events, please.

  Mo gives a sidelong look at Gerty to see how cross that’s made her; thankfully she’s three glasses of wine in, and has just settled for glaring at Tiffy.

  Mo: Well, it started when we moved in together.

  Gerty: Although Mo was in love with me for ages before that, apparently.

  Mo shoots her a mildly irritated look.

  Mo: And Gerty has liked me for over a year, she said.

  Gerty: In confidence!

  Tiffy makes an impatient noise in the back of her throat.

  Tiffy: And you’re all loved up? Sleeping in the same bed and all that?

  There is a shifty sort of silence; Mo looks at his feet, uncomfortable. Tiffy smiles up at Gerty, reaching to squeeze her hand.

  Richie: Well. Looks like I need to find myself a flatmate, don’t I?

  SEPTEMBER, TWO YEARS LATER

  Epilogue

  TIFFY

  There’s a note on the door of the flat when I get home from work. This isn’t unusual per se, but as a rule Leon and I try to confine our notes to the inside of our home. You know, so as not to advertise our peculiarities to the neighbors.

  Warning: imminent romantic gesture.

  (Be assured, it is very low-budget.)

  I snort with laughter and turn the key in the door. The flat looks the same as ever: cluttered, multicolored, and just like home. It’s only when I go to chuck my bag down in the spot by the door that I see the next note on the wall there.

  Step one: dress for adventure. Please assemble outfit from wardrobe.

  I stare at the note, bemused. This is eccentric even by Leon’s standards. I shrug off my coat and scarf and leave them on the back of the sofa. (It’s a sofa-bed these days, which only just fits in our living room even once we sacrificed the telly, but no place will be home unless there’s a bed for Richie to stay in.)

  On the inside of the wardrobe door, the note is folded over and stuck with sellotape. On the outside, it reads:

  Are you wearing something Tiffy-ish yet?

  I mean, I am, but it’s a work outfit so there’s more of a nod to normality than usual (i.e., I’ve tried to make sure at least two items are not direct opposites on a color wheel). I riffle through the wardrobe looking for something suitably “adventurous,” whatever that means.

  I pause on the blue and white dress I bought a couple of years back. The one Leon calls my Famous Five dress. It’s a little impractical for a cold day, but with my thick gray tights and the yellow mac from Help the Aged …

  Once dressed, I unstick the note from the wardrobe door and read the message inside.

  Hello again. Bet you look beautiful.

  You need to collect a few more things before you set off adventuring, if you don’t mind. The first is in the spot where we first met. (Don’t worry. It’s waterproof.)

  I grin and head off to the bathroom, moving more quickly now. What exactly is Leon up to here? Where am I supposed to be going? Now I’ve got my adventuring dress on, the end-of-day work slump has lifted—probably Leon knew I’d feel better with something colorful on—and a fizzing giddy feeling is growing in my stomach.

  There’s an envelope hanging from the showerhead, carefully and very thoroughly wrapped in clingfilm. On the outside of it is a Post-it note.

  Don’t read me yet, please.

  The next thing you need is in the spot where we first kissed. (Well, not exact spot as sofa has changed. But please overlook this for the sake of the romantic gesture.)

  It’s another envelope, tucked between the sofa cushions. This one reads open me, so I do as I’m told. Inside there is a train ticket from London to Brighton. I frown, completely flummoxed. Why Brighton? We’ve not been since before we were together, back when we were looking for Johnny White.

  The note behind the ticket reads:

  The last thing you need is with Bobby for safekeeping. He’s expecting you.

  Bobby is the man we once knew as Strange Man in Flat 5. He’s a firm friend now, and has thankfully realized you cannot make cider from a banana and moved on to more conventional apple cider. It is very tasty and invariably gives me an extremely bad hangover.

  I take the stairs two at a time and knock on his door, shifting impatiently from one foot to the other.

  He answers in his favorite tracksuit bottoms (I sewed the hole up for him last year. It was getting indecent. I patched it up with a few inches of pink gingham I had lying about, though, so he definitely doesn’t look less strange).

  “Tiffany!” he says, then shuffles off immediately, leaving me in the doorway. I crane my neck. Eventually he re-emerges holding a small cardboard box with a Post-it note stuck to it. “There you are!” he says, and beams. “Off you go!”


  “Thanks?” I say, examining the box.

  Once you get to Brighton, head to the beach by the pier. You’ll know the spot when you see it.

  * * *

  It’s the most excruciating train journey I’ve ever taken. I’m itching with curiosity. I can hardly sit still. By the time I get to Brighton it’s dark, but it’s easy to find my way to the seafront; I walk so fast toward the pier that I’m almost jogging, which is something I only do in extreme circumstances, so I really must be excited.

  I see what Leon means as soon as I get there. I couldn’t miss the spot.

  There’s an armchair on the pebbles, thirty yards or so from the sea. It’s covered in multicolored blankets and strewn around it amongst the rocks there are dozens of tea-lights.

  I cover my mouth. My heart’s thumping triple-speed. As I make my way over, stumbling on the pebbles, I look around for Leon, but there’s no sight of him—the whole beach is deserted.

  The note on the chair is weighed down with a large shell.

  Sit, wrap up warm, and open the envelope when you’re ready. Then the box.

  I rip off the clingfilm and tear the envelope open as soon as I’m sat down. To my surprise it’s in Gerty’s handwriting.

  Dear Tiffy,

  Leon has enlisted me and Mo to help with this madcap scheme because he says you value our opinions. I suspect it is actually because he is a little afraid and doesn’t want to do this on his own. I won’t hold that against him, though. A bit of humility is good in a man.

  Tiffany, we have never seen you as happy as you are now. That came from you—you built that happiness for yourself. But there is no shame in saying that Leon helped.

  We love him, Tiffy. He is good for you in the way that only a very good man could be.

  It’s your decision, of course, but he wanted you to know: He has our blessing.