The Flatshare(14)

This woman owns more clothes than a respectably sized shop would stock. Has clearly not been able to manage with the half of wardrobe I freed up for her, so has hung up dresses on back of door, all along wall – from old picture rail, actually quite resourceful – and over back of now-almost-invisible chair under window.

Consider ringing her and Putting Foot Down for approximately three seconds before reaching inevitable conclusion that that would be awkward, and, in a few days, I will have stopped caring. Probably stopped noticing, actually. Still. Right now, opinion of Essex woman has reached new low. I’m about to head back to spot on very inviting beanbag when I notice the bin bag of the scarves Mr Prior knitted me, poking out from under bed.

Forgot about those. Essex woman may think I’m odd if she finds bag of fourteen hand-knitted scarves stashed under bed. Have been meaning to take them to the charity shop for ever, but of course Essex woman won’t know that. Haven’t actually met her; don’t want her to think I’m, you know. A scarf collector or something.

Grab pen and paper and scrawl FOR CHARITY SHOP on a Post-it, then stick it to bag. There. Just to remind myself, in case I forget.

Now to the beanbag for dinner, and bed. So tired that even the horrible tie-dyed bed blanket is beginning to look attractive.





9


Tiffy

So, here I am. On the freezing cold dock. In ‘neutral clothing I can work with’ according to Katherin, who is beaming cheekily at me, the wind whipping her straw-blonde hair against her cheeks as we wait for the cruise ship to batten down the hatch, or turn three sails to the wind, or whatever it is these ships do in order to let people on board.

‘You have the perfect proportions for this sort of thing,’ Katherin is telling me. ‘You’re my favourite model, Tiffy. Really. This is going to be an absolute scream.’

I raise an eyebrow, looking out to sea. I don’t see a vast selection of other models for Katherin to choose from. I have also, over the years, got a bit tired of people lauding my ‘proportions’. The thing is, I’m like Gerty and Mo’s flat in reverse – just about twenty per cent bigger than the average woman, in all directions. My mother likes to declare that I am ‘big-boned’ because my father was a lumberjack in his youth (was he? I know he’s old, but didn’t lumberjacks only exist in fairy tales?). I can barely walk into a room without someone helpfully informing me that I am very tall for a woman.

Sometimes it annoys people, like I’m purposefully taking up more room than I’m allowed, and sometimes it intimidates them, especially when they’re used to looking down at women they’re talking to, but mostly it just makes them compliment me on my ‘proportions’ a lot. I think what they’re really saying is, ‘Gosh, you’re big, but without being particularly fat!’ or, ‘Well done on being tall but not lanky!’ Or perhaps, ‘You are confusing my gender norms by being very woman-shaped despite the fact that you are the height and width of an average male!’

‘You’re the sort of woman the Soviets liked,’ Katherin goes on, oblivious to my raised eyebrow. ‘You know, on their posters about women working the land while the men were out fighting, that sort of thing.’

‘Wear a lot of crochet, did they, the Soviet women?’ I ask rather tetchily. It’s drizzling, and the sea looks very different from a busy dock like this – it’s a lot less glamorous than when you’re on the beach. It’s basically just a big cold salty bath, really. I wonder how warm the rights director is now, in her meeting about the international reach of our spring season titles.

‘Possibly, possibly,’ Katherin muses. ‘Good idea, Tiffy! What do you think – a chapter on the history of crochet in the next book?’

‘No,’ I tell her firmly. ‘That won’t be popular with your readers.’

You have to nip ideas in the bud fast with Katherin. And I’m def-initely right on this one. Nobody wants history – they just want an idea for a new crochet item they can give their grandson to drool on.

‘But—’

‘I’m just conveying the brutality of the market to you, Katherin,’ I say. That’s one of my favourite lines. Good old market, always there to be blamed. ‘The people don’t want history in their crochet books. They want cute pictures and easy instructions.’

Once all our documents have been checked, we file on board. You can’t really tell where the dock ends and the boat begins – it’s just like walking into a building and developing very slight light-headedness, as though the floor is shifting a little beneath you. I thought we might get a different, more exciting welcome for being special guests who’ve been invited here, but we’re just traipsing on with the rest of the riff-raff. All of whom are at least twenty times richer than me, obviously, and much better dressed.

It’s actually pretty small for a cruise ship – so only the size of, say, Portsmouth, rather than London. We’re shuffled politely into a corner of the ‘entertainment area’ to wait for our cue. We’re to set up after the guests have had lunch.

Nobody brings us lunch. Katherin, of course, has brought her own sandwiches. They’re sardine. She cheerfully offers me half, which is actually very sweet of her, and eventually my stomach-rumbling gets so bad that I concede defeat and accept one. I’m twitchy. The last time I was on a cruise it was through the Greek islands with Justin, and I was positively glowing with love and post-sex hormones. Now, huddled in a corner with three Aldi bags of knitting needles, crochet hooks and wool, accompanied by an ex-hippy and a sardine sandwich, I can no longer deny the fact that my life has taken a turn for the worse.