The Flatshare(11)

There are many Johnny Whites. One is a leading figure in Canadian dance music. Another is an American footballer. Both were definitely not around during World War Two, falling in love with charming English gentlemen.

Still. Internet was made for situations like this, no?

Try Johnny White war casualties, then hate myself a bit. Feels like betraying Mr Prior to assume Johnny’s dead. But it’s worth trying to eliminate those options first.

Find a website called Find War Dead. Am initially slightly horrified, but decide actually it’s amazing – everyone’s remembered here. Like digital, searchable tombstones. I can search by name, regiment, which war, dates of birth . . . I type in Johnny White, and specify World War Two, but don’t have any more to give them.

Seventy-eight Johnny Whites died in armed forces in World War Two.

Sit back. Stare at the list of names. John K. White. James Dudley Jonathan White. John White. John George White. Jon R. L. White. Jonathan Reginald White. John—

All right. Feel suddenly overwhelmingly sure that Mr Prior’s lovely Johnny White is dead, and wish there was a similar database for those who fought but did not die in the war. That would be nice. A survivors list. Struck, as one is at 2 a.m., by the horror of humanity and its inclination to terrible acts of mass murder.

Kay: Leon! Your bleep is going! In my ear!

Leave laptop on sofa after hitting print, and then open bedroom door to find Kay lying on side, duvet over head, one arm up in the air holding my bleep.

Grab bleep. Grab phone. I’m not working, of course, but the team wouldn’t bleep me if it wasn’t important.

Socha, Junior Doctor: Leon, it’s Holly.

Am pulling on shoes.

Me: How bad?

Keys! Keys! Where are keys?

Socha: She’s got an infection – obs are not looking good. She’s asking for you. I don’t know what to do, Leon, and Dr Patel isn’t answering her bleep, and the reg is skiing and June couldn’t get cover organised so there’s nobody else to call . . .

Located keys in bottom of washing basket. Inspired place to keep them. Heading for the door, Socha talking white blood cell counts in my ear, shoelaces flapping—

Kay: Leon! You’re still wearing your pyjamas!

Damn. Thought I’d managed to get to the door faster than usual.





7


Tiffy

OK, so the new flat’s quite . . . full. Cosy.

‘Cluttered,’ Gerty confirms, standing in about the only unoccupied space in the bedroom. ‘It’s cluttered.’

‘You know my style is eclectic!’ I protest, straightening up the adorable tie-dyed bed throw I found at Brixton market last summer. I’m trying very hard to keep my positive face on. Packing up and leaving Justin’s flat was awful, and the drive here took four times as long as Google said it would, and carrying everything up the stairs was torture. Then I had to hold a long conversation with Kay as she gave me the keys, when all I wanted to do was sit down somewhere and gently dab at my hairline until I stopped panting. It has not been a fun day.

‘Did you discuss this with Leon?’ Mo asks, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I mean, bringing all your stuff?’

I frown. Of course I would be bringing all my stuff! Did that need discussing? I’m moving in – that means my stuff has to live here with me. Where else would it live? This is my permanent abode.

However, I am now very aware that my bedroom is shared with another person, and that that person has their own stuff, which was, up until this weekend, occupying most of this room. It’s been a bit of a squeeze getting everything in. I’ve solved a few problems by moving things into other parts of the house – lots of my candle holders are living on the edge of the bath now, for instance, and my amazing lava lamp has a great spot in the living area – but all the same, I could do with Leon having a bit of a clear-out. He should probably have done that beforehand, really – it was the decent thing, given that I was moving in.

Perhaps I should have taken some of my things to my parents’ house. But most of this stuff lived in storage at Justin’s and it had felt so good to dig it all out last night. Rachel joked that when I found the lava lamp it was like Andy being reunited with Woody in Toy Story, but to be honest it had been surprisingly emotional. I’d sat for a while in the hall, staring at the multi-coloured mess of my favourite things spilling out from the cupboard under the stairs, and felt for a weird moment that if the cushions could breathe again, so could I.

My phone rings; it’s Katherin. She’s the only writer I’d pick up the phone to on a Saturday, mainly because she’s probably ringing me about something hilarious she’s done, like tweeting a wildly inappropriate picture of herself from the 80s with a now-very-important politician, or dip-dying her elderly mother’s hair.

‘How’s my favourite editor?’ she asks when I pick up.

‘All moved in to my new home!’ I tell her, gesturing for Mo to put the kettle on. He looks mildly peeved but does so all the same.

‘Perfect! Brilliant! What are you doing Wednesday?’ Katherin asks.

‘Just work,’ I tell her, mentally scanning my diary. Actually, I have a tedious meeting on Wednesday with our Director of International Book Rights to talk about the new book I commissioned last summer from a debut bricklayer-turned-trendy-designer. It’s her job to sell it abroad. When I acquired it I talked a lot (but really quite vaguely) about his international social media presence, which as it happens is rather a lot smaller than I made it out to be. She’s always emailing me for ‘more detail’ and ‘specific breakdowns of reach by territory’. It’s getting to the point where I can’t avoid her any longer, even with my wall of stealthy pot plants.