The Flatshare(43)

Richie: You’re going to need to speak to her.

Sound of bathroom door unlocking.

Me: Shit!

Hide further behind fridge, then, when no noise follows, peek out.

She doesn’t look my way. Her towel is wrapped tightly under her arms and her long hair is darker now and dripping down her back. She disappears into the bedroom.

And breathe.

Me: She’s in the bedroom. I’m going to the bathroom.

Richie: Why don’t you just leave the flat if you’re that worried, man?

Me: I can’t talk to you, then! I cannot handle this alone, Richie!

I hear Richie grin.

Richie: There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? No, let me guess . . . did you get a bit excited . . . ?

I make my loudest, most humiliated groan yet. Richie roars with laughter.

Me: She came from nowhere! I was not prepared! I have not had sex for weeks!

Richie, laughing hysterically: Ah, Lee! Do you think she noticed?

Me: No. Definitely not. No.

Richie: So maybe, then.

Me: No. She can’t have. Too awkward to think about.

Lock bathroom door behind me and pull toilet seat down to sit. Stare down at my legs, heart pounding.

Richie: I have to go.

Me: No! You can’t leave! What do I do now?

Richie: What do you want to do now?

Me: Run away!

Richie: Come on, now, Lee! Calm yourself down.

Me: This is terrible. We live together. I can’t be walking around with an erection in front of my flatmate! It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s obscene! It’s probably a crime!

Richie: If it is, then I definitely do belong in here. Come on, man. Don’t freak out about it. Like you say, you and Kay have been broken up a few weeks and not sleeping together for a fair while before that – Me: How did you know that?

Richie: Come on. It was obvious.

Me: You haven’t seen us together for months!

Richie: The point is, it’s not a big deal. You saw a naked chick and you started thinking with your – hang on, man, give me . . .

He sighs.

Richie: Got to go. But chill out. She didn’t see anything, it doesn’t mean anything, just relax.

He hangs up.





29


Tiffy

Rachel is positively vibrating with excitement.

‘You are joking! You are joking!’ she says, bouncing in her seat. ‘I cannot believe he had a hard-on!’

I groan and rub my temples, which I’ve sometimes seen tired people do on television so am hoping will make me feel better. It doesn’t work. How is Rachel so bloody perky? I was sure she drank nearly as much as me.

‘It’s not funny,’ I tell her. ‘And I said he might have done. I’m not saying he definitely did.’

‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘You’re not so out of action that you’ve forgotten what that looks like. Three men in one night! You are literally living the dream.’

I ignore her. The head of Editorial luckily found it funny that I was late, but I still have a huge pile of work to get done today, and it hasn’t helped my to-do list that I arrived over an hour late.

‘Stop pretending to check those proofs,’ Rachel says. ‘We need a plan of action!’

‘For what?’

‘Well, what now? Are you calling Ken the hermit? Going for a drink with Justin? Or jumping in the shower with Leon?’

‘I’m going back to my desk,’ I tell her, grabbing the stack of proofs. ‘This has not been a productive session.’

She sings ‘Maneater’ at me as I walk away.

*

Rachel is right about the plan of action, though. I need to work out what the hell I’m going to do about the Leon situation. If we don’t speak soon, there’s a serious risk this morning will ruin everything – no more notes, no more leftovers, just silent, painful awkwardness. Humiliation is like mould: ignore it and the whole place will get smelly and green.

I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to text him.

No. I’ve got to call him, I decide. It needs to be drastic. I check the clock. Well, he’ll be asleep now – it’s two in the afternoon – so I’ve got a glorious four hours or so in which I can’t do anything about this situation. I suppose I should probably use that time to go through the proofs of Katherin’s book, especially now there’s a real danger that quite a lot of people might actually buy it, what with all this social media buzz about crochet.

Instead, after a long night and morning of trying very hard not to, I think about Justin.

And then, because I am not good at thinking on my own, I ring Mo to talk about Justin. He sounds a little groggy when he answers the phone, as if he’s just woken up.

‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘At home. Why?’

‘You sound weird. Isn’t it Gerty’s day off?’

‘Yes, she’s here too.’

‘Oh.’ It’s odd to think of the two of them just hanging out together without me. It just . . . doesn’t work as a combination. From freshers’ week of uni it was Gerty and me, inseparable; we took Mo under our collective wing at the end of first year, after seeing him solo dancing very enthusiastically to ‘Drop it Like it’s Hot’ and deciding anyone with those moves needed to be involved in all our nights out. After that we did everything as a three, and if a rare pairing did come about it was always me plus Gerty or me plus Mo. ‘Put loudspeaker on?’ I say, trying not to sound petulant.