The Flatshare(47)

Stuck in amongst the flowers is a note that reads, To Tiffy – we’ll speak in October. Love, Justin. I lift the bouquet and check underneath it for a proper note, but no. A note would be far too straightforward – a giant, expensive gesture is much more Justin’s style.

This has really annoyed me, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve never told Justin where I live. Or maybe because it’s so flagrantly disregarding what I asked of him on Thursday, and because he’s made my ‘I need a couple of months’ into a ‘I will speak to you in two months’ time’.

I stuff the flowers into the ornamental plant pot I usually keep my spare wool in. I was waiting for Justin to do this – to turn up with his explanations and his expensive gestures and sweep me off my feet again. But that Facebook message, the engagement . . . He tipped me over the edge, and now I am in a very different place from the last time he tried to get me back.

I slump down on the sofa and stare at the flowers. I think about what Mo said, and how despite myself I’ve been remembering things. The way Justin used to tell me off for forgetting stuff, how confused it made me feel. The half-excitement, half-anxiety every day when he came home. The reality of how my stomach lurched when he put his hand on my shoulder and snapped at me to go for a drink with him at the pub on Thursday.

That flashback.

God. I don’t want to go back to all that. I’m happier now – I like living here, safely hidden away in this flat which I’ve made my own. In two weeks’ time I’ll be at the end of my lease here – Leon’s not mentioned it, so I’ve not brought it up either, because I don’t want to move out. I’ve got money, for once, even if most of it is paying off my overdraft. I’ve got a flatmate who I can talk to – who cares if it’s not face-to-face? And I’ve got a home that actually feels like it’s exactly fifty per cent mine.

I reach for my phone and reply to Leon.

Bad surprise. Thanks for the heads-up. We now have a lot of flowers in the flat xx He replies almost instantly, which is unusual.

Glad to hear it x

And then, a minute or so later:

About the flowers in the flat, not the surprise, obviously x I smile.

I have some good news for you xx

Perfect timing – on coffee break. Hit me. x He doesn’t get it – he thinks this is small good news, like I cooked a crumble or something. I pause, fingers hovering over the keys. This is the perfect thing to cheer me up – and what’s more important, the ins and outs of my old relationship, or the reality of Richie’s case right now?

Can I call you? As in, if I call you, can you pick up? xx The reply comes more slowly this time.

Sure. x

I’m hit with a very abrupt and intense wave of nerves, and a flashback to Leon, naked, dripping wet, his hair pushed back from his face. I press the call button because there is now no other option but to do it, or to come up with a very weird and elaborate excuse.

‘Hey,’ he says, his voice a little low, as if he’s somewhere he has to be quiet.

‘Hi,’ I say. We wait. I think about him naked, and then try very hard not to. ‘How’s the shift?’

‘Quiet. Hence the coffee break.’

His accent is almost exactly like Richie’s, and completely unlike anyone else’s. It’s like South London had a fling with Irish. I sit back on the sofa, pulling my knees up and hugging them close.

‘So, uh . . .’ he begins.

‘Sorry,’ I say, almost at the same time. We wait again, and then I find myself doing a stupid little awkward laugh I’m sure I’ve never done before. What an excellent time to wheel out a brand-new awkward laugh.

‘You go,’ he says.

‘Let’s just . . . I didn’t call to talk about the other day,’ I begin, ‘so let’s just pretend that whole shower situation was a strange shared dream for the duration of this conversation so I can tell you my good news without us both feeling incredibly awkward?’

I think I hear him smile. ‘Deal.’

‘Gerty took Richie’s case.’

All I hear is a sharp intake of breath, and then silence. I wait until it has been a painfully long time, but I have a feeling Leon is the kind of person who needs time to absorb stuff the same way Mo does, so I resist the urge to say anything else until he’s ready.

‘Gerty took Richie’s case,’ Leon repeats, in a wondering sort of way.

‘Yeah. She took it. And that’s not even the good news!’ I find I’m bouncing slightly on the sofa cushions.

‘What’s . . . the good news?’ he asks, sounding slightly faint.

‘She’s got his appeal moved forward by three months. You were looking at January next year, right? So now we’re talking, what . . .’

‘October. October. That’s . . .’

‘Soon! Really soon!’

‘That’s two months away! We’re not ready!’ Leon says, suddenly sounding panicked. ‘What if— Does she—’

‘Leon. Breathe.’

More silence. I can hear the distant sound of Leon taking deep, slow breaths. My cheeks are starting to hurt from supressing an enormous grin.

‘She’s an amazing lawyer,’ I tell him. ‘And she wouldn’t take the case if she didn’t think Richie stood a chance. Really.’