The Flatshare(88)

‘Hi, excuse me?’ Rachel says to the limo driver through the window, in her best sweet-talking-the-barman voice. ‘Katherin said we can have this limo.’

A lengthy conversation ensues. As probably should be the case, the limo driver is not about to just take our word for it that Katherin has let us take the car. After a brief phone call to Katherin herself, and the return of Rachel’s battle face, we’re in – thank God. I’m shivering like crazy, even with Mo’s jacket over my shoulders.

Inside is even more ridiculous than outside. There are long sofas, a small bar, two television screens, and a sound system.

‘Fucking hell,’ Rachel says. ‘This is absurd. You’d think they could pay me more than minimum wage, wouldn’t you?’

We sit in silence for a while as the driver pulls away.

‘Well,’ Rachel goes on, ‘I think we can all agree today has taken an unexpected turn.’

For some reason that tips me over the edge. I cry into my hands, leaning my head back on to the plush grey upholstery and letting the sobs rack my body like I’m a little kid. Mo gives my arm a compassionate squeeze.

There’s a buzzing noise.

‘Everyone all right back there?’ calls the driver. ‘Sounds like someone’s having an asthma attack!’

‘Everything’s fine!’ Rachel calls, as I wail and wheeze, struggling to breathe through the tears. ‘My friend has just been cornered by her crazy ex-boyfriend in front of a crowd of a thousand people and manipulated into looking like she would marry him, and now she is having a perfectly natural reaction.’

There’s a pause. ‘Crikey,’ says the driver. ‘Tissues are under the bar.’

*

When I get home I call Leon, but he doesn’t pick up. Beneath all the roaring blinding craziness of the day, I’m desperate to know more than he gave me in the last text: Things going well at court. How well? Is it over? When will Richie get a verdict?

I so badly want to speak to him. Specifically, I want to cuddle up against his shoulder and breathe in his gorgeous Leon smell and let him stroke the small of my back the way he does and then speak to him.

I can’t believe this. I can’t believe Justin. The fact that he put me in that position, in front of all those people . . . What did he think, that I’d just go along with it because it was what he wanted me to do?

Maybe I would have once, actually. God, that’s sickening.

The fact that he reached out to Martin to keep track of me takes the whole thing to a new level of disturbing – all those strange meetings that he made me feel crazy for thinking were anything other than coincidental. All carefully planned and calculated. But what was the point? If he wanted me, he had me. I was his – I would have done anything for him. Why did he push me so far, then keep trying to get me to come back? It’s just . . . so bizarre. So unnecessarily painful.

Rachel couldn’t come back to my flat with us – she’s babysitting her niece tonight, going from looking after one crying snotty mess to another – but Mo has promised me he’ll stay with me, which is so lovely of him. I feel a bit guilty, because the truth is, right now it’s Leon I want.

It almost surprises me how clear that thought is. I want Leon. I need him here with me, nervously fidgeting and lopsidedly smiling and effortlessly making everything feel brighter. After the madness of today, it strikes me with new force that if nice-scary is sometimes scary-scary as I learn to do this whole relationship thing again, so bloody what? If I give in to that fear, if I let it hold me back with Leon, then Justin really does win.

And Leon is so worth a bit of fear. He’s so worth it. I reach for my phone and call him again.





64


Leon

Three missed calls from Tiffy.

Can’t talk to her. Don’t want to hear her explain herself. I’m still walking, God knows where – maybe around in circles. I do seem to be seeing a lot of very similar Starbucks. It’s all poky and Dickensian, this part of London. Cobbles and pollution-stained brick, tiny narrow strips of sky overhead between grimy windows. You don’t have to walk far to end up in the shiny, pale blue world of the City, though. Turn a corner and find I’m face to face with myself, mirrored in the glass headquarters of some accountancy firm.

I look terrible. Exhausted and crumpled in this suit – suits have never looked good on me. I should have tried harder to smarten up; might have reflected badly on Richie. Already got Mam to contend with, whose idea of smart is slightly higher heeled knee-high boots.

I pause, surprised by the viciousness of that thought. Cruel and judgemental. I don’t like that my head could come up with it. I’ve come a long way to forgiving Mam – or I thought I had. But right now the very thought of her makes me angry.

I’m just an angry man today. Angry that I would settle for being happy just to have judges listening to my brother’s case, when he should never have been led in there by a prison officer in the first place. Angry that I was caught up worrying about showing Tiffy how I feel, and didn’t do it in time, and got outdone by a man who gives her nightmares, but certainly knows his way around a big romantic gesture. Nobody doubts how Justin feels now. No danger of that.

I’d really thought she wouldn’t go back to him. But then, you always think that, and they always do.

Look down at my phone: Tiffy’s name on my screen. She’s texted me. I can’t bear to open it, but can’t handle the temptation, so I turn my phone off.