The Flatshare(87)

Me: We won’t get a verdict over the weekend, will we?

Gerty: No, it’ll be next week. I’ll call when— Me: Thanks.

And I’m gone.

*

Walk and walk. Can’t cry, am just dry-throated and aching-eyed. I’m sure that some of this is fear about Richie, but all I can think about is Justin, arms out, yelling ‘She said yes’ to the whooping crowd.

Play out every scene. The endless notes, Brighton, the night eating tiffin together on the sofa, the trip to Holly’s party, kissing against the Aga. My gut twists at the memory of how her body would go cold when she thought of him, but then I harden myself. Don’t want to feel sorry for her. For now, just want to feel betrayed.

Can’t help it, though. Can’t stop thinking of the way her knees would shake.

Ah, there we go. There’s the tears. Knew they’d turn up eventually.





63


Tiffy

The smell of lilies is suffocating. Mo’s holding the bouquet beside me as we huddle there in the darkness, the blooms pressing close to my dress, staining the fabric with pollen. As I look down at the marks on the silk I notice I’m shaking so much the full skirt of my dress is quivering.

I don’t remember exactly what Justin said as he left. In fact, I already feel like I don’t remember a lot of the conversation that just happened. Perhaps it was all a surreal daydream, and I’m actually still standing out there in the crowd, wondering if Katherin will mention me in her thank-you speech, and whether those little roll things on that canapé tray are duck or chicken.

‘What . . . what if he’s still right there?’ I whisper to Rachel, pointing towards the black curtains Justin left through.

‘Mo, hold this,’ Rachel says. I think ‘this’ is referring to me. She disappears through to the backstage area, while onstage Katherin says goodbye to the audience to resounding applause.

Mo dutifully holds my elbow. ‘You’re OK,’ he whispers. He doesn’t say anything else, he just does one of those hug-like sort of silences that I love so much. In the world on the other side of these dark curtains the crowd is still clapping; muffled, here, the sound is like heavy rain on tarmac.

‘You really can’t be back here,’ the sound guy insists in exasperation as Rachel re-enters. He takes a step backwards when she turns to look at him. I don’t blame him. Rachel has her battle face on, and she looks bloody terrifying.

Rachel sweeps past him without answering, lifting her skirts to step over the cables. ‘No crazy ex in sight,’ she tells me, returning to my side.

Katherin bundles in suddenly from the stage; she almost walks into Mo.

‘Gosh,’ she says, ‘that was all rather dramatic, wasn’t it?’ She pats me in a motherly sort of way. ‘Are you all right? I’m assuming that fellow was . . .’

‘Tiffy’s stalker ex-boyfriend,’ Rachel supplies. ‘And speaking of stalking – I think we need to have a few words with Martin . . .’

‘Not now,’ I beg, grabbing hold of Rachel’s arm. ‘Just stay with me for a minute, all right?’

Her face softens. ‘Fine. Permission to hang him by the testicles at some later time?’

‘Granted. Also, eww.’

‘I can’t believe he’s been telling that . . . that scumbag where you are all the time. You should press charges, Tiffy.’

‘You should certainly file for a restraining order,’ Mo says quietly.

‘Against Martin? Might make work awkward,’ I say weakly.

Mo just looks at me. ‘You know who I meant.’

‘Can we leave this . . . dark . . . curtain-room now?’ I ask.

‘Good idea,’ says Katherin. Discreetly, out of Rachel’s sight, the sound guy nods and rolls his eyes. ‘I’d better go and mingle, but why don’t you lot take my limo?’

‘I beg your pardon?’ Rachel says, staring at her.

Katherin looks sheepish. ‘It wasn’t my idea. The Butterfingers PR team got it for me. It’s just sitting outside. You can take it, I can’t be seen dead getting driven around in one of those, they’d never let me back into the Old Socialists’ Club.’

‘Thanks,’ Mo says, and I briefly surface from the fog of panic to marvel at the thought that the head of PR voluntarily shelled out for a limousine. She is infamously tight on budget.

‘So now we just need to get out. Through the crowd,’ Rachel says, her mouth set in a grim line.

‘First, though, you need to call the police and report Justin for harassment,’ Mo tells me. ‘And you need to tell them everything. All the other times, the flowers, Martin . . .’

I let out a half groan, half whimper. Mo rubs my back.

‘Tiffy, do it,’ Rachel says, handing me her phone.

*

I move through the throng as though I’m somebody else. People keep patting me on the back and smiling and calling to me. At first I try to tell everyone in turn – ‘I didn’t say yes, I’m not getting married, he’s not my boyfriend’ – but either they can’t or they don’t want to hear me, so as we get closer to the door I stop trying.

Katherin’s limo is parked around the corner. It’s not just a limo – it’s a stretch limo. This is ridiculous. The head of PR must be about to ask Katherin to do something very important for very little money.