The Flatshare(44)

‘Hang on. Hey, you’re all set.’

‘Let me guess,’ Gerty says, ‘you’ve fallen in love with Leon’s brother.’

I pause. ‘Normally your radar is pretty good, but you’re way off.’

‘Damn. Leon, then?’

‘Can’t I just call you for a chat?’

‘This isn’t a chat,’ Gerty says. ‘You don’t call at two in the afternoon for chats. You WhatsApp for that.’

‘This,’ I tell her, ‘is why I rang Mo.’

‘So? What’s the drama?’ Gerty asks.

‘Justin,’ I say, too tired to argue with her.

‘Ooh! An oldie but a goodie.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Can you let Mo chime in with something supportive, at least occasionally?’

‘What happened, Tiffy?’ Mo says.

I fill them in on my evening. Or at least, an abridged version of it – I don’t mention the dreadful kiss incident. It’s just a lot of drama to fit in one phone call, especially when you’re trying to check page numbers while you’re talking.

Also, as well as that, there’s the whole I-desperately-don’t-want-to-think-about-it thing.

‘This all sounds like pretty typical Justin behaviour, Tiffy,’ Mo says.

‘Well done for saying no,’ Gerty says, with surprising fervour. ‘It’s fucking creepy that he was at the cruise, and now this? I wish you could see how—’ There’s a muffled noise and Gerty stops talking. I get the sense that Mo may have poked her.

‘I didn’t quite say no,’ I point out, staring down at my feet. ‘I said “in a couple of months”.’

‘That’s still a hell of a lot better than dropping everything and running off with him again,’ Gerty says.

There’s a long silence. My throat feels tight. I need to talk about that kiss, I know I need to, but I can’t seem to get there. ‘Gerty,’ I say eventually. ‘Would you mind if I just spoke to Mo? For a moment?’

There’s another muffled sort of silence.

‘Fine, sure,’ Gerty says. She is audibly trying not to sound miffed.

‘Just me now,’ Mo says.

I swallow. I don’t want to talk about this here – I head for the office doors, down the stairs and out of the building. Outside everyone is moving a little more slowly than usual, as if the heat has calmed London down.

‘You told me once that my – that me and Justin . . . took its toll on me.’

Mo doesn’t say anything, he just waits.

‘You said that would sink in eventually. And you said to call you when it does.’

More silence, but it’s Mo-style silence, which means it is somehow incredibly reassuring. Like an audio hug. He doesn’t need words, Mo – his arts are beyond them.

‘Something weird happened last night. I was – that Ken guy and I kissed, and then we . . . well, I, I remembered . . .’

Why can’t I say it?

‘I remembered sleeping with Justin after a fight. I was so unhappy.’ I’m tearing up; I sniff, trying very hard not to cry.

‘How did you feel?’ Mo asks. ‘When the thought came to you, I mean.’

‘Scared,’ I admit. ‘I don’t remember our relationship being like that. But now I think I might have just sort of – airbrushed it? Forgotten those bits? I don’t know, is that even possible?’

‘Your brain can do amazing stuff to protect itself from pain,’ Mo tells me. ‘But it’ll struggle to keep secrets from the rest of you for long. Has this feeling of remembering things differently happened a lot since you left Justin?’

‘Not a lot.’ But, you know, a bit. Like there was that note I wrote about not inviting Justin to Rachel’s party, even though I know I did. It sounds crazy but I think Justin might’ve made me believe I’d not invited him, because that way he could be mad about me going? And lately I keep finding things – clothes, shoes, jewellery – that I remember Justin telling me I’d sold or given away. I’d usually put it down to my bad memory, but I’ve had a nagging sense of wrongness for months now, not helped by Mo’s relentless, annoyingly supportive nudging every time we talk about Justin. I am very good at not thinking about things, though, so I’ve just . . . resolutely not thought about it.

Mo talks about gaslighting and triggers. I squirm uncomfortably, and finally a tear creeps from my bottom lashes down my cheek. I’m officially crying.

‘I should go,’ I say, wiping my nose.

‘Just think about what I’ve said, OK, Tiffy? And remember how well you stood up to him last night – you’ve come a million miles already. Give yourself credit for that.’

I head back inside, suddenly drained. This last day has been too much. Up and down and up and down . . . Ugh. And the hangover is crushing.

By the time I finally finish checking the proofs of Katherin’s book, I’ve filed the nasty Justin thoughts back into their usual box, and I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve also had three packets of Wotsits, which Rachel suggested as the ultimate hangover cure, and which do appear to have taken me from full-on zombie to semi-sentient. So once I’ve dumped Crochet Your Way on Rachel’s desk, I scuttle back to mine to do what I’ve been itching to do since last night: go back on Leon’s Facebook page.