Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

‘I’m just working on one . . . Just give me . . . a minute . . .’

While Leon is in the shower, I write our to-do list for the next day and stick it to the fridge. It reads as follows.

1. Try very hard not to think about the judges’ verdict.

2. Get restraining order.

3. Talk to Mo and Gerty about, well, Mo and Gerty.

4. Buy milk.

I fidget, waiting for him to appear, and then give up and reach for my phone. I’ll just have to listen out for the shower.

‘Hello?’ comes Gerty’s muffled voice down the line.

‘Hi!’

‘Oh thank God,’ Gerty says, and I can almost hear her slumping back against the pillows again. ‘You and Leon worked things out?’

‘Yeah, we worked things out,’ I tell her.

‘Oh, and you slept with him?’

I grin. ‘Your radar’s back on.’

‘So I haven’t ruined everything?’

‘You haven’t ruined everything. Although, to be clear, it would have been Justin who ruined everything, not you.’

‘God, you are feeling benevolent. Were you safe?’

‘Yes, Mother, we were safe. Were you and Mo safe when you made up this morning?’ I ask sweetly.

‘Don’t,’ Gerty says. ‘It’s bad enough me thinking about Mo’s penis, you shouldn’t have to do it too.’

I laugh. ‘Can we have coffee tomorrow, just the three of us? I want to hear about how you got together. Vaguely, and with no penis-related details.’

‘And talk about how to get a restraining order?’ Gerty suggests.

‘Is that Tiffy?’ I hear Mo say in the background.

‘So sweet that he hears “restraining order” and thinks of me,’ I say, heart sinking a little at the change of subject. ‘But yeah. We should talk about that.’

‘Do you feel safe?’

‘Are we back on the contraception subject again?’

‘Tiffy.’ Gerty has never stood for my arts of deflection. ‘Do you feel safe in the flat?’

‘With Leon here, yeah.’

‘OK. Good. But even so, we need to talk about getting an emergency injunction to cover you before the hearing.’

‘An— wait, there’s a hearing?’

‘Let the poor woman think,’ Mo says in the background. ‘I’m glad you and Leon are good again, Tiffy!’ he calls.

‘Thanks, Mo.’

‘Have I killed your buzz?’ Gerty asks.

‘A little. But it’s all right. I’ve still got Rachel to call.’

‘Yes, go discuss all the sordid details with Rachel,’ Gerty says. ‘Coffee tomorrow, text us where and when.’

‘See you,’ I say, hanging up and pausing to listen.

The shower is still on. I call Rachel.

‘Sex?’ she says when she answers the phone.

I laugh. ‘No thanks, I’m taken.’

‘I knew it! You guys made up?’

‘And then some,’ I say, in an exaggeratedly sexy sort of way.

‘Details! Details!’

‘I’ll fill you in properly on Monday. But . . . I have discovered that my boobs have been underperforming for my entire adult life.’

‘Ah yes,’ Rachel says knowledgeably. ‘A common problem. You know there are . . .’

‘ Shh! ’ I hiss. The shower’s stopped. ‘Got to go!’

‘Don’t leave me hanging like this! I was going to tell you all about nipples!’

‘Leon is going to find it very weird that I have rung around my best friends after sex,’ I whisper. ‘It’s early days. I still have to pretend to be normal.’

‘Fine, but I’m scheduling in a two-hour meeting on Monday morning. Subject: Boobs 101.’

I hang up and a moment later Leon wanders in in his towel, hair smoothed back, shoulders gleaming with droplets, and pauses to examine my to-do list.

‘Seems manageable,’ he says, opening the door and reaching in for the orange juice. ‘How’re Gerty and Rachel?’

‘What?’

He smiles at me over his shoulder. ‘Do you want me to get back in? I figured I only needed to allow for two phone calls, since Gerty would be with Mo.’

I feel my cheeks flushing. ‘Oh, I, uh . . .’

He leans over, orange juice in hand, and kisses me on the lips. ‘Don’t worry,’ he says. ‘I plan on remaining blissfully unaware of how much you overshare with Rachel.’

‘When I’m finished filling her in she’ll think you’re a god amongst men,’ I say, relaxing and reaching for the orange juice.

Leon winces. ‘Will she be able to look me in the face again?’

‘Sure. She’ll probably opt for looking somewhere else instead, though.’

The weekend comes and goes in a blur of guilty pleasure. Tiffy barely leaves my arms, except to go for coffee with Gerty and Mo. Was right that we’d have a few triggers to work around; briefly lost her to a bad memory on Saturday morning, but am already learning how to help bring her back again. Is rather satisfying.

She’s definitely more nervous about Justin than she’s letting on — came up with elaborate heavy-milk-buying ruse to get me to come and meet her at the coffee place and walk her back here. The sooner we can get that restraining order sorted the better. I fixed a chain on the door while she was out, and mended the balcony door, just to be doing something.

Got Monday off, so walk Tiffy to the tube and then cook myself an elaborate fry-up involving black pudding and spinach.

Sitting still alone is not good. Odd — normally I’m all for lonesome sitting. But when Tiffy is out, I feel her absence like a missing tooth.

Eventually, after much pacing and not looking in the direction of my phone, I call my mother.

Mam: Leon? Sweetie? Are you OK?

Me: Hi, Mam. I’m fine. Sorry for walking out like that on Friday.

Mam: It’s OK. We were all upset, and what with your new girlfriend marrying that other guy . . . Oh, Lee, you must be heartbroken!

Ah, of course — who would have filled Mam in?

Me: It was a misunderstanding. Tiffy has a, uh, bad-news sort of ex-boyfriend. That was him. She didn’t actually say yes to marrying him, he just tried to force her into it.

Dramatic, soap-opera style gasp down the phone. I try very hard not to find it annoying.

Mam: Poor little thing!

Me: Yes, well, she’s doing fine.

Mam: Have you gone after him?

Me: After him?

Mam: The ex! After what he’s done to your Tiffy!

Me: . . . what are you suggesting, Mam?

I decide not to give her time to answer.

Me: We’re looking into getting a restraining order.

Mam: Oh, sure, those are great.

Awkward pause. Why do I find these conversations so difficult?

Mam: Leon.

Wait. Fidget. Look at the floor.

Mam: Leon, I’m sure your Tiffy’s nothing like me.

Me: What?

Mam: You were always a sweetheart about it, not like Richie with all his screaming and running off and all, but I know you hated the men I dated. I mean, I hated them too, but you hated them right from the start. I know I set a . . . I know I set a terrible example.

I feel deeply, profoundly uncomfortable.

Me: Mam, it’s fine.

Mam: I really am getting sorted now, Lee.

Me: I know. And it wasn’t your fault.

Mam: You know, I think I nearly believe that?

Pause. Think.

I nearly believe that too. Who’d have thought — you say something true enough times, you try hard enough, and maybe it sinks in.

Me: Love you, Mam.

Mam: Oh, sweetheart. I love you too. And we’ll get our Richie back, and we’ll look after him, won’t we, like we always have?

Me: Exactly. Like always.

It’s still Monday. Monday is interminable. I hate days off — what do people do on days off? I just keep thinking trial, hospice, Justin, trial, hospice, Justin. Even warm fuzzy Tiffy thoughts are struggling to keep me afloat now.