The Flatshare(27)

I’ll be honest with you, Tiffy, I’m shaking now. I want to scream. These times are the worst – there’s nowhere to go. Press-ups are your friend, but sometimes you need to run, and when you’ve got three steps between your bed and your toilet, there’s not a lot of room for that.

Anyway. This is a very long letter, and I know it took me a while to write it – you’ve maybe forgotten about the whole conversation we had by now. You don’t have to reply, but if you want to, Leon can send it with his next letter maybe – if you do write, please send stamps and envelopes too.

I hope you believe me, even more than I usually do. Maybe it’s because you’re important to my brother, and my brother is like the only person who is properly important to me.

Yours,

Richie xx

*

The next morning I reread the letter in bed, the duvet pulled up around me like a nest. I’m all cold in my stomach, and my skin has gone kind of prickly. I want to cry for this man. I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard, but whatever it is, this letter has woken me up at half five on a Saturday morning. That is how much I cannot bear it. It’s so unfair.

I’m reaching for my phone before I’ve really thought about what I’m doing.

‘Gerty, you know your job?’

‘I’m familiar with it, yes. Primarily as the reason that I am awoken at six a.m. almost every morning, bar Saturday mornings.’

I look at the clock. Six a.m.

‘Sorry. But – what kind of law do you do again?’

‘Criminal law, Tiffy. I do criminal law.’

‘Right, right. What does that mean though?’

‘I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that this is urgent,’ Gerty says. She is audibly gritting her teeth. ‘We deal with crimes that are against people and their property.’

‘Like armed robbery?’

‘Yes. That is a good example, well done.’

‘You hate me, don’t you? I’m top of your hate list right now.’

‘It’s my one lie-in and you’ve ruined it, so yes, you have climbed past Donald Trump and that Uber driver I sometimes get who hums for the whole journey.’

Shit. Things are not going well.

‘You know the special cases you do for free, or for less money, or whatever?’

Gerty pauses. ‘Where’s this going, Tiffy?’

‘Just hear me out. If I give you a letter from a guy convicted of armed robbery will you just take a look at it? You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to take him on or whatever, obviously, I know you have tons more important cases. But will you just read it, and maybe write a list of questions?’

‘Where did you get this letter from?’

‘It’s a long story, and it doesn’t matter. Just know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.’

There is a long, sleepy sort of silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Of course I’ll read it. Come over for lunch and bring the letter.’

‘I love you.’

‘I hate you.’

‘I know. I’ll bring you a latte from Moll’s, though. Donald Trump would never bring you a latte from Moll’s.’

‘Fine. I’ll make my decision on your relative placement on the hate list when I’ve tasted how hot the coffee is. Do not ring me again before ten.’ She hangs up.

*

Gerty and Mo’s flat has been completely Gerty-fied. You almost can’t tell Mo lives here. His room at his last place was a tip of washed and unwashed clothes (no system) and paperwork that was probably confidential, but here, every object has a purpose. The flat is tiny, but I don’t notice it nearly as much as I did the first time I saw the place – somehow Gerty’s drawn attention away from the low ceilings and towards the enormous windows, which fill the kitchen-diner with soft summer sunlight. And it’s so clean. I have new respect for Gerty and what she can achieve through sheer willpower, or possibly bullying.

I hand her the coffee. She gives it a sip, then nods in approval. I do a little fist pump, officially becoming a less odious human being than the man who wants to build a wall between Mexico and the US.

‘Letter,’ she says, stretching out her free hand.

Not one for small talk, Gerty. I rifle through my bag and pass it over, and she immediately heads off to read, picking up her glasses from the side table by the front door where, unbelievably, she never seems to forget to put them.

I fidget. I pace a bit. I mess up the order of the pile of books on the end of their dining table, just for the thrill of it.

‘Go away,’ she says, not even raising her voice. ‘You are distracting me. Mo is at the coffee place on the corner that does inferior coffee. He will entertain you.’

‘Right. Fine. So . . . you’re reading it though? What do you think?’

She doesn’t answer. I roll my eyes, and then scarper in case she noticed.

I’ve not even made it to the coffee shop before my phone rings. It’s Gerty.

‘You might as well come back,’ she says.

‘Oh?’

‘The trial transcript will take forty-eight hours to get to me even with the express service. I can’t tell you anything useful until I’ve read that.’