Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

Muffled voices. My heart beats faster. When on the phone to him it’s easy to think he is somewhere safe and quiet, with only his voice and mine. But there he is, in the yard, with a queue behind him, having made the choice between using this half hour out of his prison cell to make a phone call or to have his only shot at a shower.

Richie: Got to go, Lee. Love you.

Dial tone.

Half eight on Saturday. Even leaving now, I’ll be late. And am not leaving now, evidently. Am changing dirty sheets on Dorsal Ward, according to Doctor Patel; according to the ward nurse on Coral Ward, I am taking blood from Mr Prior; according to Socha the junior doctor, I am helping her with the patient dying on Kelp Ward.

Socha wins. Call Kay as I run.

Kay, on picking up: You’re stuck at work, aren’t you?

Too out of breath for proper explanation. Wards too far apart for emergency situations. Hospice board of trustees should invest in shorter corridors.

Kay: It’s OK. I’ll meet that girl for you.

Stumble. Surprised. I’d planned to ask, obviously — that’s why I called Kay and not Essex woman herself, to cancel. But . . . was very easy .

Kay: Look, I don’t like this flatsharing plan, but I know you need the money, and I get it. However. If I’m going to feel OK about this, I think everything should go through me. I’ll meet this Tiffy person, I’ll handle the arrangements, and that way the random woman sleeping in your bed isn’t someone that you actually interact with. Then I don’t feel quite as weird about it, and you don’t have to deal with it, which, let’s be honest, you do not have time to do.

Pang of love. Could be stitch, of course, hard to be sure at this stage of relationship, but still.

Me: You . . . you sure?

Kay, firmly: Yes. This is the plan. And no working weekends. OK? Weekends are for me.

Seems fair.

Me: Thanks. Thank you. And — would you mind — tell her . . .

Kay: Yep, yep, tell her about the weird guy in Flat 5 and warn her about the foxes.

Definite love-pang.

Kay: I know you think I don’t listen, but I actually do.

Still a good minute’s running before I reach Kelp Ward. Have not paced self adequately. Rookie mistake. I’m thrown by the horrible now ness of this shift, with all its dying people and bed sores and tricksy dementia patients, and am forgetting basic rules of surviving in hospice setting. Jog, don’t run. Always know the time. Never lose your pen.

Kay: Leon?

Forgot about talking out loud. Was just heavy breathing. Probably quite sinister.

Me: Thanks. Love you.

I consider wearing sunglasses, but decide that would make me look like a bit of a diva, given that it’s February. Nobody wants a diva as a flatmate.

The question, of course, is whether they want a diva more or less than they want an emotional wreck of a woman who has clearly spent the last two days weeping.

I remind myself that this is not a flatmate situation. Leon and I don’t need to get on — we’re not going to be living together, not really, we’re just going to be occupying the same space at different times. It’s no bother to him if I happen to spend all my free time weeping, is it?

‘Jacket,’ Rachel commands, handing it over.

I have not yet reached the depths of needing someone else to dress me, but Rachel stayed over last night, and if Rachel’s here she’s probably going to take charge of the situation. Even if ‘the situation’ is me getting my clothes on in the morning.

Too broken to protest, I take the jacket and slip it on. I do love this jacket. I made it out of a giant ball dress I found in a charity shop — I just picked the whole thing apart and used the fabric from scratch, but left the beading wherever it fell, so now there’s purple sequins and embroidery across the right shoulder, down the back and under my boobs. It looks a bit like a circus master’s jacket, but fits perfectly, and oddly the under-boob beading is really flattering to the waistline.

‘Didn’t I give this to you?’ I say, frowning. ‘Last year sometime?’

‘You, part with that jacket?’ Rachel makes a face. ‘I know you love me, but I’m pretty sure you don’t love anyone that much.’

Right, of course. I’m such a mess I can hardly think straight. At least I actually care about what I’m wearing this morning, though. You know things are bad when I’ll throw on whatever’s top in the drawer. And it’s not like other people won’t notice it — my wardrobe is such that an insufficiently planned outfit will really show. Thursday’s mustard yellow cords, cream frilled blouse and long green cardigan caused a bit of a stir at work — Hana in Marketing had a full-blown coughing fit when I walked into the kitchen as she was mid gulp of coffee. On top of that, nobody gets why I’m suddenly so upset. I can see them all thinking, What’s she crying about now ? Didn’t Justin leave months ago?

They’re right. I have no idea why this particular stage of Justin’s new relationship bothers me so much. I’d already decided I was going to move out properly this time. And it’s not like I wanted him to marry me or anything. I just thought . . . he’d come back. That’s what’s always happened before — he goes off, doors slam, he freezes me out, ignores my calls, but then he realises his mistake, and just when I think I’m ready to start getting over him, there he is again, holding out his hand and telling me to come with him on some kind of amazing adventure.

But this is it, isn’t it? He’s getting married. This is . . . This is . . .

Rachel wordlessly passes me the tissues.

‘I’ll have to redo my make-up again,’ I say, once the worst of it is over.

‘Reaaally not got time,’ Rachel says, flashing me her phone screen.

Shit. Half past eight. I need to leave now or I’m going to be late, and that will look bad — if we’re going to observe strict who’s-in-the-flat-when rules, Leon’s going to want me to be able to tell the time.

‘Sunglasses?’ I ask.

‘Sunglasses.’ Rachel hands them over.

I grab my bag and head for the door.

As the train rattles its way through the tunnels of the Northern Line I catch sight of my reflection in the window and straighten up a little. I look good. The blurry, scratched glass helps — sort of like an Instagram filter. But this is one of my favourite outfits, my hair is newly washed and coppery red, and though I may have cried away all my eyeliner, my lipstick is still intact.

Here I am. I can do this. I can manage just fine on my own.

It sticks for about as long as it takes to get to the entrance to Stockwell station. Then a guy in a car screams ‘get your fanny out!’ at me, and the shock is enough to set me spiralling back into shit-at-life post-break-up Tiffy again. I’m too upset even to point out the anatomical issues I’d have if I tried to comply with his request.

I reach the right block of flats in five minutes or so — it’s a good distance to the station. At the prospect of actually finding my future home, I wipe my cheeks dry and take a proper look at the place. It’s one of those squat, brick blocks, and out the front there’s a small courtyard with a bit of sad-looking London-style grass that’s more like well-mown hay. There are parking spaces for each flat’s tenants, one of whom seems to be using their space to store a bewildering number of empty banana crates.

As I buzz for Flat 3, a movement catches my eye — it’s a fox, strolling out from around where the bins seem to live. It gives me an insolent stare, pausing with one paw in the air. I’ve never actually been this close to a fox before — it’s a lot mangier than they look in picture books. Foxes are nice, though, aren’t they? They’re so nice you’re not allowed to shoot them for fun any more, even if you’re an aristocrat with a horse.