Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

She reaches for a drink from the tray of one of those shot ladies who wanders around asking you to overpay for things, and hands the woman some cash.

‘“Not enough” sort of drunk, then,’ she says, giving me the drink. ‘You may be an editor, but no drunk girl trots out the word “analytical”.’

‘Assistant editor,’ I remind her, and knock back the drink. Jägerbomb. It’s strange how something so fundamentally disgusting, whose very aftertaste makes you want to vomit the next day, can taste delicious on a dance floor.

Rachel plies me with drink all night and flirts with every wingman in sight, chucking all attractive men in my direction. Whatever she says, I am plenty tipsy enough, so I don’t think much of it — she’s just being an excellent friend. The night spins by in a mass of dancers and brightly coloured drinks.

It is only when Mo and Gerty arrive that I start to wonder what this night out is all about.

Mo has the look of a man who was summoned on short notice. His beard is a little skewwhiff, like he slept on it funny, and he’s in a worn-out T-shirt I think I remember from uni — though it’s a little tighter on him now. Gerty looks haughtily beautiful, as usual, with no make-up on, and her hair yanked up in a ballerina topknot; it’s hard to tell if she was planning to come because she never wears make-up, and dresses impeccably all the time anyway. She could well have just pulled on a slightly higher pair of heels to go with her skinny jeans last minute.

They’re making their way across the dance floor. My suspicion that Mo was not planning to be here is confirmed — he’s not dancing. Take Mo to a club and there will always be dancing. So why have they turned up on my random Wednesday night out with Rachel? They don’t even know her that well — only through the odd birthday drinks or housewarming parties. In fact, Gerty and Rachel have a low-level alpha-wolf feud going on, and when we do all get together they usually end up bickering.

Is it my birthday? I drunkenly wonder. Do I have exciting surprise news?

I turn to Rachel. ‘Wha—?’

‘Table,’ she says, pointing at the booths at the back of the club.

Gerty does a relatively good job of hiding her irritation at being redirected just when she’s battled her way through to the centre of the dance floor.

I’m getting bad vibes. I’m just at the happiest point of drunk, though, so I’m willing to suspend worried thoughts in the hope that they’re coming to tell me that I’ve won a four-week holiday to New Zealand or something.

But no.

‘Tiffy, I didn’t know how to tell you this,’ Rachel is saying, ‘so this was the best plan I could come up with. Get you happy drunk, remind you what flirting feels like, then call your support team.’ She reaches to take both my hands. ‘Tiffy. Justin is engaged.’

Conversation re flat not at all as predicted. Kay was unusually angry. Seemed upset at idea of someone else sleeping in my bed besides her? But she never comes round. Hates the dark-green walls and elderly neighbours — is part of her ‘you spend too much time with old people’ thing. We’re always at hers (light-grey walls, cool young neighbours).

Argument ends at weary impasse. She wants me to pull down ad and cancel Essex woman; I’m not changing my mind. It’s the best idea for getting easy cash every month that I’ve thought of, bar lottery winning, which cannot be factored in to financial planning. Do not want to go back to borrowing that £350. Kay was the one who said it: it wasn’t good for our relationship.

She’s come that far, so. She’ll come around.

Slow night. Holly couldn’t sleep; we played checkers. She lifts her fingers and dances them over the board like she’s weaving a magic spell before she touches a counter. Apparently it’s a mind game — makes the other player watch where you’re going instead of planning their next move. Where did a seven-year-old learn mind games?

Ask the question.

Holly: You’re quite naïve, Leon, aren’t you?

Pronounces it ‘knave’. Probably never said it out loud before, just read it in one of her books.

Me: I’m very worldly wise, thank you, Holly!

Gives me patronising look.

Holly: It’s OK, Leon. You’re just too nice. I bet people walk all over you like a doormat.

She picked that up from somewhere, definitely. Probably her father, who visits every other week in a sharp grey suit, bringing poorly chosen sweets and the sour smell of cigarette smoke.

Me: Being nice is a good thing. You can be strong and nice. You don’t have to be one or the other.

The patronising look again.

Holly: Look. It’s like how . . . Kay’s strong, you’re nice.

She spreads her hands, like, it’s the way of the world. Am startled. Didn’t know she knew Kay’s name.

Richie rings just as I get in. Have to sprint to get to the landline — I know it’ll be him, it only ever is — and hit head on low-hanging pendant light in kitchen. Least favourite thing about excellent flat.

Rub head. Close eyes. Listen closely to Richie’s voice for tremors and clues to how he really is, and just for hearing a real, living, breathing, still-OK Richie.

Richie: Tell me a good story.

Close eyes tighter. It’s not been a good weekend for him, then. Weekends are bad — they’re banged up for longer. I can tell he’s down from that accent, so peculiar to the two of us. Always part London, part County Cork, it’s more Irish when he’s sad.

I tell him about Holly. Her checkers skills. Her accusations of knavety. Richie listens, and then:

Richie: Is she going to die?

It’s difficult. People struggle to see it’s not about whether she’s going to die — palliative care isn’t just a place you go to slowly slip away. More people live and leave than die on our wards. Is about being comfortable for the duration of something necessary and painful. Making bad times easier.

Holly, though . . . she might die. She is very sick. Lovely, precocious, and very sick.

Me: Leukaemia statistics are pretty good for kids her age.

Richie: I don’t want statistics, man. I want a good story.

I smile, reminded of when we were kids, acting out the plot of Neighbours in the month when the TV broke. Richie’s always liked a good story.

Me: She’ll be fine. She’ll grow up to be a . . . coder. Professional coder. Using all her checkers skills to develop new digitally generated food that’ll stop anyone going hungry and put Bono out of work around Christmas times.

Richie laughs. Not much of one, but enough to ease the worried knot in my stomach.

Silence for a while. Companionable, maybe, or just an absence of suitably expressive words.

Richie: It’s hell in here, man.

The words hit like a punch in the gut. Too often this last year I’ve felt that connection in my stomach like a bunched fist. Always at times like this, when reality hits afresh after days of blocking it out.

Me: Appeal’s not far off. We’re getting there. Sal says—

Richie: Ey, Sal says he wants paying. I know the score, Lee. It can’t be done.

Voice heavy, slow, almost slurred.

Me: What is this? What, have you lost faith in your big brother? You used to tell me I’d be a billionaire!

I hear a reluctant smile.

Richie: You’ve given enough.

Never. That’s impossible. I will never give enough, not for this, though I’ve wished enough times that I could have swapped places to save him from it.

Me: I’ve got a scheme. A money-making scheme. You’re going to love it.

Scuffle.

Richie: Hey, man, ah, give me one sec—