The Flatshare(76)

I yank off Leon’s T-shirt and tug at the waistband of his jogging bottoms until he slips those off too. As I slide my body up against his he pauses for a moment.

‘OK?’ he asks hoarsely. I can see the control he’s taking to ask the question; I answer with another kiss. ‘Yes?’ he says, mouth against mine. ‘This means OK?’

‘Yes. Now stop talking,’ I tell him, and he does as he’s told.

We’re so close. I’m almost naked, he’s almost naked, my head is full of Leon. This is it. It’s happening. My inner, sexually frustrated Victorian almost weeps with gratitude as Leon pulls me towards him by the hips so I’m pressed up against him, his body back between my legs.

And then, there it is. The remembering.

I stiffen. He doesn’t clock it at first, and for three deeply horrible seconds his hands are still moving over my body, his lips still pressed hard against mine. It’s very hard to describe this feeling. Panic, perhaps, but I’m completely immobile and feel strangely passive. I’m frozen, trapped, and have the odd sensation that some crucial part of me has detached itself.

Leon’s hands slow, coming to a halt on either side of my face. He lifts my head gently to look at him.

‘Ah,’ he says. He disentangles himself from me just as I begin to shake all over.

I can’t seem to get that part of me back. I don’t know where this feeling came from – one moment I was about to have the sex I’d been fantasising over all week, and the next I was . . . remembering something. A body that wasn’t Leon’s, hands that were doing the same thing but I didn’t want them there.

‘You want space, or a hug?’ he asks simply, standing a foot away from me now.

‘Hug,’ I manage.

He gathers me to him, reaching for the heap of jumpers on the counter as he does so. He drapes one over my shoulder and cuddles me close, my head pressed against his chest. The only giveaway of how frustrated he must be feeling is the thud-thud of his heartbeat in my ear.

‘I’m sorry,’ I mutter into his chest.

‘You never should be that,’ he says. ‘Not sorry. OK?’

I smile shakily, pressing my lips to his skin. ‘OK.’





54


Leon

Am not usually an angry person. Am generally mild-mannered and hard to rile. It’s always me who stops Richie fighting (usually on behalf of a woman, who may or may not need any assistance). But now something primal seems to be happening, and it’s taking enormous effort to keep my body relaxed and movements gentle. Hostile posture and tenseness will not help Tiffy.

But I want to hurt him. Really. Don’t know what he did to Tiffy, what in particular triggered her this time, but whatever it was, it has hurt her so much she’s trembling all over like a kitten come in from the cold.

She surfaces, wiping her face.

Tiffy: Sorr— Umm. I mean. Hi.

Me: Hi. You want a tea?

She nods. Don’t want to let go of her, but holding on after she’s expecting me to is probably a bad plan. Dress again and head to kettle.

Tiffy: That was . . .

Wait. Kettle begins to boil, just a quiet rumble.

Tiffy: That was really horrible. I don’t even know what happened.

Me: Was it a new memory? Or something you’ve already talked through with the counsellor?

She shakes her head, frowning.

Tiffy: It wasn’t like a memory, it’s not like something came into my mind’s eye . . .

Me: More like muscle memory?

She looks up.

Tiffy: Yeah. Exactly.

Pour the teas. Open fridge for milk and pause. It’s filled with trays of little pink cupcakes iced with ‘F and J’.

Tiffy pads over to join me, sliding an arm around my waist.

Tiffy: Ooh. These must be for the wedding happening after we leave.

Me: How closely do you think they paid attention to the quantity?

Tiffy laughs. Not quite a full laugh, and a little wet with tears, but still good.

Tiffy: Probably very. Although there are so many.

Me: Too many. I’d estimate . . . three hundred.

Tiffy: Nobody invites three hundred people to their wedding. Unless they’re really famous, or Indian.

Me: Is it a famous Indian person’s wedding?

Tiffy: Lordy Lord Illustrator didn’t explicitly say so.

Pinch two cupcakes and give one to Tiffy. Her eyes are still a little pink from crying, but she’s smiling now, and eats the cupcake in almost one bite. Suspect she needs sugar.

We eat in silence for a while, moving to lean against Aga side by side.

Tiffy: So . . . in your professional opinion . . .

Me: As a palliative care nurse?

Tiffy: As a vaguely medical person . . .

Oh, no. These conversations never go well. People always assume they teach us all the medicine in the world at nursing school, and that we remember it five years later.

Tiffy: Am I going to freak out like this every time we’re about to have sex? Because that is literally the most depressing thought ever.

Me, carefully: I suspect not. May just take some time to work out triggers and how to avoid them until you feel safer.

She looks at me sharply.

Tiffy: I’m not . . . I don’t want you to think . . . he never, you know. Hurt me.

Would like to dispute that. Seems he has hurt her rather a lot. But it’s definitely not my place, so I just go and fetch her another cupcake and hold it up for her to bite.