The Flatshare(52)

‘Sure,’ I say, pushing away from my desk in what I hope is a brisk and professional manner.

I follow him into his office. He closes the door behind me.

‘Tiffy,’ he begins, perching on the edge of his desk. ‘I know it’s been a busy few months for you.’

I swallow. ‘Oh, it’s been fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though!’

He gives me a slightly odd look at this point, which is entirely understandable.

‘You’ve done a fantastic job with Katherin’s book,’ he says. ‘It really is a stellar piece of publishing. You spotted that trend – no, you shaped it. Really, top notch.’

I blink, bewildered. I neither spotted that trend nor shaped it – I’ve been publishing crochet books ever since I started at Butterfingers.

‘Thanks?’ I say, feeling a bit guilty.

‘We’re so impressed with your recent work, Tiffy, that we’d like to promote you to editor,’ he says.

It takes a good few seconds for the words to sink in, and when they do, I make a very peculiar choking noise.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, frowning.

I clear my throat. ‘Fine! Thanks!’ I squeak. ‘I mean, I just didn’t expect . . .’

. . . ever to get promoted. Literally, ever. I had entirely given up hope.

‘It’s extremely well deserved,’ he says, smiling benevolently.

I manage to smile back. I don’t really know what to do with myself. What I want to do is ask how much more money I’ll be getting, but there’s no dignified way to ask that question.

‘Thanks so much,’ I gush instead, and then I feel a bit pathetic, because let’s be honest they should have promoted me two years ago, and it’s undignified to grovel. I draw myself up to my full height and give him a more purposeful smile. ‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say. Senior people always like to hear you say that.

‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘HR will send over details of the salary increase et cetera.’

I like the sound of that et cetera.

*

Congratulations on the promotion! Better late than never? Made you mushroom stroganoff to celebrate. x

I smile. The note is stuck on the fridge, which is already one layer deep in Post-its. My current favourite is a doodle Leon did, depicting the man in Flat 5 sitting on an enormous heap of bananas. (We still don’t know why he keeps so many banana crates in his parking space.)

I rest my forehead against the fridge door for a moment, then run my fingers across the layers of paper scraps and Post-its. There’s so much here. Jokes, secrets, stories, the slow unfolding of two people whose lives have been changing in parallel – or, I don’t know, in synch. Different times, same place.

I reach for a pen.

Thank you ? I’ve been doing a lot of celebratory dancing around the flat, just so you know. Like, seriously uncool, trying-to-moonwalk dancing. I can’t imagine that’s something you ever partake in, somehow . . .

Can I ask what you’re up to this weekend? I’m guessing you’ll be staying at your mum’s again? I just wondered if you wanted to maybe go out for a drink or something to celebrate with me. xx

Waiting for the reply makes me wish, for the very first time, that Leon and I communicated via WhatsApp like normal people. I’d kill for a little double blue tick right now. Then, when I get home, pasted carefully below my note on the fridge:

Am partial to the occasional moonwalk from kitchen to living room.

Can’t come for a drink unfortunately as I’m off hunting Johnny Whites. This one is in Brighton.

Then, just below, but in a different coloured pen:

Might be ridiculous idea but if you fancy a trip to the seaside you could come too?

I’m standing in the kitchen, facing the fridge, absolutely beaming.

I’d love to come! I totally love the seaside. It legitimises wearing a sunhat, for starters, or carrying a parasol, which are both wonderful things that I do NOT get to do enough. Where do you want to meet? xx

The response takes two days to come. I wonder if Leon is losing his nerve, but then, eventually, scribbled fast in blue ink:

Victoria station at half ten on Saturday. It’s a date! X





36


Leon

It’s a date? It’s a date?!

What has happened to me? Should have written see you there. Instead, I said it’s a date. Which it’s not. Probably. Also, am not a person who says things like it’s a date, even when it is.

Rub eyes and fidget on the spot. I’m under the departure boards at London Victoria station, along with a hundred or so other people, but while they’re all staring up at the boards, I’m keeping my eyes on the exit from the underground. Wonder if Tiffy will recognise me when I’ve got clothes on. On that point: it’s a freakishly warm day for September. Should not have worn jeans.

Check directions from Brighton station are loaded up on my phone. Check time. Check train platform. Fidget some more.

When she finally appears, there’s no danger of missing her. She’s in a canary yellow jacket and tight trousers; her orange-red hair is thrown over her shoulders and bounces as she walks. She’s also taller than most of the people streaming all around her, and is wearing yellow sandals with a heel, giving her an extra few inches on the general population.