The Flatshare(60)

*

I wake with a jolt that sends a shock of pain through my ankle. Crying out, I look around me. Floral wallpaper. Am I at home? Who’s that man in the chair by the door, reading . . .

‘Twilight?’

Leon blinks at me, putting the book down in his lap. ‘You went from unconscious to judgemental very quickly there.’

‘I did think this was a weird dream for a second,’ I say. ‘But my dream version of you would have much better book taste.’

‘It’s all Babs had to offer. How’re you feeling?’

I give the question some thought. My ankle is throbbing and my throat feels horribly sore and salty, but the ache in my head has disappeared. I can feel that my stomach muscles are going to be painful from all the coughing, though.

‘Much better, actually.’

He smiles at that. He is very cute when he smiles. When he’s serious his face is a little severe – fine-boned brow, cheekbones, jaw – but when he’s smiling, it’s all soft lips and dark eyes and white teeth.

I check the time on my phone, more to break eye contact than anything – I’m suddenly very aware that I’m lying in bed, hair mussed and bare legs only half hidden under the blankets.

‘Half six?’

‘You were sleepy.’

‘What have you been doing this whole time?’ I ask him. He shows me his bookmark – he’s nearly read the whole of Twilight.

‘This Bella Swan is a very popular lady, for one who declares herself to be so unattractive,’ he tells me. ‘Seems every single man in the book who isn’t her father is in love with her.’

I nod solemnly. ‘It’s very hard being Bella.’

‘Sparkly boyfriends can’t be easy,’ Leon agrees. ‘You want to try walking on that ankle of yours?’

‘Can’t I just stay in bed for ever?’

‘Dinner and more whisky if you can get downstairs.’

I shoot him a look. He looks back, perfectly placid, and I realise what an excellent nurse he must be.

‘Fine. But you need to look away first, so I can put my trousers on.’

He doesn’t say anything about the fact that he’s already seen way too much for turning around to be necessary; he just swivels in the armchair and reopens Twilight.





42


Leon

Definitely don’t get drunk. Am telling myself this on repeat, but still can’t stop sipping my drink. It’s a whisky on the rocks. Horrible. Or it would be if Babs hadn’t said it was on the house, which instantly made it much more appetising.

We’re at a rickety wooden table with a sea view and a teapot with a big fat candle stuck in it. Tiffy is delighted with teapot candle holder. Cue animated conversation with waiting staff about interior design (or ‘interiors’, as they call it).

Tiffy has her foot up and resting on a cushion, as per Socha’s orders. The other foot is now up too – she’s basically horizontal at the table, hair thrown back and blazing against the sunset over the sea. She’s like a Renaissance painting. Whisky has painted the colour back in her cheeks and brought a slight flush to the skin of her chest, which I can’t stop looking at whenever her attention is elsewhere.

Have barely thought about anything but her all day, even before all the drowning started. Mr Prior’s search for Johnny White has shifted into the background – last week that project was what Kay would call my ‘fixation’. Now it feels like something I want because I’ve shared it with Tiffy.

She’s telling me about her parents. Every so often she tips her head back, throws her hair further over the back of her chair, half closes her eyes.

Tiffy: Aromatherapy is the only one that’s stuck. Mum did candle-making for a while, but there’s no money in that, and after a while she just sort of snapped and declared that she was buying the ones from Poundland again and nobody was allowed to tell her they told her so. Then she went through a really weird phase where she got into seances.

That snaps me out of staring at her.

Me: Seances?

Tiffy: Yeah, you know, when you sit around a table and try to talk to dead people?

Waiter appears at Tiffy’s foot’s chair. Looks at it, mildly puzzled, but doesn’t comment. You get the impression they’re used to all sorts here, including bedraggled people with their feet up as they eat.

Waiter: Would you like a pudding?

Tiffy: Oh, no, I’m stuffed, thanks.

Waiter: Babs says it’s on the house.

Tiffy, without pause: Sticky toffee pudding, please.

Me: Same here.

Tiffy: All this free stuff. It’s like a dream come true. I should drown more often.

Me: Please don’t.

She lifts her head to look at me properly, her eyes a little sleepy, and holds my gaze for a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary.

Clear throat. Swallow. Flounder for subject.

Me: Your mum did seances?

Tiffy: Oh, yeah. So for a couple of years while I was at secondary school I’d come home to find all the curtains drawn and a bunch of people saying, ‘Please make yourself known’, and ‘Knock once for yes, twice for no’. I reckon at least sixty per cent of the visitations were actually just me getting home and chucking my bag in the cupboard under the stairs.

Me: So what was after seances?