The Flatshare(83)

‘And finally,’ Katherin says grandly, ‘there are two people who I just had to save until last.’

Well, that can’t be me. It’ll be her mum and dad or something. Rachel shoots me a disappointed look, and then returns her attention to Tasha and her boyfriend, who are filming everything with quiet concentration on their faces.

‘Two people without whom this book would never have happened,’ Katherin goes on. ‘These two have worked so hard to make Crochet Your Way possible. And, even better than that, they believed in me from the very start – long before I was lucky enough to gather crowds this large for my events.’

Rachel and I turn to stare at one another.

‘It won’t be me,’ Rachel whispers, suddenly looking very nervous. ‘She doesn’t even remember my name most of the time.’

‘Tiffy and Rachel have been editor and designer on my books for the last three years, and they are the reason for my success,’ Katherin says grandly. The crowd applauds. ‘I cannot thank them enough for making my book the best it can possibly be – and the most beautiful it can possibly be. Rachel! Tiffy! Will you get up here please? I have something for you both.’

We gawp at one another. I think Rachel might be hyperventilating. I have never regretted an outfit choice more than I do now. I have to get up onstage in front of one thousand people, wearing something that only just covers my nipples.

But as we stumble our way to the stage – which really does take quite some time, we weren’t very near the front – I can’t help noticing Katherin smiling down from her giant screens. In fact, she almost looks a little teary. God. I feel like a bit of a fraud. I mean, I have worked pretty much full-time on Katherin’s book for the last few months, but I also complained about it a lot, and didn’t actually pay her very much to begin with.

I’m onstage before I’ve really registered what’s happening. Katherin kisses me on the cheek and hands me an enormous bouquet of lilies.

‘Thought I’d forgotten you two, didn’t you?’ she whispers in my ear, with a cheeky smile. ‘The fame’s not gone quite that far to my head yet.’

The crowd is clapping, and the sound echoes down from the roof until I can’t tell where it’s coming from. I smile, hoping that sheer willpower will be sufficient adhesive for the top of my dress. The lights are so bright when you’re up here – they’re like starbursts on the insides of my eyes every time I blink, and everything is either very white and shiny or black and shadowy, like someone’s messed with the contrast.

I think that’s why I don’t really notice the commotion until it reaches the front of the crowd, trembling its way through the throng, sending heads turning and people crying out as they stumble as though they’ve been pushed. Eventually a figure shoves its way through and vaults on to the stage.

I can’t really see properly, eyes burned with all the lights, lily heads bobbing in front of me as I try to get a good hand-hold on the bouquet of flowers and wonder how I’m going to get down off the stage in these shoes without being able to use the handrail.

I recognise the voice, though. And once I’ve registered that, everything else drops away.

‘Can I have the mic?’ says Justin, because of course, implausibly, impossibly, the figure pushing his way through the crowd was his. ‘I have something I want to say.’

Katherin’s passed him the mic before she’s even thought about it. She glances at me at the last moment, frowning, but it’s already in Justin’s hand. That’s Justin: he asks, he gets.

He turns to face me.

‘Tiffy Moore,’ he says, ‘look at me.’

He’s right – I’m not looking at him. As though he is holding me on strings, my head snaps around and my eyes meet his. There he is. Square jaw, perfectly trimmed beard, strong shoulders beneath a tuxedo jacket. Eyes soft and trained on my face as if I’m the only girl in the room. You can’t see a trace of the man I have been talking about in counselling, the one who hurt me. This man is a dream come true.

‘Tiffy Moore,’ he begins again. Everything feels wrong, as if I’ve stepped into my Sliding Doors alternative world, and suddenly all trace of my other life, the one where I didn’t need or want Justin, is threatening to desert me. ‘I have been lost without you.’

There’s a pause. A lurching, sickening, echoing silence, like the long raw note in your ears when the music stops.

Then Justin drops down on one knee.

All at once I am aware of the crowd’s reaction – they coo and ahh – and I can see the faces onstage around me, Rachel’s twisted in shock, Katherin’s mouth open. I desperately want to run away, though I suspect that even if I could muster the strength, my legs would be too frozen to do everything required of them. It’s as if the whole lot of us onstage are performing some sort of tableau.

‘Please,’ I begin. Why have I started by pleading? I try the sentence again, but he doesn’t let me.

‘You’re the woman I am meant to be with,’ he says. His voice is gentle but carries well with the microphone. ‘I know that now. I can’t believe I ever lost faith in us. You’re everything I could possibly want and more.’ He tilts his head, a gesture I used to find irresistible. ‘I know I don’t deserve you, I know you’re far too good for me, but . . .’