The Flatshare(9)

The door buzzes and clicks out of the lock; I make my way inside. It’s very . . . brown. Brown carpet, biscuit-coloured walls. But that doesn’t really matter – it’s inside the flat that matters.

When I knock on the door of Flat 3 I find myself feeling genuinely nervous. No – borderline panicked. I’m really doing this, aren’t I? Considering sleeping in some random stranger’s bed? Actually leaving Justin’s flat?

Oh, God. Maybe Gerty was right and this is all just a bit too much. For a vertiginous moment I imagine going back to Justin’s, back to the comfort of that chrome-and-white flat, to the possibility of having him back. But the thought doesn’t feel quite as good as I imagined it would. Somehow – perhaps around 11 p.m. the Thursday before last – that flat started to look a little different, and so did I.

I know, in a vague, don’t-look-straight-at-it sort of way, that this is a good thing. I’ve got this far – I can’t let myself go back now.

I need to like this place. It’s my only option. So when someone answers the door who clearly isn’t Leon, I’m so in the mood to be accommodating that I just go with it. I don’t even act surprised.

‘Hi!’

‘Hello,’ says the woman at the door. She’s petite, with olive skin and one of those pixie haircuts that makes you look French if you’ve got a small enough head. I immediately feel enormous.

She does nothing to dispel this feeling. As I step into the flat, I can feel her looking me up and down. I try to take in the décor – ooh, dark-green wallpaper, looks genuine 1970s – but after a while the feel of her eyes on me starts to nag. I turn to meet her gaze head-on.

Oh. It’s the girlfriend. And her expression could not be more obvious: it says, I was worried you might be hot and try to steal my boyfriend from me while you make yourself at home in his bed, but now I’ve seen you and he’d never be attracted to you so yes! Come in!

She’s all smiles now. Fine, whatever – if this is what it takes to get this flat, no problem. She’s not going to belittle me out of this one. She has no idea how desperate I am.

‘I’m Kay,’ she says, holding out a hand. Her grip is firm. ‘Leon’s girlfriend.’

‘I figured.’ I smile to take the edge off it. ‘So nice to meet you. Is Leon in the . . .’

I lean my head into the bedroom. It’s that or the living room, which has the kitchen in the corner – there’s not really much more to the flat than this.

‘. . . bathroom?’ I try, on seeing the empty bedroom.

‘Leon’s stuck at work,’ says Kay, ushering me through to the living area.

It’s pretty minimalist and a little worn around the edges, but it’s clean, and I do love that 1970s wallpaper everywhere. I bet someone would pay ￡80 a roll for that if Farrow & Ball started selling it. There’s a low-hanging pendant light in the kitchen area that doesn’t quite match the décor but is sort of fabulous; the sofa is battered leather, the TV isn’t actually plugged in but looks relatively decent, and the carpet has been recently hoovered. This all looks promising.

Maybe this is going to be good. Maybe it’s going to be great. I flip through a quick montage of myself here, lazing about on the sofa, rustling something up in the kitchen, and suddenly the idea of having all this space to myself makes me want to bounce on the spot. I rein myself in just in time. Kay does not strike me as the spontaneous dancing sort.

‘So will I not . . . meet Leon?’ I ask, remembering Mo’s first rule of flatsharing with a wince.

‘Well, I suppose you might do eventually,’ Kay says. ‘But it’ll be me you speak to. I’m handling renting the place out for him. You’ll never be in at the same time – the flat will be yours from six in the evening until eight in the morning in the week, and over the whole weekend. It’s a six-month agreement for now. Is that OK with you?’

‘Yeah, that’s just what I need.’ I pause. ‘And . . . Leon won’t ever pop in unexpectedly? Out of his hours, or anything?’

‘Absolutely not,’ Kay says, with the air of a woman who plans to make sure of it. ‘From six p.m. until eight a.m., the flat is yours and yours alone.’

‘Great.’ I breathe out slowly, quieting the flutter of excitement in my stomach, and check the bathroom – you can always tell a place by its bathroom. All the appliances are a clean, bright white; there’s a dark-blue shower curtain, a few tidy bottles of mysterious manly-looking creams and liquids, and a scuffed but serviceable mirror. Excellent. ‘I’ll take it. If you’ll have me.’

I feel certain that she’ll say yes, if it really is her decision to make. I knew it as soon as she gave me that look in the hallway: whatever Leon’s criteria for a flatmate, Kay just has the one, and I’ve clearly ticked the ‘suitably unattractive’ box.

‘Wonderful,’ says Kay. ‘I’ll call Leon and let him know.’





6


Leon

Kay: She’s ideal.

Am doing some slow blinking on the bus. Delicious slow blinks which are really just short naps.

Me: Really? Not annoying?

Kay, sounding irritated: Does that matter? She’ll be clean and tidy and she can move in immediately. If you’re really determined to do this then you can’t expect much better than that.