Beth O'Leary - The Flatshare

Oh. I see.

Me: Hoped I would stay here. As I’m here every weekend I’m not working anyway?

Kay smiles. Get that satisfying feeling of having said the right thing, followed quickly by a squeeze of anxiety.

Kay: I know you were planning on staying here, you know. I just wanted to hear you say it.

She sees my bemused expression.

Kay: Normally you’re just here on weekends by coincidence , not because you’ve planned for it. Not because it’s our life plan.

Word ‘plan’ is much less pleasant with ‘life’ in front of it. Suddenly very busy eating omelette. Kay squeezes my shoulder, runs her fingers up and down the back of my neck, tugs my hair.

Kay: Thank you.

I feel guilty, though I haven’t exactly misled her — I did assume I’d be here every weekend, did factor that into plan with renting out room. Just didn’t . . . think about it that way. The life-plan way.

Two in the morning. When I first joined the hospice nights team, nights coming off shift seemed useless — would sit awake, wishing for sunlight. But now this is my time, the muffled quiet, the rest of London sleeping or getting very drunk. I’m taking every locum night shift the hospice rota coordinator will give me — they’re the highest paid, excluding weekend nights, which I’ve told Kay I won’t take. Plus, it’s the only way this flatshare plan will work. Not sure it’ll even be worth recalibrating for weekends, now — will work five in seven nights. Might just stay nocturnal.

Generally use this 2 a.m. time to write to Richie. His phone calls are limited, but he can receive as many letters as I can send him.

It’s been three months as of last Tuesday since he was sentenced. Hard to know how to mark an anniversary like that — raising a glass? Striking another tally on the wall? Richie took it well, considering, but when he went in Sal had told him he’d have him out of there by February, so this one was especially bad.

Sal. He’s trying his best, presumably, but Richie is innocent and in prison, so can’t help but feel a little resentful towards his lawyer. Sal isn’t bad . Uses big words, carries a briefcase, never doubts himself — all seem classic reassuring lawyer things? But mistakes keep happening. Like unexpected guilty verdicts.

What are our options, though? No other lawyers sufficiently interested to take Richie on for reduced fee. No other lawyers familiar with his case, no other lawyers already all set up to speak to Richie in prison . . . no time to find someone new. Every day that goes by, Richie sinks further away.

Has to be me that deals with Sal all the time, too, never Mam, which means endless exhausting phone calls chasing him. But Mam is shouty and blamey. Sal is sensitive, easily put off from actually working on Richie’s case, and completely indispensable.

This is doing me no good. Two a.m. is terrible time for dwelling on legal issues. Worst of all the times. If midnight is witching hour, 2 a.m. is dwelling hour.

Idly reaching for distraction, I find myself googling Johnny White. Mr Prior’s Hollywood-jawed, long-lost love.

There are many Johnny Whites. One is a leading figure in Canadian dance music. Another is an American footballer. Both were definitely not around during World War Two, falling in love with charming English gentlemen.

Still. Internet was made for situations like this, no?

Try Johnny White war casualties, then hate myself a bit. Feels like betraying Mr Prior to assume Johnny’s dead. But it’s worth trying to eliminate those options first.

Find a website called Find War Dead. Am initially slightly horrified, but decide actually it’s amazing — everyone’s remembered here. Like digital, searchable tombstones. I can search by name, regiment, which war, dates of birth . . . I type in Johnny White, and specify World War Two , but don’t have any more to give them.

Seventy-eight Johnny Whites died in armed forces in World War Two.

Sit back. Stare at the list of names. John K. White. James Dudley Jonathan White. John White. John George White. Jon R. L. White. Jonathan Reginald White. John—

All right. Feel suddenly overwhelmingly sure that Mr Prior’s lovely Johnny White is dead, and wish there was a similar database for those who fought but did not die in the war. That would be nice. A survivors list. Struck, as one is at 2 a.m., by the horror of humanity and its inclination to terrible acts of mass murder.

Kay: Leon! Your bleep is going! In my ear!

Leave laptop on sofa after hitting print, and then open bedroom door to find Kay lying on side, duvet over head, one arm up in the air holding my bleep.

Grab bleep. Grab phone. I’m not working, of course, but the team wouldn’t bleep me if it wasn’t important.

Socha, Junior Doctor: Leon, it’s Holly.

Am pulling on shoes.

Me: How bad?

Keys! Keys! Where are keys?

Socha: She’s got an infection — obs are not looking good. She’s asking for you. I don’t know what to do, Leon, and Dr Patel isn’t answering her bleep, and the reg is skiing and June couldn’t get cover organised so there’s nobody else to call . . .

Located keys in bottom of washing basket. Inspired place to keep them. Heading for the door, Socha talking white blood cell counts in my ear, shoelaces flapping—

Kay: Leon! You’re still wearing your pyjamas!

Damn. Thought I’d managed to get to the door faster than usual.

OK, so the new flat’s quite . . . full. Cosy.

‘Cluttered,’ Gerty confirms, standing in about the only unoccupied space in the bedroom. ‘It’s cluttered.’

‘You know my style is eclectic!’ I protest, straightening up the adorable tie-dyed bed throw I found at Brixton market last summer. I’m trying very hard to keep my positive face on. Packing up and leaving Justin’s flat was awful, and the drive here took four times as long as Google said it would, and carrying everything up the stairs was torture. Then I had to hold a long conversation with Kay as she gave me the keys, when all I wanted to do was sit down somewhere and gently dab at my hairline until I stopped panting. It has not been a fun day.

‘Did you discuss this with Leon?’ Mo asks, perching on the edge of the bed. ‘I mean, bringing all your stuff?’

I frown. Of course I would be bringing all my stuff! Did that need discussing? I’m moving in — that means my stuff has to live here with me. Where else would it live? This is my permanent abode.

However, I am now very aware that my bedroom is shared with another person, and that that person has their own stuff, which was, up until this weekend, occupying most of this room. It’s been a bit of a squeeze getting everything in. I’ve solved a few problems by moving things into other parts of the house — lots of my candle holders are living on the edge of the bath now, for instance, and my amazing lava lamp has a great spot in the living area — but all the same, I could do with Leon having a bit of a clear-out. He should probably have done that beforehand, really — it was the decent thing, given that I was moving in.

Perhaps I should have taken some of my things to my parents’ house. But most of this stuff lived in storage at Justin’s and it had felt so good to dig it all out last night. Rachel joked that when I found the lava lamp it was like Andy being reunited with Woody in Toy Story , but to be honest it had been surprisingly emotional. I’d sat for a while in the hall, staring at the multi-coloured mess of my favourite things spilling out from the cupboard under the stairs, and felt for a weird moment that if the cushions could breathe again, so could I.