The Flatshare(77)

Me: I’m not presuming anything. Just want you to feel better.

Tiffy stares at me, then, from nowhere, pokes me in the cheek.

Me, with a yelp: Hey!

Cheek-poke is a lot more startling than I’d realised when I did it to her earlier.

Tiffy: You’re not real, are you? You’re implausibly nice.

Me: Am not. I’m a grumpy old man who dislikes most people.

Tiffy: Most?

Me: There are a small number of exceptions.

Tiffy: How do you choose them? The exceptions?

Shrug, uncomfortable.

Tiffy: Really. Seriously. Why me?

Me: Umm. Well. I suppose . . . There are some people I just feel comfortable with. Not many. But you were one before I even met you.

Tiffy looks at me, head tilted, eyes holding my gaze for so long I twist on the spot, itching to drop the subject. Eventually she leans forward and kisses me slowly, tasting of icing.

Tiffy: I’ll be worth the wait. You’ll see.

As if I’d ever doubted it.





55


Tiffy

I lean back in my desk chair, taking my eyes off the screen. I’ve been staring at it for way too long – the castle knitwear photos have been picked up on Daily Mail’s Femail, and it’s weird. Katherin is officially a celebrity. I can’t believe how quickly this has happened, and also can’t stop reading comments from other women about how hot Leon is in those photos. I obviously already know he’s hot, but still, it’s simultaneously horrible and kind of good to get external validation.

I wonder how he’s feeling about it. I’m hoping he’s too technologically incapable to scroll to the comments section on the Daily Mail, because some of the comments are really quite X-rated. There’s obviously a few racist ones in there as well, this being a comments section on the Internet, and everything briefly descends into an argument about global warming being a liberalist conspiracy, and before I know it I have circled my way into the plughole of the Internet and wasted half an hour following people’s outlandish opinions on whether Trump is a neo-Nazi and whether Leon’s ears are too big.

I go to counselling after work. As per usual Lucie sits in borderline uncomfortable silence for a while, and then, seemingly spontan-eously, I start telling her awful, painful stuff I mostly can’t even bear to think about. How cleverly Justin made me believe I had a bad memory, so he could always say I’d misremembered things. How brazenly he convinced me I’d thrown a bunch of clothes out when really he’d just been chucking stuff he didn’t like me wearing to the back of the wardrobe.

How subtly he turned sex into something I owed him, even when he’d made me so sad I couldn’t think straight.

It’s all business as usual for Lucie, though. She just nods. Or tilts her head. Or sometimes – in extreme cases, when I’ve said something out loud that almost physically hurts to utter – she says a supportive ‘yes’.

This time she asks me at the end of the session how I think I’m getting on. I start with the usual stuff – ‘oh, this has been so great, honestly, thanks so much’, like when the hairdresser asks if you like the cut they’ve just given you. But Lucie just stares at me for a while, so then I think, how actually am I getting on? A couple of months ago I couldn’t face saying no to Justin taking me out for a drink. I was expending most of my mental energy keeping memories at bay. I wasn’t even willing to acknowledge that he’d abused me. And now, here I am, talking to Someone Who isn’t Mo about how what happened with Justin wasn’t my fault, and actually believing it.

I listen to a lot of Kelly Clarkson on my way home on the tube. Facing my reflection in the glass, I throw my shoulders back and meet my own gaze, just like that first train journey from Justin’s place to the flat. Yes, I’m a little teary-eyed from counselling, but this time I’m not wearing sunglasses.

You know what? I am extremely proud of myself.

*

The question of how Leon feels about the photos in Femail is answered on my return to the flat. He has left this note for me on the fridge:

Didn’t cook dinner. Too famous for that now.

(i.e. got Deliveroo to celebrate Katherin’s/your success. Delicious Thai food in fridge for you.) x

Well, it seems he’s not let it get to his head, so that’s something. I stick the Thai food in the microwave, humming ‘Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)’, and reach for a pen while it whirs. Leon’s working until Wednesday, then off to his mum’s; I won’t see him in person before Richie’s trial on Friday. He’s keeping busy – he’s off on his last Johnny White visit tomorrow morning, planning on taking the earliest train he can to Cardiff and getting back in time for a nap before he’s back to work. I’d point out that that’s not enough sleep for him to function on, but I can tell he’s not sleeping well even when he’s here, so maybe it’s better for him to be out and about. He’s finally finished The Bell Jar, a sure sign he’s awake in the daytime, and seems to be surviving on caffeine mostly – at this point in the month we are not usually running this low on instant coffee.

I keep it brief.

I’m glad you’ve taken well to your new life of celebrity. I, on the other hand, am now embarrassingly jealous of about a hundred women on the Internet who think you are ‘so yummy lol’, and have decided I much prefer it when it’s just me that gets to stare at you.