The Flatshare(54)

37


Tiffy

I don’t understand what compelled me to go on about Justin like that. I’ve not mentioned anything about the counselling or the flashbacks in my notes to Leon – those Post-its make me warm and fuzzy, I’m not ruining them with Justin crap – but suddenly now I’m face-to-face with him it feels natural to talk to him about the things occupying my thoughts. He just has one of those non-judgemental faces that make you want to, you know . . . share.

We slip into silence as the train speeds through open countryside. I get the sense that Leon likes silence; it doesn’t feel as awkward as I would expect it to, more like this is his natural state. It’s strange, because when he talks, he’s really engaging, albeit in a quiet, intense sort of way.

He’s looking out of the window, squinting against the sunlight, so I sneak a chance to look at him. He’s a little scruffy, in a worn grey T-shirt with a cord necklace around his neck that has the look of something he hardly ever takes off. I wonder what its significance is. Leon doesn’t strike me as the type to wear accessories for anything other than sentimental reasons.

He catches me looking and meets my gaze. My stomach flutters. Suddenly the silence feels different.

‘How’s Mr Prior?’ I blurt.

Leon looks startled. ‘Mr Prior?’

‘Yeah. My life-saving knitter. The last time I spoke to him was at the hospice.’ I give him a wry smile. ‘When you were busy avoiding me.’

‘Ah.’ He rubs the back of his neck, looking down, then shoots me a little lopsided grin. It’s so quick I almost miss it. ‘Wasn’t my finest moment.’

‘Mmm.’ I pull a mock stern face. ‘Do I scare you, is that it?’

‘A bit.’

‘A bit! Why?’

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and pushes his hair back from his face. I think he’s nervous-fidgeting. It’s absolutely adorable.

‘You’re very . . .’ He waves a hand.

‘Loud? Brash? Larger than life?’

He winces. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, not that.’

I wait.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘have you ever looked forward to reading a book so much you can’t actually start it?’

‘Oh, totally. All the time – if I had a grain of self-restraint I never would’ve been able to read the last Harry Potter book. The anticipation was painful. You know, like, what if it doesn’t live up to the last ones? What if it’s not what I hope it’ll be?’

‘Right, well.’ He waves a hand at me. ‘I think it might have been . . . like that.’

‘But with me?’

‘Yeah. With you.’

I look down at my hands in my lap, trying very hard not to smile.

‘As for Mr Prior . . .’ Leon’s talking out of the window now. ‘I’m sorry. Can’t really talk about a patient.’

‘Oh, of course. Well, I hope we find his Johnny White. Mr Prior is lovely. He deserves a happy ending.’

As we rumble on, slipping in and out of comfortable conversation, I sneak more discreet little looks at Leon across the table. At one point our eyes meet in the window’s glass, and we both look away fast, like we’ve seen something we shouldn’t have.

I’m just about feeling that all awkwardness has departed when we arrive at Brighton, but then he gets up to grab his rucksack from the overhead space and he’s suddenly standing, with his T-shirt riding up to show the dark band of his Calvin Klein boxers above his jeans, and I’m back to not knowing what to do with myself. I attempt to find the table very interesting.

When we reach Brighton there’s a weak September sun shining; it’s not quite autumn yet. From outside the station I can see streets of white town houses stretching out ahead of us, dotted with the sorts of pubs and cafés that everyone in London would overpay to have on their street corner.

Leon has arranged to meet Mr White on the pier. When we reach the seafront I let out an involuntary squeal of excitement. The pier stretches out into the grey-blue sea like this is a painting of one of those old seaside resorts where Victorians used to hang out in ridiculous knee-length swimwear. It’s perfect. I reach into my bag and get out my big, floppy, 1950s sunhat, yanking it on to my head.

Leon looks at me with amusement.

‘What a hat,’ he says.

‘What a day,’ I counter, spreading my arms out wide. ‘No other headwear would do it justice.’

He grins. ‘To the pier?’

My hat bobs as I nod. ‘To the pier!’





38


Leon

We spot Johnny White without any difficulty. Very old man sitting on end of pier. Literally, right on the end, sitting on the railings with feet dangling over – I’m surprised nobody has had him moved. It looks pretty dangerous.

Tiffy, on the other hand, is not worried. She bounces, sunhat flapping.

Tiffy: Look! A Johnny White of my very own! I bet he’s the real deal. I can just tell.

Me: Impossible. You can’t win on first go.

But have to admit, Brighton-dweller is a better bet than weed-smoking Midlander was.

Tiffy is over there before I’ve had time to collect my thoughts or consider the safest means of approaching; she climbs on to the railings to join him.