The Flatshare(37)

He gives me a look. A very intense look. My stomach flutters. But . . . I can do this. Why not?

‘Do you want to get some air?’ I find myself saying. He nods, and I grab my jacket off the chair and head for the door to the pub garden.

It’s a perfect summer evening. The air is still tinged with warmth even though the sun set hours ago; the pub has hung up strings of lightbulbs between the trees, and they cast a soft yellow glow across the garden. There are a few people out here, mainly smokers – they have that hunched look that smokers get, like the world is against them. Ken and I take a seat on a picnic bench.

‘So, when you say “hermit” . . .’ I begin.

‘Which I haven’t,’ Ken points out.

‘Right. But what exactly does that involve?’

‘Living alone, somewhere secluded. Very few people.’

‘Very few?’

‘The odd friend, the grocery delivery woman.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s not as quiet as people make it out to be.’

‘The grocery delivery woman, eh?’ I give him a look this time.

He laughs. ‘I’ll admit, that’s one downside of solitude.’

‘Oh, please. You don’t need to live alone in a treehouse to not have any sex.’

I press my lips together. I’m not entirely sure where that came from – possibly from the last gin and tonic – but Ken just smiles, a slow, really quite sexy smile, and then leans down to kiss me.

As I close my eyes and lean in, I feel giddy on possibility. There’s nothing to stop me going home with this man, and it’s a sunlight-through-the-clouds moment – like something’s lifted. I can do whatever I want now. I’m free.

And then, as the kiss deepens, with disorientating suddenness I remember something.

Justin. I’m crying. We’ve just had a fight and it was all my fault. Justin has gone cold, his back turned on me in our enormous white bed with all its trendy brushed cotton and endless pillows.

I am deeply miserable. More miserable than I have remembered being before, and yet it doesn’t feel at all unfamiliar. Justin turns towards me, and suddenly, giddily, his hands are on me and we’re kissing. I’m muddled, lost. I’m so grateful he’s not angry with me any more. He knows just where to touch me. The misery hasn’t gone, it’s still there, but he wants me now, and the relief makes everything else seem small.

Back here, in the garden in Shoreditch, Ken pulls back from the kiss. He’s smiling. I don’t think he can even tell that my skin has gone clammy and my heart is racing for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was that?





August





24


Leon

Richie: How are you feeling, man?

How am I feeling? Untethered. Like something’s got dislodged somewhere in my chest and my body doesn’t function quite right any more. Like I’m alone.

Me: Sad.

Richie: You’ve not been in love with Kay for months, I’m telling you. I’m so glad you’re out of that relationship, man – it was about habit, not about love.

Wonder why the fact that Richie’s right doesn’t lessen the pain in any meaningful way. Miss Kay almost constantly. Like a nagging ache. It worsens every time I pick up the phone to call her, and then have nobody to call.

Me: Anyway. Any news from Tiffy’s lawyer friend?

Richie: Not yet. I can’t stop thinking about it. You know every single thing in her letter just made me go, ‘Oh, yeah, shit, why didn’t we think of that?’

Me: Same.

Richie: You did pass on my reply? You made sure she got it?

Me: Tiffy gave it to her.

Richie: You’re sure?

Me: I’m sure.

Richie: OK. All right. Sorry. I’m just . . .

Me: I know. Me too.

*

For the last two weekends, have Airbnb’ed my way around UK on quest for Mr Prior’s boyfriend. It was an excellent distraction. Met two radically different Johnny Whites – one bitter, furious and alarmingly right wing, and the other living in a caravan and smoking weed out of the window as we discussed his life since the war. Has at least provided amusement for Tiffy – notes about Johnny Whites always get good response. Got this after describing trip to meet Johnny White the Third: If you’re not careful I’ll commission you to write a book about this. Obviously in order for it to fit with my publishing list I’d have to introduce some element of DIY – could you learn a different craft from each Johnny, or something? You know, like, Johnny White the First spontaneously teaches you how to make a bookcase, and then there you are with Johnny White the Second and he’s making royal icing and you just happen to join in . . . Oh my God, is this the best idea I’ve ever had? Or maybe the worst? I absolutely cannot tell. xx Often think it must be very tiring, being Tiffy. Even in note form she seems to expend so much energy. Quite cheering to come home to, though.

This weekend’s visit to Richie was cancelled – not enough prison staff. Will have been five weeks between visits. That’s too long for him, and, I’m realising, for me also. With Kay gone and Richie able to ring even less than usual – too few prison staff means more time banged up, less access to phones – I’m finding that even I can suffer from not talking enough. It’s not like there aren’t friends I can call. But they’re not . . . the people I can talk to.