The Flatshare(46)

And wait.

What is she doing? She normally replies fast. Check the time – eleven at night. Could she have fallen asleep? Did seem like she was out late last night. Finally, though:

Let’s forget all about it! I promise it won’t happen again (the barging in OR the sleeping in, that is). I hope Kay didn’t totally flip out about me breaking the flatshare rules . . .? And, you know, accosting her boyfriend in the shower . . . xx

Deep breath.

Kay and I broke up a couple of weeks ago. X

Reply is almost instant.

Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I did think something might be wrong – you were all quiet in your notes (more so than usual, I mean!) How are you holding up?

Think about it. How am I holding up? Am lying in bed in my mother’s flat, fantasising about naked flatmate, all thoughts of ex-girlfriend briefly but genuinely forgotten. Is probably not entirely healthy, but . . . better than yesterday? I go for:

Getting there. x

There’s a long pause after this one. Wonder if I should have said a bit more. Not that that’s ever put Tiffy off before.

Well, this might cheer you up: in my hungover state I walked into the printer at work today.

I snort. A beat later, an image of printer appears. It’s enormous. Could probably fit four Tiffys inside it.

Did you not . . . spot it?

I think I just lost the ability to stop walking at the necessary moment. I had just come off a call with my gorgeous bricklayer-turned-designer though, so . . .

Ah. You must’ve still been weak at the knees.

Probably! It’s been that sort of day xx

Stare at this one until phone screen times out. That sort of day. What sort of day? Weak-kneed sort of day? But why – because she . . .

No, no, won’t be because of me. That’s ridiculous. Except . . . what did she mean, then?

Hope this isn’t going to be how I am whenever communicating with Tiffy now. Is absolutely exhausting.





31


Tiffy

My dad likes to say, ‘Life is never simple’. This is one of his favourite aphorisms.

I actually think it’s incorrect. Life is often simple, but you don’t notice how simple it was until it gets incredibly complicated, like how you never feel grateful for being well until you’re ill, or how you never appreciate your tights drawer until you rip a pair and have no spares.

Katherin has just done a guest vlog on Tasha Chai-Latte’s page about crocheting your own bikini. The Internet has gone mental. I can’t keep track of all the influential people who have retweeted her – and because Katherin hates Martin, every time she freaks out or needs help with something, she calls me. I, who know nothing about PR, then have to go to Martin and feed back to Katherin. If this was a divorce and I was their child, social services would be called.

Gerty rings me as I’m leaving work.

‘You’ve only just left? Have you asked for a rise yet?’ she asks. I check my watch – it’s half seven. How have I been at work for almost twelve hours, and yet achieved so little?

‘No time,’ I tell her. ‘And they don’t do rises. They’d probably fire me for asking.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘What’s up, anyway?’

‘Oh, I just thought you might want to know I’ve got Richie’s appeal moved forward by three months,’ Gerty says airily.

I stop dead in my tracks. Someone behind me walks into me and swears (stopping abruptly in central London is a heinous crime, and immediately gives the people around you permission to kick you).

‘You took his case?’

‘His previous barrister was appalling,’ Gerty says. ‘Really. I’ve half a mind to report him to the bar standards board. We’ll have to find Richie a new solicitor, too, especially since I’ve gone over this one’s head and royally pissed him off, but—’

‘You took his case?’

‘Keep up, Tiffy.’

‘Thank you. So much. God, I . . .’ I can’t stop smiling. ‘Has Richie told Leon?’

‘Richie probably doesn’t know yet,’ Gerty says. ‘I only wrote to him yesterday.’

‘Can I tell Leon?’

‘That’d save me a job,’ Gerty says, ‘so go for it.’

My phone buzzes almost as soon as I hang up. It’s a text from Leon; my heart does a funny little twisty spasm thing. He’s not messaged me or left me a note since we texted at the weekend.

Heads up: enormous bunch of flowers for you in foyer from your ex. Not sure whether to ruin surprise (good or bad surprise?) but if it was me, would want to be pre-warned x I stop dead in my tracks again; this time a businessman on a scooter runs over my foot.

I’ve not heard from Justin since Thursday. No call, no text, nothing. I had just about convinced myself that he’d taken what I’d said seriously and wasn’t going to contact me, but I should have known better – that would have been entirely out of character. This, though – this is much more like it.

I don’t want a big bunch of flowers from Justin. I just want him gone – it’s so hard to get on with getting better when he keeps popping up all over the place. As I march up to our building, I press my lips together and prepare myself.

It really is an enormous bunch of flowers. I’d forgotten how rich he is, and how inclined to spend money on ridiculous things. For my birthday dinner last year he bought me an insanely pricey designer gown, all silver silk and sequins; wearing it felt like going out in costume as somebody else.