Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

‘You don’t touch her,’ Rachel spits at him.

‘I think you should leave, Justin,’ Mo says.

‘What is this all about, Tiffy?’ Justin asks me, voice still gentle. ‘Are your friends upset with me because we were broken up?’ He keeps trying to move closer, just in inches, but Rachel has hold of me tight, and, with Mo at my other shoulder, we’re a unit.

‘Can I ask you something?’ I say suddenly.

‘Of course,’ Justin says.

The sound guy in black glances at us in irritation. ‘You’re not meant to stay back here,’ he tells us, as the crowd outside bursts into noisy applause.

I ignore him, my eyes on Justin. ‘How did you know I’d be here today?’

‘What do you mean? This event was advertised all over the place, Tiffy. I could hardly use the Internet and miss it.’

‘But how did you know I would be here? How did you even know I was working on this book?’

I know I’m right. I can see it in the shiftiness in his eyes. He eases a finger under his collar.

‘And how did you know I would be at that book launch in Shore­ditch? And how did you know I’d be on that cruise ship?’

He’s unsettled; he scoffs, giving me the first unpleasant, disparaging look of the evening. That’s more like it — that’s the Justin I’ve begun to remember.

For a moment he’s caught in indecision, and then he opts for an easy smile. ‘Your mate Martin has been giving me tip-offs,’ he says sheepishly, like a naughty boy caught pinching things. Sweet, mischievous, harmless. ‘He knew how much I care about you, so he’s been helping to get us back together.’

‘You’re joking,’ Rachel blurts. I glance at her; her eyes are flashing and she looks more terrifying than I have ever seen her looking before, which is really saying something.

‘How do you even know Martin?’ I ask in disbelief.

‘Quiet!’ the sound guy hisses. We all ignore him.

‘We met at your work night out, remember?’ Justin says. ‘Is this important? Can’t we go somewhere quieter, just the two of us, Tiffy?’

I don’t remember the work night out. I missed most of them because Justin never liked going, and didn’t like me going to them without him.

‘I don’t want to go anywhere with you, Justin,’ I say, taking a deep, shaky breath. ‘And I don’t want to marry you. I want you to leave me alone.’

I have imagined saying this lots and lots of times. I always thought he’d look wounded, perhaps step back in shock, or raise a hand to his mouth. I imagined him crying and trying to pull me closer; I’d even been afraid he might try to get hold of me physically, and not let go.

But he just looks perplexed. Irritated. Maybe a little pissed off, as if he’s been terribly misled somehow, and it’s all been rather unfair.

‘You don’t mean that,’ he begins.

‘Oh, she does,’ says Mo. His voice is pleasant, but very firm.

‘She really, really does,’ Rachel adds.

‘No,’ Justin says, shaking his head. ‘You’re not giving us a chance.’

‘A chance?’ I almost laugh. ‘I went back to you over and over. You’ve had more chances than I can count. I don’t want to see you. Ever again.’

He frowns. ‘You said in that bar in Shoreditch that we could talk in a couple of months. I stuck to your rules,’ he says, stretching his arms out. ‘It’s October, isn’t it?’

‘A lot can change in a couple of months. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. A lot of . . . remembering.’

There it is again — a flicker of almost fear behind his eyes. He reaches for me one last time, and this time Rachel slaps him across the face.

‘Couldn’t have put it better myself,’ Mo mutters, and he pulls the two of us further back into the mess of cables and darkness as Justin stumbles backwards, eyes wide with shock.

‘You. Out,’ the irate sound guy says firmly to Justin, clearly identifying him as the root cause of all the noise. He steps forward, forcing Justin further back.

Steadying himself, Justin holds out a warning hand to the sound guy. He glances over his shoulder to find the exit, and then turns back to find my gaze.

For a moment I lose the sense of Mo and Rachel beside me and the sound guy in here with us. It’s just me and Justin’s broad, tuxedo-ed body in this cramped, dark space, and I feel desperate, as if I’m running out of air. It’s only a second or two, but it’s somehow worse than everything that’s just happened put together.

Then Justin backs out between the curtains into the backstage area, with a rush of noise, and I melt shakily into Rachel and Mo. He’s gone. It’s over. But he’s left that desperate breathlessness behind him, and as I grasp at Rachel and Mo’s arms with clammy fingers I feel a sudden, sickening fear that I won’t ever be able to shake him, no matter how many times I see him walk away.

Can’t think. Can’t anything. Somehow find my feet and get back to the courtroom, but the daydream feeling has morphed into an aura of unreality around everything. Mechanically, I smile at Richie. Notice how bright his eyes are, how hopeful he looks. Fail to feel anything.

It’s probably the shock. I’ll recover shortly and get my head back into the hearing. I can’t believe anything has managed to distract me from this. Feel suddenly furious with Tiffy, choosing today of all days to dump me and go back to Justin, and can’t help but think of Mam, how she’d always go back to those men no matter what Richie and I said.

Some part of my brain reminds me Mam didn’t want to be with those men. She just didn’t think she was allowed to be anywhere else. She didn’t think she meant anything if she was on her own.

But Tiffy wasn’t on her own. She had Mo, Gerty, Rachel. Me.

Richie. Think of Richie. Richie needs me here, and there’s no fucking way I’m losing him again. Too.

Gerty is summing up. Just about manage to listen — she’s so good you can’t help but follow her argument. Then, with peculiar lack of fanfare, it’s over. We all stand. Judges leave. Richie is taken back to wherever it was he was brought from, with a wistful backwards glance. We walk through the court building in silence, Gerty tapping away at her phone, Mam cracking her knuckles incessantly.

Mam looks sideways at me as we reach the entranceway.

Mam: Lee? What’s wrong?

Then Gerty gives a little gasp. Hand to mouth. Glance over, dull-eyed, and notice that she is watching the video play out on Facebook.

Gerty: Oh my God.

Mam, on alert: What’s happened?

Me: Tiffy.

Mam: Your girlfriend? What’s she done?

Gerty: She wouldn’t .

Me: She would. You know people do. Go back. It’s hard to leave what you’ve known. Not her fault. But you know people do.

Gerty’s silence says enough. Suddenly more than anything I need to get away from here.

Me: We won’t get a verdict over the weekend, will we?

Gerty: No, it’ll be next week. I’ll call when—

Me: Thanks.

And I’m gone.

Walk and walk. Can’t cry, am just dry-throated and aching-eyed. I’m sure that some of this is fear about Richie, but all I can think about is Justin, arms out, yelling ‘She said yes’ to the whooping crowd.

Play out every scene. The endless notes, Brighton, the night eating tiffin together on the sofa, the trip to Holly’s party, kissing against the Aga. My gut twists at the memory of how her body would go cold when she thought of him, but then I harden myself. Don’t want to feel sorry for her. For now, just want to feel betrayed.

Can’t help it, though. Can’t stop thinking of the way her knees would shake.

Ah, there we go. There’s the tears. Knew they’d turn up eventually.