The Flatshare(4)

‘Gone off them,’ I say, reaching for the phone. ‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have to make a call.’





2


Leon

Phone rings as Doctor Patel is prescribing meds for Holly (little girl with leukaemia). Bad timing. Very bad timing. Doctor Patel not happy at interruption, and makes her feelings clear. Seems to have forgotten that I, too, as night nurse, should have gone home at 8 a.m., and yet am still here dealing with ill people and grouchy consultants like Doctor Patel.

Hang up when it rings, obviously. Make mental note to listen to voicemail and change ringtone to something less embarrassing (this one is called ‘Jive’ and is far too funky for hospice setting. Not that funk does not have role in place of sickness, just that is not always appropriate).

Holly: Why didn’t you answer? Isn’t that rude? What if it was your girlfriend with the short hair?

Dr Patel: What’s rude is leaving your mobile on loud during a ward round. Though I’m surprised whoever-it-was even tried ringing him at this hour.

A glance at me, half irritable, half amused.

Dr Patel: You may have noticed that Leon is not a big talker, Holly.

Leans in, conspiratorial.

Dr Patel: One of the registrars has a theory. He says that Leon has a limited number of words to use each shift, and when it gets to this time of day, he’s entirely run out.

Don’t grace this with a response.

Speaking of girlfriend with short hair: haven’t told Kay about the room thing yet. Not had time. Also, am avoiding inevitable conflict. But really must call her later this morning.

Tonight was good. Mr Prior’s pain lessened enough that he could start telling me about the man he fell in love with in the trenches: a dark-haired charmer called Johnny White, with the chiselled jaw of a Hollywood star and a twinkle in his eye. They had one fraught, romantic, war-torn summer, then were split up. Johnny White was taken to hospital for shellshock. They never saw each other again. Mr Prior could’ve got in lots of trouble (homosexuality vexing to military sorts).

I was tired, coffee buzz dying, but stayed with Mr Prior after handover. The man never gets visitors and loves to talk when he can. Failed to escape conversation without a scarf (my fourteenth from Mr Prior). Can only say no a certain number of times, and Mr Prior knits so fast I wonder why anyone bothered with the Industrial Revolution. Pretty sure he’s faster than a machine.

*

Listen to voicemail after eating dangerously reheated chicken stir-fry in front of last week’s Masterchef.

Voicemail: Hi, is that L. Twomey? Oh, shite, you can’t answer – I always do this on voicemails. OK, I’m just going to proceed on the assumption that you’re L. Twomey. My name’s Tiffy Moore and I’m ringing about the Gumtree ad, about a room? Look, my friends think it’s weird that we’d be sharing a bed, even though it’d be at different times, but it doesn’t bother me if it doesn’t bother you, and to be honest I’d do pretty much anything for a central London flat I can move into right away at that price. [Pause] Oh, God, not anything. There’s loads of things I wouldn’t do. I’m not like . . . No, Martin, not now, can’t you see I’m on the phone?

Who is Martin? A child? Does this rambly woman with Essex accent want to bring a child into my flat?

Voicemail continues: Sorry, that’s my colleague, he wants me to go on a cruise with a middle-aged lady to talk to pensioners about crochet.

Not the explanation I was expecting. Better, definitely, but begs many questions.

Voicemail continues: Look, just call me back or text me if the room’s still available? I’m super tidy, I’ll keep right out of your way and I’m still in the habit of cooking double quantities of my dinner so if you like home-cooked food I can leave leftovers.

She reads out her number. Just in time, I remember to jot it down.

Woman is annoying, definitely. And is female, which may vex Kay. But only two other people have called: one asked if I had a problem with pet hedgehogs (answer: not unless they are living in my flat) and other was definitely a drug dealer (not being judgemental – was offered drugs during call). I need ￡350 extra a month if I’m going to keep paying Sal without Kay’s help. This is the only available plan. Plus, will never actually see annoying woman. Will only ever be in when annoying woman is out.

I text her.

Hi there, Tiffy. Thanks for your voicemail. Would be great to meet you and talk about the arrangement for my flat. How is Saturday morning? Cheers, Leon Twomey.

Nice, normal-person message. Resist all urges to ask about Martin’s cruise-ship plan, though find myself curious.

She replies almost instantly.

Hi! Sounds great. 10 a.m. at the flat itself, then? x

Let’s make it 9 a.m., or I’ll fall asleep! See you then. Address is on the ad. Cheers, Leon.

There. Done. Easy: ￡350 a month, almost in the bag already.

Now to tell Kay.





3


Tiffy

So, naturally I get curious and google him. Leon Twomey is a pretty unusual name, and I find him on Facebook without having to employ the creepy stalker techniques I reserve for new writers I’m trying to poach from other publishing houses.

It’s a relief to see that he’s not my type at all, which will definitely simplify things – if Justin did ever meet Leon, for instance, I don’t think he’d see him as a threat. He’s got light-brown skin and thick, curly hair long enough to be pushed back behind his ears, and he’s way too gangly for me. All elbows and neck, you know the type. He looks like a nice guy, though – in every photo he’s doing this sweet lopsided smile that doesn’t seem at all creepy or murderous, though actually if you look at a picture with that idea in mind everyone starts to look like an axe-wielding killer, so I try to put the thought out of my head. He looks friendly and unthreatening. These are good things.