The Flatshare(3)

Well, not really a living, as such. But a bit of money. Just about enough to pay tax.

‘I’m telling you, Tiffy, crochet is the next colouring books,’ Katherin tells me, once she’s settled herself down in our best meeting room and talked me through the plan for her next book. I examine the finger she’s waggling in my direction. She has about fifty rings on each hand, but I’ve yet to discern whether any of them are wedding or engagement rings (I imagine that if Katherin has any, she’ll have more than one).

Katherin is just on the acceptable side of eccentric: she has a straw-blonde plait, one of those tans that somehow ages well, and endless stories of breaking into places in the 1960s and peeing on things. She was a real rebel once. She refuses to wear a bra even to this day, when bras have become quite comfortable and women have mostly given up on fighting the power because Beyoncé is doing it for us.

‘That’d be good,’ I say. ‘Maybe we could add a strapline with the word “mindful” in it. It is quite mindful, isn’t it? Or mindless?’

Katherin laughs, tipping her head back. ‘Ah, Tiffy. Your job’s ridiculous.’ She pats my hand affectionately and then reaches for her handbag. ‘You see that Martin boy,’ she says, ‘you tell him I’ll only do that cruise day class if I have a glamorous young assistant.’

I groan. I know where this is going. Katherin likes to drag me along to these things – for any class she needs a live model to show how to measure as you go when you’re designing an outfit, apparently, and I once made the fatal error of offering myself up for the job when she couldn’t find anyone. Now I am her go-to choice. PR is so desperate to get Katherin into these sorts of events that they’ve started begging me too.

‘This is too far, Katherin. I’m not going on a cruise with you.’

‘But it’s free! People pay thousands for those, Tiffy!’

‘You’re only joining them for the Isle of Wight loop,’ I remind her. Martin has already briefed me on this one. ‘And it’s on a weekend. I don’t work weekends.’

‘It’s not work,’ Katherin insists, gathering her notes and packing them into her handbag in an entirely random order. ‘It’s a lovely Saturday sailing trip with one of your friends.’ She pauses. ‘Me,’ she clarifies. ‘We’re friends, aren’t we?’

‘I am your editor!’ I say, bundling her out of the meeting room.

‘Think about it, Tiffy!’ she calls over her shoulder, unperturbed. She catches sight of Martin, who is already making a beeline for her from over by the printers. ‘I’m not doing it unless she is, Martin, my boy! She’s the one you need to talk to!’

And then she’s gone, the grubby glass doors of our office swinging behind her.

Martin turns on me. ‘I like your shoes,’ he says, with a charming smile. I shudder. I can’t stand Martin from PR. He says things like ‘let’s action that’ in meetings, and clicks his fingers at Ruby, who is a Marketing Exec, but who Martin seems to think is his personal assistant. He’s only twenty-three, but has decided it will further his merciless pursuit of seniority if he can seem older than he is, so he always puts on this awful jocular voice and tries to talk to our MD about golf.

The shoes are excellent, though. They’re purple Doc Marten-style boots, with white lilies painted on them, and they took me most of Saturday. My crafting and customising has really upped since Justin left me. ‘Thanks, Martin,’ I say, already attempting to sidle back to the security of my desk.

‘Leela mentioned that you’re looking for somewhere to live,’ Martin says.

I hesitate. I’m not sure where this is going. I sense nowhere good.

‘Me and Hana’ – a woman in Marketing who always sneers at my fashion sense – ‘have a spare room. You might have seen on Facebook, but I thought maybe I should bring it up, you know, IRL. It’s a single bed, but, well, I guess that won’t be a problem for you these days. As we’re friends, Hana and I decided we could offer it for five hundred a month, plus bills.’

‘That’s so kind of you!’ I say. ‘But I’ve actually just found somewhere.’ Well, I sort of have. Nearly. Oh, God, if L. Twomey won’t have me, will I have to live with Martin and Hana? I mean, I already spend every working day with them, and frankly that is plenty of Martin-and-Hana time for me. I’m not sure my (already shaky) resolve to leave Justin’s place can withstand the idea of Martin chasing me for rent payments and Hana seeing me in my porridge-stained Adventure Time pyjamas every morning.

‘Oh. Right, well. We’ll have to find someone else, then.’ Martin’s expression turns cunning. He has smelled guilt. ‘You could make it up to me by going with Katherin to that—’

‘No.’

He gives an exaggerated sigh. ‘God, Tiffy. It’s a free cruise! Don’t you go on cruises all the time?’

I used to go on cruises all the time, when my wonderful and now ex-boyfriend used to take me on them. We’d sail from Caribbean island to Caribbean island in a sunny haze of romantic bliss. We’d explore European cities and then head back to the boat for incredible sex in our tiny little bunk. We’d stuff ourselves at the all-you-can-eat buffet and then lie out on the deck watching the gulls circle above us as we talked idly of our future children.