The Flatshare(42)

God. I’m flushed with heat, all flustered and skin-prickly and breathless – no, I’m turned on. I didn’t see that coming. Surely this situation was far too awkward for that to even be possible? I’m a grown woman! Can’t I handle seeing a man naked? It’s probably just because I haven’t had sex for so long. It’s some sort of biological thing, like how the smell of bacon gets you salivating, or how holding other people’s babies makes you want to end your career and immediately start procreating.

In a sudden panic I swivel to look at myself in the mirror, wiping the condensation from its surface to reveal my pale, gaunt face. My lipstick has ingrained itself into the dry skin of my lips, and my eyeshadow and eyeliner have blurred into a black mess around each eye. I look like a toddler who’s attempted to use its mother’s make-up.

I groan. This is a disaster. This could not have gone worse. I look terrible, and he looked really quite astonishingly good. I think back to the day when I checked him out on Facebook – I don’t remember him being attractive. How did I not notice? Oh, God, why does it even matter? It’s Leon. Flatmate Leon. Leon-with-a-girlfriend Leon.

Right, I’ve got to shower and go to work. I’ll deal with my hormones and incredibly awkward living situation tomorrow.

Oh, God. I am so late.





28


Leon

Ahhh.

Ahhh.

Lie on back in bed, immobilised by pounding shame. Cannot think in words. Ahhh is only sound adequate to express sufficient horror.

Didn’t Kay say Tiffy was unattractive? I’d just assumed! Or . . . or . . . I’d not even thought about it, actually. But, Jesus. She’s like . . . Ahhh.

Can’t spring a scantily clad lady on a man in the shower. Can’t do that. It’s not fair.

Can’t connect that woman in the bathroom in the red underwear with the woman I write notes to and clean up after. Had just never . . .

Landline rings. Freeze. Landline is in kitchen. Chance of bumping into Tiffy again: high.

Unfreeze and shake self. Obviously have to answer phone – will be Richie. Dart out of bedroom, clutching towel at waist, and locate phone under pile of Mr Prior’s hats on kitchen sideboard; answer while dashing back to bedroom.

Me: Hey.

Richie: Are you all right?

Make groaning noise.

Richie, alert: What is it? What’s happened?

Me: No, no, nothing bad. Just . . . met Tiffy.

Richie, cheered: Oh! Is she hot?

Repeat groaning noise.

Richie: She is! I knew it.

Me: She wasn’t meant to be. I assumed Kay made sure she wasn’t!

Richie: Did she look anything like Kay?

Me: Eh?

Richie: Kay wouldn’t think anyone’s hot unless they look like Kay.

Wince, but sort of know what he means. Can’t get image of Tiffy out of head. Ruffled red hair all over the place, like she’s just got out of bed. Light-brown freckles across pale skin, dusting her arms and dappled across her chest. Red lace bra. Ridiculously perfect breasts.

Ahhh.

Richie: Where is she now?

Me: Shower.

Richie: And where are you?

Me: Hiding in the bedroom.

Pause.

Richie: You realise she’s going to come there next, yeah?

Me: Shit!

Sit bolt upright. Flounder around looking for clothes. Can only find hers. See her dress, thrown on the floor unzipped.

Me: Hang on. Need to dress.

Richie: Wait, what?

Put him down on the bed as I pull on boxers and tracksuit bottoms. Horribly aware of my bum pointing towards door as I do so, but is better option than facing the other way. Find old vest within reach and throw it on, then breathe.

Me: OK. Right. I think it’s safest to . . . go to the kitchen? She won’t pass on the way from the bathroom to the bedroom. Then I can hide in the bathroom until she leaves.

Richie: What the hell happened? Why aren’t you wearing any clothes? Have you shagged her, man?

Me: No!

Richie: All right. It was a reasonable question.

Make my way across living room to kitchen. Skulk as far as possible behind fridge, so I can’t be seen en route from bathroom to bedroom.

Me: We bumped into each other in the shower.

Richie gives a proper belly laugh that makes me smile a little despite myself.

Richie: She was naked?

Groan.

Me: Nearly. I was, though.

Richie’s laugh scales up a notch.

Richie: Ah, man, this has made my day. So she was in, what, a towel?

Me: Underwear.

Richie groans too this time.

Richie: Good?

Me: I’m not talking about this!

Richie: Good point. Can she hear you?

Pause. Listen. Ahhh.

Me, in a hiss: Shower has stopped!

Richie: Don’t you want to be there when she comes out in a towel? Why don’t you just go back to the bedroom? It won’t look like you did it on purpose. I mean, you did nearly do it accidentally. Throw you together one more time, you never— Me: I’m not going to lie in wait for the poor woman, Richie! I already exposed myself to her, didn’t I? She’s probably traumatised.

Richie: Did she look traumatised?

Think back. She looked . . . Ahhh. So much skin. And big blue eyes, freckles across her nose, that little intake of breath as I moved past her to the door, way too close for comfort.