Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

‘He loves you! That man is still in love with you!’

‘Calm down, Rachel,’ I tell her, though my heart is currently making an attempt at a getaway via my throat. I feel as if I’m choking and breathing too much all at the same time.

‘Can you text back and tell him that comments like that are the reason womankind cares so much about their measurements? And that by declaring that “most girls would hate that”, he is perpetuating the female body image problem, and setting women up against one another, which is one of the greatest problems feminism faces to this day?’

I narrow my eyes at her, and she flashes me a big grin. ‘Or you could just say, “Thanks, come over and show me how special I am all night long”?’

‘Ugh. I don’t know why I talk to you.’

‘It’s me or Martin,’ she points out, gathering up the layouts. ‘I’ll take in these changes. You go get your man back, all right?’

‘No,’ Gerty says immediately. ‘Do not text him that. He is scum of the earth who treated you like shit, tried to isolate you from your friends, and almost certainly cheated on you. He does not deserve a text of this niceness.’

There is a pause.

‘What made you want to reply with that message, Tiffy?’ Mo asks, as if he’s translating for Gerty.

‘I just . . . wanted to talk to him.’ My voice is very small. The tiredness is starting to eat away at me; I’m curled up on my beanbag with a hot chocolate, and Mo and Gerty are staring down at me from the sofa, their faces a picture of concern (actually, Gerty’s isn’t — she just looks angry).

Gerty reads my draft message out again. ‘ Hi Justin. So good to hear from you. I’m just sorry we didn’t get to catch up properly, despite being on the same cruise ship! And then two kisses.’

‘He did two kisses,’ I say a little defensively.

‘The kisses are last on my list of things to change about that message,’ Gerty says.

‘Are you sure you want to start up contact with Justin again at all, Tiffy? You seem a lot better in yourself since you’ve moved out of his flat,’ Mo says. ‘I wonder if that might not be a coincidence.’ He sighs when I don’t say anything. ‘I know you find it hard to think badly of him, Tiffy, but whatever excuses you can give him for everything else, even you can’t ignore the fact that he left you for another woman.’

I flinch.

‘Sorry. But he did, and even if he’s left her, which we don’t have any evidence he has, he still went off with her. You can’t reason that away or convince yourself you’ve imagined it, because you’ve met Patricia. Look back at that Facebook message. Remember how it felt when he turned up with her at the flat.’

Ugh. Why do people keep saying things I don’t want to hear? I miss Rachel.

‘What do you think he’s doing , Tiffy?’ Mo asks. He’s pushing so hard all of a sudden — it’s making me squirm.

‘Being friendly. Trying to get in touch again.’

‘He’s not asked to meet up,’ Mo points out.

‘And the look he gave you was more than friendly, by the sounds of it,’ Gerty says.

‘I . . .’ It’s true. It wasn’t a hey, I’ve missed you so much, I wish we could talk again look. But it was . . . something. It’s true I can’t ignore the fiancée, but I can’t ignore that look either. What did it mean? If he wanted to — if he wanted to get back together . . .

‘Would you?’ Gerty asks.

‘Would I what?’ I ask, buying myself time.

She doesn’t answer. She knows my game.

I think about how miserable I’ve been these last few months, how bleak it was to say goodbye to his flat. How many times I’ve looked Patricia up on Facebook and cried on to my laptop keyboard until I got a bit worried about electrocution.

I was so lucky to have him. Justin was always so . . . fun. Everything was a whirlwind; we’d be flying from country to country, trying everything, staying up until four in the morning and climbing on to the roof to watch the sunrise. Yes, we fought a lot and I made a lot of mistakes in that relationship, but mostly I’d just felt so lucky to be with him. Without him I feel . . . lost.

‘I don’t know,’ I say. ‘But a big part of me wants to.’

‘Don’t worry,’ Gerty says, standing up smartly and patting me on the head, ‘we won’t let you.’

Hi Leon,

All right, fine — the truth is, I panic-bake. When I’m sad or things are difficult, baking is my go-to. And what of it? I turn my negativity into delicious, calorific goodness. As long as you can’t taste traces of my misery in the cake mix, I don’t think you should be questioning why I have been baking every night this week.

Which, as it happens, is because my ex-boyfriend turned up on my cruise ship* and gave me the eye and then buggered off. So now I’m all muddled. He sent me this sweet text about how special I was, but I didn’t text back. I wanted to, but my friends talked me out of it. They’re annoying, and usually right about stuff.

Anyway, that’s why you’ve had so much cake.

Tiffy x

*Not my cruise ship. No offence, but I wouldn’t be sharing a bedroom with you if I was the sort of person who owned a cruise ship. I’d be living in a Scottish castle with technicolour turrets.

Hi Tiffy,

Sorry to hear about your ex. Guessing from your friends’ reactions that they don’t think he’s good for you — is that what you think?

I’m Team Ex if it means cake.

Hi Leon,

I don’t know — I’ve not really thought about it like that, actually. My kneejerk reaction is yeah, he’s good for me. But then, I don’t know. We were very up and down, one of those couples everyone’s always talking about (we’ve broken up and got back together a few times before). It’s easy to remember the happy times — and there were tons of them, and they were awesome — but I guess since we broke up I’ve only remembered those. So I know that being with him was fun. But was it good for me? Ugh. I don’t know.

Hence the Victoria sandwich with homemade jam.

On a large ring-bound printout of a book, titled Built: My Amazing Journey from Bricklayer to High-End Interior Designer :

Be honest — picked this up off table as thought it sounded hilariously rubbish. Couldn’t put it down. Didn’t get to sleep until noon. Is this man your ex? If not, can I marry him?

Hey Leon,

I’m so glad you enjoyed the book! My beautiful bricklayer-turned-designer is not in fact my ex, and yes, he is much more likely to want to marry you than me. I imagine Kay would have opinions on the subject, though.

Kay says am not allowed to marry beautiful bricklayer-turned-designer. Shame. She says hi.

Good to catch her yesterday! She says I’m making you fat with all the cake. She made me promise to channel my emotional turmoil into healthier options from now on, so I made us carob and date brownies. Sorry, they’re totally disgusting.

I’m moving this Post-it on to Wuthering Heights now as I need to take Built back to the office! x

On cupboard above kitchen bin:

When is our bin day again?

Is this a joke? I’ve lived here for five weeks! You’ve lived here for years! How can you be asking me when bin day is?!

. . . but yes, it was yesterday, and we forgot. x

Oh, thought so . . . Can never remember if it’s Tuesday or Thursday. It’s a days-beginning-with-T thing. Difficult.