The Flatshare(45)

There he is. He’s smiling at the camera, his arm slung around someone at what looks like a Christmas party – there are twinkly fairy lights hung up behind them, and a room full of heads. I flick through his profile pictures and remember looking at these before. I’d not thought he looked at all attractive – and it’s true that he’s too gangly and long-haired to be my usual type. But clearly he is just one of those people who suddenly becomes fanciable in person.

Maybe it was just the initial shock, and the nakedness. Maybe second time around it’ll all be nice and platonic, and I can forget about it and call Ken the sexy Norwegian hermit. Although I can’t face that, not after the way Justin humiliated me in front of him. Ugh, no, don’t think about Justin—

‘Who’s that?’ Martin says from behind me. I jump, spilling coffee across my scattering of very urgent Post-it notes.

‘Why do you always creep up on me?’ I ask, snapping the window closed and dabbing at the coffee with a tissue.

‘You’re just jumpy. So who was that?’

‘My friend Leon.’

‘Friend?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Since when have you been even slightly interested in my life, Martin?’

He gives me an oddly smug look, as if he knows something I don’t, or perhaps is just having some intestinal issues.

‘What do you need?’ I ask, through gritted teeth.

‘Oh, nothing, Tiffy. Don’t let me interrupt you.’ And he walks off.

I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Rachel pops her head up over her computer and mouths ‘Still can’t believe it! Hard-on!’ at me, then does a double thumbs-up. I sink further in my seat, hangover resettling, and decide that I will absolutely definitely never drink again.





30


Leon

Mam at least provides distraction from painfully awkward memory of this morning.

She’s making astonishing effort. And it seems she was telling the truth about being single – no telltale signs of man about house (Richie and I got to be very good at identifying them in childhood) and she’s not changed her hair and clothes since last time I saw her, which means she’s not trying to fit to someone else.

I talk to her about Kay. Feels surprisingly good. She nods in the right places and pats my hand, welling up occasionally, then makes me oven chips with nuggets, which all make me feel ten years old again. Not unpleasant, though. Nice to be looked after.

The strangest part is going back to the bedroom Richie and I shared when we moved to London in our early teens. I’ve only been back here once since the trial. Came to stay for a week after that; didn’t think Mam could cope alone. Wasn’t needed for long, though – she met Mike, who was keen to have the place to themselves, so I moved back to the flat.

The room is unchanged. Has the feeling of a shell missing its sea creature. It’s full of holes where things should be: Blu-Tack marks on walls for posters long-since taken down, books tipping at diagonals without enough there to hold them up. Richie’s stuff still boxed up from when his old housemates dropped it around.

It takes enormous mental effort not to riffle through it. Would be unnecessarily upsetting, and he’d hate me doing it.

I lie down on the bed and find my mind drifting back to image of Tiffy – first in that red underwear, then padding into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. Second image feels even more unacceptable, as she didn’t even know I was watching. Fidget, uncomfortable. It’s wrong to be so attracted to her. It’s probably a reaction to Kay break-up.

Phone rings. Rising panic. Check screen: Tiffy.

Don’t want to answer. Phone rings and rings – seems to go on for ever.

She hangs up without leaving a message. I feel oddly guilty. Richie told me I had to talk to her. But I prefer option of total radio silence going forward, or, at most, the odd note left on kettle or back of door.

Lie back down. Reflect on this. Wonder if it’s true.

Phone buzzes. A text.

Hey. So. Hmm. I feel like we should chat about this morning? Tiffy x

The memory hits me afresh, and I find myself groaning again. Should definitely reply. Put phone down. Stare at ceiling.

Phone buzzes again.

I should totally have started with an apology. It was me who shouldn’t have been there, according to our flatsharing rules. And then I went and accosted you in the shower. So yes, I am very, very sorry! xx

Oddly, I feel a lot better after seeing this text. It doesn’t sound like she was traumatised, and also sounds familiarly Tiffy-ish, so is easier to imagine this text coming from the Tiffy I had in my head before I met the real one. That one was sort of . . . not irrelevant, exactly, but in the ‘safe space’ in my head. Person for talking to, without pressure or implication. Easy and undemanding.

Now Tiffy is definitely not in safe headspace.

I muster the courage to start a reply.

Don’t apologise. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry – it’s already forgotten.

Delete this last part. Clearly this is not true.

Don’t apologise. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry – am happy to put it behind us if you are. Leon x

Send, then regret the kiss. Do I normally put a kiss? Have no recollection. Scroll back up thread of last few messages and find that I am entirely inconsistent, which is probably best outcome. I settle back on the bed and wait.