Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

‘Almost certainly,’ Mo says. ‘That seems to be Justin’s way. But . . . are you sure you want him to?’

‘I’d like him to talk to me. Or at least acknowledge me. I don’t know where his head is at. He seemed so mad at me about the flat, but then that message after I saw him on the cruise ship was really sweet, so . . . I don’t know. I want him to call. Ugh.’ I clench my eyes shut. ‘Why is that?’

‘Maybe you spent a lot of time being told you couldn’t manage without him,’ Mo says gently. ‘That would explain why you want him back, even when you don’t want him.’

I flounder around looking for a change of subject. The latest episode of Sherlock ? The new assistant at work? But I find I don’t even have the energy to be diverting.

Mo waits quietly. ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I mean, have you thought about dating anyone else?’

‘I could date someone else,’ I protest.

‘Hmm.’ He sighs. ‘How did that look on the cruise ship really make you feel, Tiffy?’

‘I don’t know. It was ages ago now. I guess . . . it was kind of . . . sexy? And nice to be wanted?’

‘You weren’t afraid?’

‘What?’

‘Did you feel afraid? Did the look make you feel smaller?’

I frown. ‘Mo, give it a rest. It was just a look. He definitely wasn’t trying to scare me — besides, I rang you to talk about whether he’ll ever call me, and thanks, you made me feel a bit better about that, so let’s draw the line there.’

For a long while there’s silence at the other end of the phone. I’m a little shaken despite myself.

‘That relationship took its toll on you, Tiffy,’ Mo says gently. ‘He made you miserable.’

I shake my head. I mean, I know me and Justin argued, but we always made up, and things only got more romantic after a fight, so it didn’t really count. It wasn’t like when other couples argued — it was all just part of the beautiful, crazy rollercoaster that was our relationship.

‘It’ll all sink in eventually, Tiff,’ Mo says. ‘When it does, you just get on the phone to me, OK?’

I nod, not really sure what I’m agreeing to. From my vantage point I’ve just spotted the perfect distraction from how I’m feeling right now: the bag of scarves under Leon’s bed. The one I found on my first night here, which convinced me that Leon was probably some kind of serial killer. There’s a note on them which I’m sure wasn’t there when I looked at them before — it says FOR CHARITY SHOP .

‘Thanks, Mo,’ I say into the phone. ‘See you Sunday for coffee.’ I hang up, already looking around for a pen.

Hey,

OK, sorry for snooping under (y)our bed. I get that that’s definitely unacceptable. But these scarves are INCREDIBLE. As in, designer incredible. And I know we’ve never talked about this or anything, but I’m guessing that if you’re letting a random stranger (me) sleep in your bed then you’re doing it because you’re short of cash, not because you’re a really nice man who feels bad about how hard it is to get a cheap flat in London.

So while I am ALL FOR giving old clothes to charity shops (after all, I buy most of my possessions from charity shops — people like me need people like you), I think you should consider selling these scarves. You’d probably get around £200 a pop.

If you feel like giving one 90% off to your lovely flatmate, I won’t object.

Tiffy x

PS Where did you get them all from, by the way? If you don’t mind me asking.

Arms out wide, legs akimbo. A stern-looking prison guard frisks me very enthusiastically. Suspect I fit her profile of person who may bring drugs or weapons into visiting hall. Imagine her flicking through her mental checklist. Gender: Male. Race: Indeterminate, but a bit browner than would be preferable. Age: Young enough not to know better. Appearance: Scruffy.

Try to smile in a non-threatening, good-citizen sort of way. Probably comes across as cocky, on reflection. Begin to feel slightly queasy, the reality of this place seeping in despite the efforts I have made to pointedly ignore rolls of barbed wire on top of thick steel fences, windowless buildings, aggressive signs about consequences of smuggling drugs into prisons. Despite having done this at least once a month since November.

The walk from security to the visiting hall is perhaps the worst part. It involves a maze of concrete and barbed wire, and all the way you are ferried by different prison guards, taking their key chains from their hips for gates and doors that need locking behind you before you can even take a step towards the next one. It’s a beautiful spring day; the sky is just visible above the wires, tauntingly blue.

Visiting hall is better. Kids toddle between tables, or get lifted overhead, squealing, by muscly dads. Prisoners wear bright-coloured bibs to differentiate them from the rest of us. Men in high-viz orange inch closer to visiting girlfriends than they’re strictly allowed to be, fingers wound tight. There’s more emotion here than at an airport arrivals lounge. Love Actually was missing a trick.

Sit at assigned table. Wait. When they bring Richie in, my stomach does a peculiar lurch, like it’s trying to turn inside out. He looks tired and unwashed, cheeks hollow, head hastily shaved. He’s in his only pair of jeans — won’t have wanted me to see him in the prison-issue joggers — but they’re too loose around the waist now. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

I get up and smile, stretching my arms out for a hug. Wait for him to come to me; can’t leave allocated area. Prison guards line the walls, watching closely, expressionless.

Richie, slapping me on the back: All right, brother, you’re looking good!

Me: You too.

Richie: Liar. I look like shit warmed up. Water’s been knocked out after some scene on E Wing — no idea when it’ll come back on, but until then, I wouldn’t recommend trying to use the toilets.

Me: Noted. How’re you doing?

Richie: Peachy. Have you heard anything from Sal?

Thought I could avoid that topic for at least one minute.

Me: Yeah. He’s sorry about those papers holding up the appeal, Richie. He’s working on it.

Richie’s face closes up.

Richie: I can’t keep waiting, Lee.

Me: You want me to try and find someone new, I’ll do it.

Glum silence. Richie knows as well as I do that this’ll probably slow things down even further.

Richie: Did he get the footage from the Aldi camera?

Did he even request the footage from the Aldi camera is the question. Am starting to doubt it, even though he told me he did. Rub back of neck, look down at shoes, wish harder than ever that Richie and I were anywhere but here.

Me: Not yet.

Richie: That’s the key, man, I’m telling you. That camera in Aldi will show them. They’ll see it’s not me.

Wish this was true. How high-res is this footage, though? How likely is it that it’ll be clear enough to counteract the witness identification?

We talk about the appeal case for almost the full hour. Just can’t get him off the topic. Forensics, overlooked evidence, always the CCTV. Hope, hope, hope.

Leave with shaking knees, take a cab to the station. Need sugar. Have some tiffin Tiffy made in bag; eat about three thousand calories of it as the train rolls through the countryside, flat field after flat field, taking me away from my brother and back to the place where everyone’s forgotten him.

Find bin-bag of scarves in centre of bedroom when I get home, with Tiffy’s note pasted on its side.

Mr Prior makes two-hundred-pound scarves? Doesn’t even take him very long! Ahhh. Think of all the times I turned down his offer of new scarf, hat, glove, or tea cosy. Could have been a billionaire by now.