Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

‘Fifteen thousand,’ Martin says sheepishly. ‘And two for me for organising.’

‘Seventeen thousand pounds?!’ Rachel shrieks. ‘My God!’

‘And a bit leftover, so I got Katherin that limo, in case it would persuade her to do that interview with Piers Morgan. I just . . . figured Justin must really love you,’ Martin says.

‘No, you didn’t,’ I tell him flatly. ‘You didn’t really care. You just wanted Justin to like you. He has that effect on a lot of people. Has he contacted you since he proposed to me?’

Martin shakes his head, looking nervous. ‘I figured from the way you left the party that it hadn’t exactly gone as he’d hoped. Do you think he’ll be mad at me?’

‘Do I think . . .’ I take a deep breath. ‘Martin. I do not care if Justin is mad at you. Soon, I will be taking Justin to court for harassment or stalking, once my lawyer has got around to figuring out which of those she likes better.’

Martin goes even paler than he usually is, which is saying something. I’m surprised I can’t see the whiteboard through him.

‘So you’d be prepared to testify?’ I say briskly.

‘What? No!’

‘Why not?’

‘Well, it’s . . . this would be very embarrassing for me, and this is a really important time at work—’

‘You are a very weak man, Martin,’ I tell him.

He blinks. His lip shakes a little. ‘I’ll think about it,’ he says eventually.

‘Good. See you in court, Martin.’

I sweep out of the room with Rachel in tow, and as I head to my desk I feel exhilarated. Particularly as Rachel is quietly but unmistakably humming ‘Eye of the Tiger’ as we walk through the office.

The world seems like a slightly brighter place after the Martin showdown. I sit up taller and decide I’m not ashamed about what happened at the party. So my ex-boyfriend proposed to me and I said no — so what? Nothing wrong with that. In fact, Ruby gives me a silent high-five on my way to the bathroom mid-afternoon, and with Rachel sending me girl-power songs every fifteen minutes I start to feel quite . . . empowered about it all.

It takes enormous effort to concentrate on work, but in the end I manage it: I am researching a new trend in cupcake icing when I get the call. Almost instantly, I realise that I will always remember this website about icing-bag nozzles. It’s that kind of call.

‘Tiffy?’ says Leon.

‘Yeah?’

‘Tiffy . . .’

‘Leon, are you OK?’ My heart is pounding.

‘He’s out.’

‘He’s . . .’

‘Richie.’

‘Oh my God. Say it again.’

‘Richie is out. Not guilty.’

I let out a shriek that sends every single person in the office staring my way. I make a face and cover the phone for a moment.

‘Friend won the lottery!’ I mouth to Francine, the nearest nosy person, and let her trundle off to spread that particular piece of news. If I don’t nip this in the bud they’ll all think I’m engaged again.

‘Leon, I don’t even . . . I really thought it would be tomorrow!’

‘So did I. So did Gerty.’

‘So . . . is he just . . . out? In the world? God, I can’t imagine Richie out in the world! What does he even look like, by the way?’

Leon laughs, and the sound makes my stomach flip. ‘He’ll be at our place tonight. You can finally meet him.’

‘This is unbelievable.’

‘I know. I can’t actually . . . I keep thinking it’s a dream.’

‘I don’t even know what to say. Where are you now?’ I ask, bouncing in my chair.

‘I’m at work.’

‘Didn’t you have the day off?’

‘Didn’t know what to do with myself. You want to come down here after you finish? No worries if it’s too out of your way, I’ll be home by seven, I just thought—’

‘I’ll be there at half five.’

‘Actually, I should come meet you . . .’

‘I can do it on my own. Really — I’ve had a good day, I can do it. See you at half five!’

Drift around wards, checking charts, giving fluids. Speak to patients and amaze myself by managing to sound normal and to talk about something other than the fact that my brother is finally coming home.

Home.

Richie is coming home.

Keep rearing away from the thought, the way I always had to — my mind pastes Richie back into my life, and then it jumps away as if it’s touched something hot, because I’d never let myself finish that thought. It was too painful. Too hopeful.

Except now it’s real. Will be real, in just a few hours’ time.

He’ll meet Tiffy. They’ll talk just like they do on the phone only face to face, on my sofa. It’s literally too good to be true. Until you remember that he should never have been in jail in the first place, of course, but even that thought can’t kill the euphoria.

I’m in the hospice kitchen making tea when I hear my name, on repeat, very loudly and getting louder all the time.

Tiffy: Leon! Leon! Leon!

I turn around just in time. She piles into me, rain-wet hair, pink cheeks, big smile.

Me: Whoa!

Tiffy, very close to my ear: Leon Leon Leon!

Me: Ouch?

Tiffy: Sorry. Sorry. I just . . .

Me: Are you crying ?

Tiffy: What? No.

Me: You are. You are incredible.

She blinks at me, surprised, eyes bright with happy tears.

Me: You’ve never even met Richie.

She links arms with me and spins me back to the kettle just as it boils.

Tiffy: Well, I’ve met you , and Richie’s your little brother.

Me: Just to warn you, he’s not that little.

Tiffy reaches for the mug cupboard and pulls out two, then rifles through the teabags and pours the kettle as if she’s been in and out of this kitchen for years.

Tiffy: And anyway, I feel like I know Richie. We’ve talked tons of times. You don’t have to meet face to face to know someone.

Me: Speaking of . . .

Tiffy: Where are we going?

Me: Just come on. I want to show you something.

Tiffy: Teas! Teas!

I pause and wait as she adds milk painstakingly slowly. She shoots a cheeky little glance over her shoulder; I immediately want to undress her.

Me: Are we ready?

Tiffy: OK. We’re ready.

She hands me a mug and I take it, and the hand that offered it too. Almost everyone we pass along the corridor says, ‘Oh, hi, Tiffy!’ or ‘You must be Tiffy!’ or ‘Oh my God Leon really does have a girlfriend!’ but I am in too good a mood to find it annoying.

Tug Tiffy back as she goes to open the door to Coral Ward.

Me: Wait, just look through the window.

We both lean in.

Johnny White hasn’t left his side since the weekend. Mr Prior is asleep, but still his papery, sun-blotched hand rests in Johnny White’s palm. They’ve had three whole days together — more than JW could have hoped for.

Always worth walking through those doors.

Tiffy: Johnny White the Sixth was the real Johnny White? Is this literally the best day ever? Has there been some sort of announcement issued? An elixir in everyone’s breakfast? A golden ticket in the cereal box?

I kiss her firmly on the mouth. Behind us, one of the junior doctors says to another junior doctor, ‘Amazing — I always assumed Leon didn’t like anyone who didn’t have a terminal illness!’

Me: I think it’s just a good day, Tiffy.

Tiffy: Well, I guess we are all overdue one.

‘OK, how do I look?’

‘Relax,’ Leon says, lying back on the bed, one arm behind his head. ‘Richie already loves you.’

‘I’m meeting a member of your family!’ I protest. ‘I want to look good. I want to look . . . smart and beautiful and witty, and maybe to channel a bit of Sookie in the earlier series of Gilmore Girls ?’