The Flatshare(63)

I swallow. Think of the feeling of Tiffy’s arm pressed against mine, how the hairs on my forearm stood on end at the merest brush of her skin. Stare at the ceiling. Realise belatedly that curtains are still open, streetlight streaming in to light our room in ribbons.

As I lie there, thinking, watching the light move across the floor, it comes to me slowly that I haven’t been in love with Kay for a very long time. Loved her, felt close to her, liked her being part of my life. That was safe and easy. But I had forgotten the blazing can’t-think-of-anything-else madness of these early days of meeting someone. There wasn’t even a spark of that left with Kay for the last . . . year, maybe, even?

I look across at Tiffy again, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and think back to what she’s told me about Justin. Notes made me feel he wasn’t especially good to her – why did she have to pay back that money all of a sudden? But nothing as alarming as what she’d said on the train. But then, as much as they were significant to me, they were just notes. Easier to lie to yourself in writing and for nobody to spot it.

Head is too full of panic, regret and whisky buzz for me to sleep. Stare up at the ceiling. Listen to Tiffy’s breath. Play out all the ways it could have gone: if we’d kissed and she’d stopped me, if we’d kissed and she hadn’t . . .

Best not to pursue that one. Thoughts becoming inappropriate.

Tiffy turns over, dragging the duvet with her. Half of my body is now exposed to night-time air. Can’t really begrudge her, though. Important that she gets warm after near-drowning.

She turns over again. More duvet. Now only my right arm has coverage. Absolutely cannot sleep like this.

I’ll have to just pull it back. Try it gently at first, but it’s like playing tug-of-war. The woman has the duvet in a vice-like grip. How can she be this strong when unconscious?

Going to have to opt for an assertive yank. Maybe she won’t wake up. Maybe she’ll just—

Tiffy: Oww!

She came with the duvet, rolling over, and I seem to have migrated towards the middle too, and now we’re face to face in the darkness, tantalisingly close.

My breath quickens. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes heavy with sleep.

I belatedly clock that she just said oww. The movement must have jerked her ankle.

Me: Sorry! Sorry!

Tiffy, confused: Did you try and pull the duvet off me?

Me: No! I was trying to get it back.

Tiffy blinks. I really want to kiss her. Could I kiss her now? She’s probably sobered up? But then she winces at the pain in her ankle and I feel like the world’s worst human being.

Tiffy: Get it back from where?

Me: Well, you sort of . . . stole it all.

Tiffy: Oh! Sorry. Next time, just wake me up and tell me. I’ll go right back to sleep.

Me: Oh, OK. Sure. Sorry.

Tiffy shoots me a half-amused, half-asleep look as she rolls back over, pulling the duvet up to her chin. I turn my head into the pillow. Don’t want her to see that I’m smiling like a love-struck teenager because she just said ‘next time’.





45


Tiffy

I wake to the daylight, which is much less pleasant than people make it sound. We didn’t close the curtains last night. I turn my face away from the window instinctively, rolling over and realising the right-hand side of the bed is empty.

At first it feels totally normal: I wake up every day in Leon’s bed without him there, after all. My sleepy brain goes, oh, of course – no, hang on, wait . . .

There’s a note on his pillow.

Gone out in search of breakfast. Back soon, bearing pastries x

I smile, and roll back the other way to check the time on my phone on the bedside table.

Shit. Twenty-seven missed calls, all from an unknown number.

What the—

I scramble out of bed, heart thumping, then yelp with pain as I knock my ankle. Fuck. I dial voicemail, a bad feeling blooming in the base of my stomach. It’s like . . . yesterday was too good to be true. Something terrible has happened – I knew I shouldn’t have—

‘Tiffy, are you all right? I saw Rachel’s status on Facebook. Did you nearly drown?’

It’s Justin. I go very still as the message rolls on.

‘Look, I know you’re in a mood with me at the moment. But I need to know you’re OK. Call me back.’

There are more like this. Twelve more, to be precise. I’d deleted his number after a particularly girl-power-inducing counselling session, so that’d be why the calls came from an unknown number. I think I knew who it was going to be, though. Nobody else has ever called me that many times before, but Justin has – usually after a fight, or a break-up.

‘Tiffy. This is ridiculous. If I knew where you were I’d come out there. Call me, all right?’

I shiver. This feels . . . I feel awful. Like yesterday with Leon should never have happened. Imagine if Justin knew where I’d been, and what I’d been doing?

I shake myself. I can feel that that doesn’t make sense even as I think it. I’m scaring myself again.

I tap out a text.

I’m fine, I lightly sprained my ankle. Please don’t call me any more.

Within moments, he replies.

Oh, thank God! What are you like without me there to look after you, hey? You made me so worried. I’ll be good and stick to your rules, no contact until October. Just know I’ll be thinking of you xx