The Flatshare(29)

Me: It bothers me! But I saw you this morning?

Kay: For about half an hour, for a very rushed breakfast.

Flash of irritation. Gave up half an hour of three-hour power nap to allow for breakfast with Kay. Deep breath. Notice where we are out of window.

Me: Got to go. I’m pulling into the prison.

Kay: Fine. Let’s talk later. Will you text me what train you get?

I don’t like this – the checking-up, the texting about trains, always knowing where the other person will be. But . . . it’s unreasonable of me. Can’t object. Kay already thinks I’m a commitment-phobe. It’s a favourite term of hers at the moment.

Me: Will do.

But I don’t, in the end. Mean to, but don’t. It’s the worst argument we’ve had in ages.





19


Tiffy

‘It’s the perfect venue for you, Katherin,’ Martin gushes, spreading the photos out on the table.

I smile encouragingly. Though initially I thought the whole enormous-venue thing was ridiculous, I’m starting to come around to it. Twenty different YouTube videos have been made by various Internet celebrities sporting outfits they claimed to have crocheted themselves from Katherin’s instructions. After a tense unscheduled meeting with the MD in which the head of PR did a quite convincing job of pretending to know what this book was, let alone have budget allocated for it, the whole Butterfingers office is now up to speed and abuzz with excitement. Everyone seems to have forgotten that last week they didn’t give a crap about crochet; yesterday I heard the sales director declare she’d ‘always suspected this book would be a winner’.

Katherin is perplexed by all of this, particularly the Tasha Chai-Latte thing. At first she reacted as literally everyone does when they see some random person making tons of money on YouTube (‘I could do that!’ she announced. I told her to start by investing in a smartphone. Baby steps.) Now she’s just irritated at Martin having taken control of her Twitter account (‘She can’t be trusted with this! We need to maintain control!’ Martin was yelling at Ruby this morning).

‘So, what is a proper book launch?’ Katherin asks. ‘I mean, normally I just potter around drinking the wine and chatting to any old lady who bothers to turn up. But how do you do it when there are all these people?’ She gestures to the photo of a gigantic Islington hall.

‘Ah, now, Katherin,’ Martin says, ‘I’m glad you asked. Tiffy and I are going to take you along to one of our other big book launches in two weeks’ time. Just so you can see how these things are done.’

‘Are there free drinks?’ Katherin asks, perking up.

‘Oh, absolutely, tons of free drinks,’ Martin says, having previously told me that there won’t be any at all.

I glance at my watch as Martin returns to the task of selling the enormous venue to Katherin. Katherin is very worried about the people at the back not being able to see. I, on the other hand, am very worried about getting to Leon’s hospice on time.

It’s the evening of our visit. Leon will be there, which means tonight, after five and a half months of living together, he and I will finally meet.

I’m oddly nervous. I changed my clothes three times this morning, which is unusual – normally I can’t imagine the day looking any other way once I’ve got an outfit on. Now I’m not sure I’ve got it right. I’ve toned down the lemon-yellow pouf dress with a denim jacket, leggings, and my lily boots, but I’m still dressed in something a sixteen-year-old girl would wear to prom. There’s just something fundamentally try-hard about tulle.

‘Don’t you think we should be heading over now?’ I say, interrupting Martin mid bullshit. I want to get to the hospice in time to find Leon and say thanks before we start. I’d rather he didn’t walk in Justin-style, just as Katherin’s sticking pins into me.

Martin glares at me, turning his head so Katherin won’t see quite how vicious a look he is shooting in my direction. She of course spots it anyway, and cheers up at the sight, chuckling into her coffee cup. She was grumpy with me when I got here because I’d (clearly) ignored her instruction to wear ‘neutral clothing’ again. My excuse that wearing beige sucks the life out of me did not fly. ‘We all have to make sacrifices for our art, Tiffy!’ she said, waggling a finger. I did point out that this isn’t actually my art, it’s hers, but she looked so wounded I gave up and said I’d compromise by taking out the poufy underskirt.

It’s good to see our mutual dislike of Martin has united us again.

*

I’m not sure why I think I know what a hospice will look like – I’ve never been to one before. This one ticks a few of my boxes, even so: lino floors in halls, medical equipment spouting wires and tubes, poor quality art in wonky frames on the walls. But there’s a friendlier atmosphere than I expected. Everyone seems to know each other: doctors make sardonic comments as they cross paths in the corridor, patients chuckle wheezily to their ward-mates, and at one point I hear a nurse arguing quite passionately with an elderly Yorkshireman about which flavour of rice pudding is best on tonight’s dinner menu.

The receptionist leads us down the bewildering maze of corridors to a sort of living area. There’s a rickety plastic table where we’re to set up, plus lots of uncomfortable-looking seating and a television like the one in my parents’ house – it’s blocky and enormous at the back, like they’re stashing all the extra shopping channels in there.