The Flatshare

17 Tiffy

It’s still light when I get home. I love summer. Leon’s trainers are missing, so I guess he walked to work today — I’m so jealous he can do that. The tube is even more gross when it’s hot.

I scan the flat for new notes. They’re not always that easy to spot these days — there’s usually Post-its on pretty much everything, unless one of us has got around to doing a clear-up.

I spot it on the kitchen counter eventually: an envelope, with Richie’s name and prisoner number on one side and our address on the other. There’s a short note in Leon’s handwriting next to the address.

And then, inside:

The next morning I reread the letter in bed, the duvet pulled up around me like a nest. I’m all cold in my stomach, and my skin has gone kind of prickly. I want to cry for this man. I don’t know why this is hitting me so hard, but whatever it is, this letter has woken me up at half five on a Saturday morning. That is how much I cannot bear it. It’s so unfair.

I’m reaching for my phone before I’ve really thought about what I’m doing.

‘Gerty, you know your job?’

‘I’m familiar with it, yes. Primarily as the reason that I am awoken at six a.m. almost every morning, bar Saturday mornings.’

I look at the clock. Six a.m.

‘Sorry. But — what kind of law do you do again?’

‘Criminal law, Tiffy. I do criminal law.’

‘Right, right. What does that mean though?’

‘I’m going to give you the benefit of the doubt and assume that this is urgent,’ Gerty says. She is audibly gritting her teeth. ‘We deal with crimes that are against people and their property.’

‘Like armed robbery?’

‘Yes. That is a good example, well done.’

‘You hate me, don’t you? I’m top of your hate list right now.’

‘It’s my one lie-in and you’ve ruined it, so yes, you have climbed past Donald Trump and that Uber driver I sometimes get who hums for the whole journey.’

Shit. Things are not going well.

‘You know the special cases you do for free, or for less money, or whatever?’

Gerty pauses. ‘Where’s this going, Tiffy?’

‘Just hear me out. If I give you a letter from a guy convicted of armed robbery will you just take a look at it? You don’t have to do anything. You don’t have to take him on or whatever, obviously, I know you have tons more important cases. But will you just read it, and maybe write a list of questions?’

‘Where did you get this letter from?’

‘It’s a long story, and it doesn’t matter. Just know I wouldn’t ask you if it wasn’t important.’

There is a long, sleepy sort of silence at the other end of the phone.

‘Of course I’ll read it. Come over for lunch and bring the letter.’

‘I love you.’

‘I hate you.’

‘I know. I’ll bring you a latte from Moll’s, though. Donald Trump would never bring you a latte from Moll’s.’

‘Fine. I’ll make my decision on your relative placement on the hate list when I’ve tasted how hot the coffee is. Do not ring me again before ten.’ She hangs up.

Gerty and Mo’s flat has been completely Gerty-fied. You almost can’t tell Mo lives here. His room at his last place was a tip of washed and unwashed clothes (no system) and paperwork that was probably confidential, but here, every object has a purpose. The flat is tiny, but I don’t notice it nearly as much as I did the first time I saw the place — somehow Gerty’s drawn attention away from the low ceilings and towards the enormous windows, which fill the kitchen-diner with soft summer sunlight. And it’s so clean. I have new respect for Gerty and what she can achieve through sheer willpower, or possibly bullying.

I hand her the coffee. She gives it a sip, then nods in approval. I do a little fist pump, officially becoming a less odious human being than the man who wants to build a wall between Mexico and the US.

‘Letter,’ she says, stretching out her free hand.

Not one for small talk, Gerty. I rifle through my bag and pass it over, and she immediately heads off to read, picking up her glasses from the side table by the front door where, unbelievably, she never seems to forget to put them.

I fidget. I pace a bit. I mess up the order of the pile of books on the end of their dining table, just for the thrill of it.

‘Go away,’ she says, not even raising her voice. ‘You are distracting me. Mo is at the coffee place on the corner that does inferior coffee. He will entertain you.’

‘Right. Fine. So . . . you’re reading it though? What do you think?’

She doesn’t answer. I roll my eyes, and then scarper in case she noticed.

I’ve not even made it to the coffee shop before my phone rings. It’s Gerty.

‘You might as well come back,’ she says.

‘Oh?’

‘The trial transcript will take forty-eight hours to get to me even with the express service. I can’t tell you anything useful until I’ve read that.’

I’m smiling. ‘You’re applying for the trial transcript?’

‘Men often have very convincing stories of their innocence, Tiffy, and I would recommend against believing their summaries of their court cases. They are, obviously, extremely biased, and also do not tend to be well versed in the intricacies of the law.’

I’m still smiling. ‘You’re applying for the trial transcript, though.’

‘Don’t get anyone’s hopes up,’ Gerty says, and her voice is serious now. ‘I mean it, Tiffy. I’m just going to read up on it. Don’t tell this man anything, please. It would be cruel to give him unfounded hope.’

‘I know,’ I say, smile dropping. ‘I won’t. And thanks.’

‘You’re welcome. The coffee was excellent. Now get back here — if I must be up this early on a Saturday, I would at least like to be entertained.’

18 Leon

On the way to meet Johnny White the First. It’s very early — four-hour journey there, then three buses to get from Johnny White the First’s place to HMP Groundsworth, where I have a 3 p.m. visit with Richie. Legs stiff from train seats with limited leg room; back sweaty from carriages without air conditioning. As I roll up shirt sleeves further, discover old Post-it note from Tiffy stuck in the cuff. Something from last month about what the strange man in Flat 5 does at 7 a.m. Hmm. Embarrassing. Must check clothes for notes before leaving the flat.

Greeton, home of Johnny White, is a surprisingly pretty little town, stretched out flat on the matt green fields of the Midlands. Walk from bus station to JW’s address. Have emailed him a couple of times, but am not sure what to expect in person.

When I arrive, a very large and intimidating Johnny White barks at me to come in; I find myself immediately obeying and following him through to sparsely furnished living room. Only distinctive feature is piano in corner. It’s uncovered and looks well treated.

Me: You play?

JW the First: I was a concert pianist in my day. I don’t play so much now, but I keep the old girl in here. It doesn’t feel like home without her.

I’m delighted. It’s perfect. Concert pianist! World’s coolest profession! And no pictures anywhere of wife or children — excellent.

JW the First offers me tea; what appears is a thick, chipped mug of builder’s brew. It reminds me of tea at Mam’s. A strange moment of homesickness follows — must go and see her more.

JW the First and I settle on sofa and armchair, opposite one another. Suddenly realising this is a potentially difficult subject to broach. Did you have a love affair with a man in World War Two? Is perhaps not something this man wants to talk about with stranger from London.

JW the First: So, what was it you were after, exactly?

Me: I was wondering. Umm.

Clear throat.

Me: You served in the army in World War Two, yes?

JW the First: Two years, with a short break for them to dig a bullet out of my stomach.

Find myself staring at his stomach. JW the First flashes surprisingly dynamic grin at me.

JW the First: You’re thinking they must have had a job finding it, aren’t you?

Me: No! I was thinking there are lots of vital organs in the stomach area.

JW the First, chuckling: German buggers missed those, lucky for me. Anyway, I was more worried about my hands than my stomach. You can play the piano without a spleen, but you can’t play the piano if frostbite’s eaten your fingers off.

Gaze at JW the First in awe and horror. He chuckles again.

JW the First: Ah, you don’t want my old war horror stories. Did you say you’re looking into your family history?

Me: Not mine. A friend’s. Robert Prior. He served in the same regi­ment as you, though I’m not sure it was exactly at the same time. Do you happen to remember him?

JW the First thinks hard. Scrunches up nose. Tilts head.

JW the First: No. Doesn’t ring any bells. Sorry.

Eh, was long shot. One down, though, still seven on list to go.

Me: Thanks, Mr White. I won’t take more of your time. Just one question — have you ever married?

JW the First, gruffer than ever: No. My Sally died in an air raid back in forty-one, and that was that for me. I never found anyone like my Sally.

I almost get teary at that. Richie would laugh at me — he always calls me a hopeless romantic. Or ruder things to that effect.

Kay, on other end of phone: Honestly, Leon. I think if you had your way, all of your friends would be over the age of eighty.

Me: He was an interesting man, is all. I enjoyed speaking to him. And — concert pianist! World’s coolest profession, no?

Amused silence from Kay.

Me: Still seven to go, though.

Kay: Seven what?

Me: Seven Johnny Whites.

Kay: Oh, yeah.

She pauses.

Kay: Are you going to be spending all your weekends traipsing across Britain trying to find an old man’s boyfriend, Leon?

I pause this time. Had sort of planned on doing that, yes. When else am I going to find Mr Prior’s Johnny? Can’t do it during working week.

Me, tentatively: . . . No?

Kay: Good. Because I see you rarely enough as it is, with all your visits and your shifts. You do see that, don’t you?

Me: Yes. Sorry. I’m—

Kay: Yep, yep, I know, you care about your job, Richie needs you. I do know all that. I’m not trying to be difficult, Leon. I just feel like . . . it should bother you more. As much as it bothers me. The not seeing each other.

Me: It bothers me! But I saw you this morning?

Kay: For about half an hour, for a very rushed breakfast.

Flash of irritation. Gave up half an hour of three-hour power nap to allow for breakfast with Kay. Deep breath. Notice where we are out of window.

Me: Got to go. I’m pulling into the prison.

Kay: Fine. Let’s talk later. Will you text me what train you get?

I don’t like this — the checking-up, the texting about trains, always knowing where the other person will be. But . . . it’s unreasonable of me. Can’t object. Kay already thinks I’m a commitment-phobe. It’s a favourite term of hers at the moment.

Me: Will do.

But I don’t, in the end. Mean to, but don’t. It’s the worst argument we’ve had in ages.

19 Tiffy

‘It’s the perfect venue for you, Katherin,’ Martin gushes, spreading the photos out on the table.

I smile encouragingly. Though initially I thought the whole enormous-venue thing was ridiculous, I’m starting to come around to it. Twenty different YouTube videos have been made by various Internet celebrities sporting outfits they claimed to have crocheted themselves from Katherin’s instructions. After a tense unscheduled meeting with the MD in which the head of PR did a quite convincing job of pretending to know what this book was, let alone have budget allocated for it, the whole Butterfingers office is now up to speed and abuzz with excitement. Everyone seems to have forgotten that last week they didn’t give a crap about crochet; yesterday I heard the sales director declare she’d ‘always suspected this book would be a winner’.

Katherin is perplexed by all of this, particularly the Tasha Chai-Latte thing. At first she reacted as literally everyone does when they see some random person making tons of money on YouTube (‘I could do that!’ she announced. I told her to start by investing in a smartphone. Baby steps.) Now she’s just irritated at Martin having taken control of her Twitter account (‘She can’t be trusted with this! We need to maintain control!’ Martin was yelling at Ruby this morning).

‘So, what is a proper book launch?’ Katherin asks. ‘I mean, normally I just potter around drinking the wine and chatting to any old lady who bothers to turn up. But how do you do it when there are all these people?’ She gestures to the photo of a gigantic Islington hall.

‘Ah, now, Katherin,’ Martin says, ‘I’m glad you asked. Tiffy and I are going to take you along to one of our other big book launches in two weeks’ time. Just so you can see how these things are done.’

‘Are there free drinks?’ Katherin asks, perking up.

‘Oh, absolutely, tons of free drinks,’ Martin says, having previously told me that there won’t be any at all.

I glance at my watch as Martin returns to the task of selling the enormous venue to Katherin. Katherin is very worried about the people at the back not being able to see. I, on the other hand, am very worried about getting to Leon’s hospice on time.

It’s the evening of our visit. Leon will be there, which means tonight, after five and a half months of living together, he and I will finally meet.

I’m oddly nervous. I changed my clothes three times this morning, which is unusual — normally I can’t imagine the day looking any other way once I’ve got an outfit on. Now I’m not sure I’ve got it right. I’ve toned down the lemon-yellow pouf dress with a denim jacket, leggings, and my lily boots, but I’m still dressed in something a sixteen-year-old girl would wear to prom. There’s just something fundamentally try-hard about tulle.

‘Don’t you think we should be heading over now?’ I say, interrupting Martin mid bullshit. I want to get to the hospice in time to find Leon and say thanks before we start. I’d rather he didn’t walk in Justin-style, just as Katherin’s sticking pins into me.

Martin glares at me, turning his head so Katherin won’t see quite how vicious a look he is shooting in my direction. She of course spots it anyway, and cheers up at the sight, chuckling into her coffee cup. She was grumpy with me when I got here because I’d (clearly) ignored her instruction to wear ‘neutral clothing’ again. My excuse that wearing beige sucks the life out of me did not fly. ‘We all have to make sacrifices for our art, Tiffy!’ she said, waggling a finger. I did point out that this isn’t actually my art, it’s hers, but she looked so wounded I gave up and said I’d compromise by taking out the poufy underskirt.

It’s good to see our mutual dislike of Martin has united us again.

I’m not sure why I think I know what a hospice will look like — I’ve never been to one before. This one ticks a few of my boxes, even so: lino floors in halls, medical equipment spouting wires and tubes, poor quality art in wonky frames on the walls. But there’s a friendlier atmosphere than I expected. Everyone seems to know each other: doctors make sardonic comments as they cross paths in the corridor, patients chuckle wheezily to their ward-mates, and at one point I hear a nurse arguing quite passionately with an elderly Yorkshireman about which flavour of rice pudding is best on tonight’s dinner menu.

The receptionist leads us down the bewildering maze of corridors to a sort of living area. There’s a rickety plastic table where we’re to set up, plus lots of uncomfortable-looking seating and a television like the one in my parents’ house — it’s blocky and enormous at the back, like they’re stashing all the extra shopping channels in there.

We dump the bags of wool and crochet hooks. A few of the more mobile patients drift into the room. Evidently word of our crochet show has spread, probably via the nurses and doctors, who seem to be running in totally random directions at all times, like pinballs. It’s fifteen minutes until we start, though — plenty of time for me to track Leon down and say hello.

‘Excuse me,’ I say to a nurse whose pinball path has briefly crossed the living area, ‘is Leon here yet?’

‘Leon?’ she asks, looking at me distractedly. ‘Yeah. He’s here. You need him?’

‘Oh, no, don’t worry,’ I say. ‘It’s not, you know, medical. I was just going to say hi and thanks for letting us do this.’ I wave an arm in the direction of Martin and Katherin, who are untangling wool with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

The nurse perks up and focuses on me properly. ‘Are you Tiffy?’

‘Umm. Yes?’

‘Oh! Hi. Wow, hello. If you want to see him, he’ll be in Dorsal Ward, I think — follow the signs.’

‘Thanks so much,’ I say as she scurries off again.

Dorsal Ward. OK. I check the sign fixed to the wall: left, apparently. Then right. Then left, left, right, left, right, right — bloody hell. This place goes on for ever.

‘Excuse me,’ I ask, snagging a passing person in scrubs, ‘am I on track to get to Dorsal Ward?’

‘Sure are,’ he says, without slowing. Hmm. I’m not sure how much he engaged with that question. I guess if you work here you get really sick of visitors asking for directions. I stare at the next sign: Dorsal Ward has now disappeared altogether.

The guy in scrubs pops up beside me, having backtracked down the corridor again. I jump.

‘Sorry, you’re not Tiffy, are you?’ he says.

‘Yes? Hi?’

‘Really! Damn.’ He looks me up and down quite blatantly, and then realises what he’s doing and pulls a face. ‘God, sorry, it’s just none of us quite believed it. Leon will be on Kelp Ward — take the next left.’

‘Believed what?’ I call after him, but he’s already gone, leaving a set of double doors swinging behind him.

This is . . . weird.

As I turn back I spot a male nurse with light-brown skin and dark hair, whose navy-blue scrubs look threadbare even from here — I’ve noticed how worn Leon’s scrubs are when they’re drying on the clothes horse. We make eye contact for a split second, but then he turns his head, checking the pager on his hip, and jogs off down the opposite corridor. He’s tall. It might have been him? We were too far apart to tell for sure. I walk more quickly to follow him, get slightly out of breath, then feel a bit stalkerish, and slow down again. Crap. I think I missed the turning to Kelp Ward.

I take stock in the middle of the corridor. Without the tulle skirt my dress has deflated, clinging to the fabric of my leggings; I’m hot and flustered, and, let’s be honest, completely lost.

The sign says next left for the Leisure Room, which is where I started. I sigh, checking the time. Only five minutes until our show should begin — I’d better get back in there. I’ll track Leon down afterwards, hopefully without encountering any more slightly freaky strangers who know my name.

There’s a sizeable crowd when I head back into the room; Katherin spots me with relief and kicks off the show right away. I dutifully follow her instructions, and, while Katherin enthusiastically extols the virtues of the closed stitch, I scan the room. The patients are a mix of elderly ladies and gentlemen, about two thirds of whom are in wheelchairs, and a few middle-aged ladies who look quite poorly but much more interested in what Katherin’s saying than anybody else is. There are three kids, too. One is a little girl whose hair is just growing back after chemo, I’m guessing. Her eyes are enormous and I notice them because she’s not staring at Katherin like everybody else is, she’s watching me, and beaming.

I give her a little wave. Katherin slaps my hand.

‘You’re a dreadful mannequin today!’ she scolds, and I’m brought back to the moment on the cruise ship in February, the last time Katherin was manhandling me into various uncomfortable positions in the name of crochet. For an instant, I can recall Justin’s expression exactly as it was when our eyes locked — not the way it looks in my memory, faded and changed with time, but as it actually was. A shiver goes through me.

Katherin casts me a curious look, and I snap out of the memory with an effort, managing a reassuring smile. As I look up I see a tall, dark-haired man in scrubs push through a door into one of the other wards, and my heart jumps. But it’s not Leon. I’m almost glad. I’m unsettled, off-kilter — it’s somehow not the moment I want to meet him.

‘Arms up, Tiffy!’ Katherin trills in my ear, and, with a shake of my head, I go back to doing as I’m told.

20 Leon

Letter is crumpled in trouser pocket. Tiffy asked me to read it before I send it on to Richie. But haven’t, yet. It’s painful. Feel suddenly sure that she won’t understand. That she’ll say he’s a calculating criminal, just like the judge did. Say his excuses don’t add up, that given his character and his past he’s exactly what we should all have expected.

I’m stressed, shoulders tense. Barely caught a glimpse, and yet can’t shake the feeling that red-headed woman at the other end of the corridor to Dorsal Ward might have been her. If it was, hope she didn’t think I ran off. Obviously, did run off. But still. Would rather she didn’t know it.

Just . . . don’t want to face her before I’ve read the letter.

So. Clearly, must read letter. In the meantime, might hide out on Kelp Ward to avoid unplanned mid-corridor encounters.

Pass through reception en route and am accosted by June, who’s at the desk.

June: Your friend has arrived!

Only told a couple of people that this crochet event was organised by my flatmate. It has proven to be incredibly interesting gossip. Everyone seems insultingly surprised that I have a flatmate; apparently I look like a man who lives alone.

Me: Thanks, June.

June: She’s in the Leisure Room!

Me: Thanks, June.

June: She’s ever so pretty.

Blink. Haven’t given Tiffy’s appearance much thought, aside from wondering whether she wears five dresses at once (would explain sheer quantity hanging in our wardrobe). Am briefly tempted to ask if she has red hair, but think better of it.

June: Lovely girl. Really lovely. I’m so glad you’ve found such a lovely girl to live with.

I stare suspiciously at June. She beams back at me. Wonder who she’s been talking to — Holly? That girl has become obsessed with Tiffy.

Do odd jobs on Kelp Ward. Take unprecedented coffee break. Can’t put this off any longer. Not even any seriously unwell patients to keep me busy — I’ve got nothing to do but read this letter.

Unfold it. Look away, heart twisting. This is ridiculous. Why does it even matter?

Right. Looking at letter. Confronting letter, like adult faced with opinion of another adult who has asked them to read something and whose opinion shouldn’t even matter.

Does matter, though. Should be honest with myself: I like having Tiffy’s notes to come home to, and I’ll be sad to lose her if she is cruel to Richie. Not that she will be. But . . . that’s what I’ve thought before. Never know how people will react until you see it.

21 Tiffy

When it comes to the part where we take crochet hooks and wool out to the crowd, I head towards the little girl who was staring at me earlier. She grins as I approach, all big front teeth and cheekiness.

‘Hello,’ she says. ‘Are you Tiffy?’

I stare at her, and then duck down to the level of her wheelchair, because looming feels weird. ‘Yeah! People keep asking me that today. How did you guess?’

‘You are pretty!’ she says gleefully. ‘Are you nice as well?’

‘Oh, I’m horrible, actually,’ I tell her. ‘Why did you think I might be Tiffy? And’ — as an afterthought — ‘pretty?’

‘They said your name at the beginning,’ she points out. Oh, right, of course. Though that doesn’t explain all the creepy nurses. ‘You’re not really horrible. I think you’re nice. It was nice of you to let that lady measure your legs.’

‘It was, wasn’t it?’ I say. ‘I think that particular act of niceness has gone quite underappreciated up until this point, actually, so thank you. Do you want to learn how to crochet?’

‘No,’ she says.

I laugh. At least she’s honest, unlike the man behind her, who is valiantly having a go at making a slip knot under Katherin’s supervision. ‘What do you want to do, then?’

‘I want to talk to you about Leon,’ she says.

‘Ah! You know Leon!’

‘I’m his favourite patient.’

I smile. ‘I bet. So he’s mentioned me, has he?’

‘Not very much,’ she says.

‘Oh. Right. Well—’

‘But I told him I’d find out if you were pretty.’

‘Did you now! Did he ask you to do that?’

She thinks about it. ‘No. But I think he wanted to know.’

‘I don’t think he does . . .’ I realise I don’t know her name.

‘Holly,’ she says. ‘Like the Christmas plant.’

‘Well, Holly, me and Leon are just friends. Friends don’t need to know if friends are pretty.’

Suddenly Martin is right at my shoulder. ‘Can you pose with her?’ he mutters in my ear. God, that man knows how to creep up on you. He should wear a bell, like cats that eat birds.

‘Pose? With Holly?’

‘The leukaemia girl, yeah,’ Martin says. ‘For the press release.’

‘I can hear you, you know,’ Holly declares loudly.

Martin has just enough decency to look embarrassed. ‘Hello,’ he says in a stilted sort of way. ‘I’m Martin.’

Holly shrugs. ‘All right, Martin. My mum hasn’t given permission for you to take my photo. I don’t want my photo taken. People always feel sorry for me because I don’t have very much hair and I look sick.’

I can see Martin thinking that that was pretty much the idea. I am overcome by a sudden but not unprecedented urge to punch him, or at least kick him in the shins. Maybe I could stumble over Holly’s wheelchair and make it look like an accident.

‘Fine,’ Martin mutters, already off in Katherin’s direction, no doubt hoping that she’s located a similarly cute patient with fewer qualms about being plastered all over the Internet in order to further Martin’s career.

‘He’s horrible,’ Holly says matter-of-factly.

‘Yes,’ I say, without really thinking. ‘He is, isn’t he?’ I check my watch; we finish up in ten minutes.

‘Do you want to go and find Leon?’ Holly asks, looking at me rather cannily.

I glance over at Katherin and Martin. I mean, my work as a model is done, and I’m not even any good at crocheting, let alone teaching other people to do it. It’ll take them ages to get all this wool cleared up, and it would be quite nice not to be here for that bit.

I tap out a quick text to Katherin. I’m just heading off to find my flatmate to say thanks for organising. I’ll be back in time to tidy up xx (I definitely won’t.)

‘That way,’ Holly says, and then, when I totally fail to push her wheelchair, she laughs and points to the brake. ‘Everyone knows you have to take the brake off.’

‘I just thought you were really heavy,’ I tell her.

Holly giggles. ‘Leon will be in Coral Ward. Don’t follow the signs, they take you the long way. Turn left!’

I do as I’m told. ‘You really know your way around this place, don’t you?’ I say, after being directed down a dozen corridors and, at one point, through an actual closet.

‘I’ve been here seven months,’ Holly says. ‘And I’m friends with Mr Robbie Prior. He’s on Coral Ward and he was very important in one of the wars.’

‘Mr Prior! Does he knit?’

‘All the time,’ Holly says.

Excellent! I’m on my way to meet my life-saving knitter and my note-writing flatmate. I wonder if Leon will talk the way he writes, all short sentences and no pronouns.

‘Hey, Doctor Patel!’ Holly yells suddenly at a passing doctor. ‘This is Tiffy!’

Dr Patel pauses, lowers her glasses down her nose, then flashes me a smile. ‘Well I never,’ is all she says, before disappearing into the nearest patient’s room.

‘OK, Miss Holly,’ I say, spinning the wheelchair so we’re facing each other. ‘What is going on? Why does everyone here know my name? And why do they seem so surprised to see me?’

Holly looks mischievous. ‘Nobody believes you’re real,’ she says. ‘I told everyone Leon is living with a girl and he writes her notes and she makes him laugh and nobody believed me. They all said Leon couldn’t . . .’ she scrunches up her nose ‘. . . tolerate a flatmate. I think that means he wouldn’t want one because he’s so quiet. They don’t know, though, that actually he saves all his talking up for the really good people, like me and you.’

‘Seriously?’ I shake my head, grinning, and set off down the corridor again. It’s funny hearing about Leon from someone else. So far my only point of reference has been Kay, who hardly ever pops around these days.

With Holly’s instructions, we finally reach Coral Ward. She looks around, bracing herself on the arms of her chair to get a better look. ‘Where’s Mr Prior?’ she calls.

An elderly gentleman in a chair over by the window turns and smiles at Holly, his face a mass of deep wrinkles. ‘Hello, Holly.’

‘Mr Prior! This is Tiffy. She’s pretty, isn’t she?’

‘Ah, Ms Moore,’ Mr Prior says, attempting to stand and holding out his hand. ‘What a pleasure.’

I scuttle over, desperate for him to sit down in his chair again. It looks like unfolding himself out of that position would not be wise. ‘It’s such an honour to meet you, Mr Prior! I have to tell you, I adore your work — and I can’t thank you enough for crocheting all those scarves and hats for Katherin’s book.’

‘Oh, I enjoyed it very much. I would have come to your demonstration, but’ — he pats his chest absently — ‘I wasn’t feeling quite up to it, I’m afraid.’

‘Oh, that’s all right,’ I say. ‘It’s not like you need the lesson.’ I pause. ‘I don’t suppose you’ve seen . . .’

Mr Prior smiles. ‘Leon?’

‘Well, yeah. I just wanted to track him down to say hi.’

‘Mmm,’ Mr Prior says. ‘You’ll find our Leon is somewhat tricky to pin down. In fact, he just slipped out. I think someone tipped him off that you were coming.’

‘Oh.’ I look down, embarrassed. I didn’t mean to hound him around the hospital. Justin always said I never knew when to let something drop. ‘If he doesn’t want to see me, I should probably . . .’

Mr Prior waves a hand. ‘You mistake me, my dear,’ he says. ‘It isn’t that at all. I’d say Leon is rather nervous about meeting you.’

‘Why would he be nervous?’ I ask, as if I’ve not been nervous all day.

‘I couldn’t say for sure,’ Mr Prior says, ‘but Leon doesn’t like things . . . changing. I’d say he very much enjoys living with you, Ms Moore, and I do wonder if he doesn’t want to ruin it.’ He pauses. ‘I would suggest that if you want to introduce a change into Leon’s routine, you’re better off doing it very quickly, and all at once, so he has no means of dodging it.’

‘Like a surprise,’ Holly says solemnly.

‘Right,’ I say. ‘Well. Anyway, it was great to meet you, Mr Prior.’

‘One more thing, Ms Moore,’ Mr Prior says. ‘Leon was looking a little emotional. And holding a letter. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that, would you?’

‘Oh, God, I hope I didn’t say the wrong thing,’ I say, desperately trying to remember what I’d put in that letter to Richie.

‘No, no, he wasn’t upset. Just in a spin.’ Mr Prior takes his glasses off and rubs them against his shirt with shaky, gnarled fingers. ‘I would say, at a guess, that he was rather . . .’ the glasses go back on his nose ‘. . . surprised.’

22 Leon

It’s too much. I’m shaking. This is the most hope I have felt in months, and I’ve forgotten how to handle this emotion — insides have gone wobbly and skin has turned all cold and hot at same time. Heartrate has been raised for a good hour now. Can’t slow down.

I should go and thank Tiffy in person. She’s trying to find me and I keep hiding which is clearly childish and ridiculous. Am just feeling very odd about this. Like if we meet, everything will be different, and there will be no going back to how it was. And I like how it was. Is.

Me: June, where’s Tiffy?

June: Your lovely flatmate?

Me, patiently: Yes. Tiffy.

June: Leon, it’s almost one in the morning. She left after the show.

Me: Oh. Did she . . . leave a note? Or anything?

June: Sorry, love. She was trying to find you, though, if that’s any consolation.

It isn’t. And no note, either. Feel like a fool. I’ve missed the chance to say thank you; probably upset her, too. Don’t like that thought. But — still buzzing about the letter, and it buoys me through the rest of the night with only the occasional crushing memory of dodging down corridors to avoid social interaction (extreme antisocialness, even for me. Wince at the thought of what Richie will say).

At the end of my shift I leave at a jog and head for the bus stop. Call Kay as soon as I’m out the door. Cannot wait to tell her about the letter, the criminal lawyer friend, the list of questions.

Kay is unusually quiet.

Me: This is amazing, no?

Kay: This lawyer’s not actually done anything, Leon. She’s not taking on the case — or even saying she believes Richie is innocent, really.

Almost stumble, like someone has physically put out hand to stop me.

Me: It’s something, though. There’s not been something for so long.

Kay: And I thought you weren’t ever going to meet Tiffy. That was the first rule we set when I agreed to this flatshare.

Me: What . . . ever? Can’t meet her ever? She’s my flatmate.

Kay: Don’t make out like I’m being unreasonable.

Me: Didn’t realise you meant . . . Eh, this is silly. I didn’t meet her, anyway. I called to tell you Richie news.

Another long silence. I frown, walking slower now.

Kay: I wish you’d come to terms with Richie’s situation, Leon. It’s draining so much of your energy, all of this — it’s changed you these last few months. I think the healthiest thing — if I’m honest — is to reach acceptance. And I’m sure you will, it’s just . . . it’s been a while. And it’s really putting a strain on you. On us.

Don’t understand. Did she not hear? It’s not like I’m saying same old things, hanging on to same old hopes — I’m saying, there is new hope. There are new things.

Me: What are you suggesting? We just give up? But there’s new evidence to get, now that we know what to look for!

Kay: You’re not a lawyer, Leon. And Sal is a lawyer, and you’ve said yourself that he did his best, and I personally think it’s not right for this woman to be interfering and giving you and Richie hope when the case was so open and shut. The jury all thought he was guilty, Leon.

Coldness growing low down in stomach. Heartrate ups again, and for all the wrong reasons this time. I’m getting angry. That feeling again, the trapped hateful rage at hearing someone you try so hard to love saying the worst things.

Me: What is this, Kay? I can’t figure out what you want from me.

Kay: I want you back.

Me: What?

Kay: I want you back, Leon. Present. In your life. With me. It’s like . . . you’ve stopped seeing me. You drift in and out and spend your spare time here, but you’re not really with me. You’re always with Richie. You always care about Richie — more than you care about me.

Me: Of course I care more about Richie.

The pause is like silence after a gunshot. I slap hand to mouth. Didn’t mean to say it; don’t know where it came from.

Me: I don’t mean it like that. I don’t mean that. Just . . . Richie needs more of my . . . care right now. He has nobody.

Kay: Do you have any of your care left for anyone else? For you?

She means, for me?

Kay: Please. Actually think about it. Actually think about you and me.

She’s crying now. I feel wretched, but that roaring hot–cold sensation deep in my stomach is still burning.

Me: You still think he’s guilty, don’t you?

Kay: Damn it, Leon, I’m trying to talk about us, not about your brother.

Me: I need to know.

Kay: Can’t you just listen to me? I’m saying this is the only way you can heal. You can carry on believing he didn’t do it if you like, but you need to accept that he is in prison and will be for a good few years. You can’t keep fighting. It’s pulling your life apart. All you do is work and write to Richie and fixate on things, whether it’s some old guy’s boyfriend or the latest detail in Richie’s appeal. You used to do stuff. Go out. Spend time with me.

Me: I’ve never had much spare time, Kay. What I have has always been for you.

Kay: You go to see him every other weekend these days.

Is she really angry at me for visiting my brother in prison?

Kay: I know I can’t be mad at you for that. I know that. But I just . . . What I mean is, you have so little time, and now I feel I get an even smaller fraction of it, and . . .

Me: Do you still think Richie is guilty?

There is silence. I think I’m crying now too; there’s a hot wetness on my cheeks as yet another bus speeds by, and I can’t bear to get on.

Kay: Why does it always come back to this? Why does it matter? Our relationship shouldn’t have this much of your brother in it.

Me: Richie is part of me. We’re family.

Kay: Well, we’re partners. Doesn’t that mean anything?

Me: You know I love you.

Kay: Funny. I’m not sure I do know that.

Silence stretches on. Traffic speeds by. Scuff my feet, looking down at the sun-scorched pavement, feeling unreal.

Me: Just say it.

She waits. I wait. Another bus waits, then drives on.

Kay: I think Richie did it, Leon. It’s what the jury decided, and they had all the information. It’s the sort of thing he’d do.

Close my eyes slowly. It doesn’t feel like I expected it to — it’s strange, but it’s almost a relief. Have been hearing her say it in silence for months, ever since The Argument. This is an end to the endless twisting in the gut, the endless waiting on the edges of conversations, the endless knowing but trying not to know.

Kay is sobbing. I listen, eyes still closed, and it’s like I’m floating.

Kay: This is it, isn’t it?

It’s obvious, all at once. This is it. Can’t do this any more. Can’t have this eating away at my love for Richie, can’t be with a person who doesn’t love him too.

Me: Yes. This is it.

23 Tiffy

The day after my visit to the hospice, I come home to the longest and most incoherent note I’ve ever had from Leon, laid on the kitchen counter beside an uneaten plate of spaghetti.

I stare at it for a while. Well, at least he didn’t avoid me all night because he didn’t want to see me. But . . . uneaten dinner? All these long sentences? What does it mean?

I lay a Post-it beside his note, sticking it carefully to the countertop.

The unusual wordiness of Leon’s letter is very much a one-off. For the next two weeks his notes are even more monosyllabic and lacking in personal pronouns than usual. I don’t want to push it, but something has clearly upset him. Are he and Kay fighting? She’s not been around, and he hasn’t mentioned her for weeks. I don’t know how to help when he won’t tell me, though, so I just bake a bit too much and don’t complain that he’s not been cleaning the flat properly. Yesterday his coffee mug wasn’t on the left of the sink or the right — it was still in the cupboard, and he must have gone to work without any caffeine at all.

In a flash of inspiration I leave Leon the next manuscript from my bricklayer-turned-designer, the one who wrote Built. Book two — Skyscraping – is maybe even better, and I’m hoping it’ll cheer him up.

I come home to this note on top of the ring-bound manuscript:

I’m counting that exclamation mark as a major sign of improvement.

It’s the day of our trial book launch, the one we’re taking Katherin to so PR can persuade her that a huge launch is exactly what she’s always wanted.

‘No tights,’ Rachel says decisively. ‘It’s August, for God’s sake.’

We’re getting ready together in the office loos. Every so often someone comes in to pee and lets out a little yelp as they see that the room has been transformed into a dressing room. Both our make-up bags are emptied across the sinks; the air is clouded with perfume and hairspray. We each have three outfit choices hung up along the mirrors, plus the ones we’re now wearing (our final choices: Rachel is in a lime green silk wraparound dress, and I’m in a tea dress covered in enormous prints of Alice in Wonderland — I found the fabric in a Stockwell charity shop and bribed one of my most obliging freelancers to make it into a dress for me).

I wriggle around and whip my tights off. Rachel nods in approval.

‘Better. More leg is good.’

‘You’d have me dressed in a bikini if you had your way.’

She grins cheekily at me in the mirror as she dabs at her lipstick.

‘Well, you might meet a handsome young Nordic man,’ she says.

Tonight is all about Forestry for the Ordinary Man, our woodwork editor’s latest acquisition. The author is a Norwegian hermit. It’s quite a big deal that he’s left his treehouse for long enough to come to London. Rachel and I are hoping that he has a complete meltdown and turns on Martin, who is organising this event, and really should have taken the author’s hermit lifestyle as a sign that he probably doesn’t want to give a speech to a room full of woodwork fanatics.

‘I’m not sure I’m ready for handsome young Nordic men. I don’t know.’ I find myself thinking back to what Mo said to me about Justin a few months ago, when I’d rung him in a state about whether Justin would ever get in touch with me. ‘I’m struggling with being . . . ready to date. Even though Justin left ages ago.’

Rachel pauses mid dab to stare at me with concern. ‘Are you all right?’

‘I think so,’ I say. ‘Yeah, I think I’m fine.’

‘So it’s because of Justin?’

‘No, no, I don’t mean that. Maybe I just don’t need that in my life right now.’ I know that’s not true, but I say it anyway because Rachel is looking at me as if I’m ill.

‘You do,’ Rachel tells me. ‘You’ve just not had sex for too long. You’ve forgotten how exceptional it is.’

‘I don’t think I’ve forgotten what sex is, Rachel. Isn’t it like, you know. Riding a bike?’

‘Similar,’ Rachel concedes, ‘but you’ve not been with a man since Justin, which ended, what, November last year? So that means it’s been more than . . .’ She counts on her fingers. ‘Nine months.’

‘Nine months?’ Wow. That is a very long time. You can grow a whole baby in that time. Not that I am, obviously, because otherwise this tea dress would not fit.

Unsettled, I apply blusher a bit too vigorously and end up looking sunburnt. Ugh. I’ll have to start again.

Martin from PR may be a pain in the arse, but the man can put on a woodwork-themed party. We’re in a pub in Shoreditch with exposed beams looming low above us; there are piles of logs as centrepieces on every table, and the bar is decorated with pine branches.

I look around, ostensibly trying to find Katherin, but really trying to locate the Norwegian author who hasn’t seen a human being in six months. I check the corners, where I suspect he will be cowering.

Rachel drags me to the bar to find out once and for all if the drinks are free. They are for the first hour, apparently — we curse ourselves for arriving twenty minutes late and order gin and tonics. Rachel befriends the bartender by talking about football, which actually works a surprising amount of the time, despite being the most unoriginal topic to assume a man would be interested in.

We obviously drink very quickly, that being the only reasonable reaction to a one-hour window for free drinks, so when Katherin arrives I give her an especially effusive hug. She looks pleased.

‘This is a bit decadent,’ she says. ‘Will this man’s book pay for this?’ She is no doubt thinking of her previous royalty cheques.

‘Oh, no,’ Rachel says airily, gesturing for a top-up from her new best friend and now fellow Arsenal fan (Rachel supports West Ham). ‘Not likely. But you have to do this sort of thing occasionally otherwise everyone will just self-publish.’

‘Shhh,’ I hiss. I don’t want Katherin getting any ideas.

Several gin and tonics later, Rachel and the bartender are more than friendly, and other people are really having trouble getting served. To my surprise, Katherin is in her element. Right now she’s laughing at something our head of PR has said, which I know is an act, because the head of PR is literally never funny.

These events are perfect for people-watching. I swivel on my bar stool to get a better view of the room. There are indeed quite a lot of handsome Nordic men about. I consider the possibility of taking myself out into the room until someone obligingly introduces me to one of them, but I just can’t bring myself to do it.

‘Kind of like watching ants, isn’t it?’ says someone from beside me. I turn; there’s a smartly dressed business type leaning against the bar to my left. He smiles ruefully at me. His light-brown hair is buzzed short, the same length as his stubble, and his eyes are a cute blue-grey with crinkles at the edges. ‘That sounded a lot worse out loud than in my head.’

I look back at the crowd. ‘I know what you mean,’ I say. ‘They all look so . . . busy. And purposeful.’

‘Except him,’ the man says, nodding to a guy in the opposite corner, who has just been abandoned by the young woman he was talking to.

‘He’s a lost ant,’ I agree. ‘What do you reckon — is he our Norwegian hermit?’

‘Oh, I don’t know,’ the man says, giving him an appraising look. ‘Not good-looking enough, I don’t think.’

‘Why, have you seen the author photo?’ I ask.

‘Yep. Handsome guy. Dashing, some might say.’

I narrow my eyes at him. ‘It’s you, isn’t it? You’re the author.’

He smiles, and the crinkles in the corners of his eyes lengthen into tiny crow’s feet. ‘Guilty.’

‘You’re very well dressed for a hermit,’ I say, a little accusingly. I feel misled. He doesn’t even have a Norwegian accent, damn it.

‘If you’d read this,’ he says, waving one of the samplers that was available on our way in, ‘then you’d know that before I chose to live alone in Nordmarka, I was an investment banker in Oslo. I last wore this suit on the day I resigned.’

‘Really? What made you do it?’

He opens the sampler and begins to read. ‘Tired of the corporate toil, Ken had a revelation after a weekend spent hiking with an old school friend who now made his living in woodwork. Ken had always loved to use his hands’ — and now the look he gives me is definitely flirtatious — ‘and when he went back to his old friend’s workshop, he felt suddenly at home. It was clear within moments that he was an extraordinarily skilled woodworker.’

‘If only we always had a pre-written biography for meeting new people,’ I say, raising an eyebrow. ‘Makes it so much easier to brag.’

‘Give me yours, then,’ he says, snapping the sampler closed with a smile.

‘My bio? Hmm. Let me see. Tiffy Moore escaped the smallness of her village upbringing for the great adventure that is London as soon as she could. There, she found the life she had always wanted: overpriced coffee, squalid accommodation, and an extraordinary lack of graduate jobs that didn’t involve spreadsheets.’

Ken laughs. ‘You’re good. Are you in PR too?’

‘Editorial,’ I tell him. ‘If I was in PR, I’d have to be out there with the ants.’

‘Well, I’m glad you’re not,’ he says. ‘I prefer to be away from the crowd, but I don’t think I could have resisted saying hello to the beautiful woman in the Lewis Carroll dress.’

He gives me a look. A very intense look. My stomach flutters. But . . . I can do this. Why not?

‘Do you want to get some air?’ I find myself saying. He nods, and I grab my jacket off the chair and head for the door to the pub garden.

It’s a perfect summer evening. The air is still tinged with warmth even though the sun set hours ago; the pub has hung up strings of lightbulbs between the trees, and they cast a soft yellow glow across the garden. There are a few people out here, mainly smokers — they have that hunched look that smokers get, like the world is against them. Ken and I take a seat on a picnic bench.

‘So, when you say “hermit” . . .’ I begin.

‘Which I haven’t,’ Ken points out.

‘Right. But what exactly does that involve?’

‘Living alone, somewhere secluded. Very few people.’

‘Very few?’

‘The odd friend, the grocery delivery woman.’ He shrugs. ‘It’s not as quiet as people make it out to be.’

‘The grocery delivery woman, eh?’ I give him a look this time.

He laughs. ‘I’ll admit, that’s one downside of solitude.’

‘Oh, please. You don’t need to live alone in a treehouse to not have any sex.’

I press my lips together. I’m not entirely sure where that came from — possibly from the last gin and tonic — but Ken just smiles, a slow, really quite sexy smile, and then leans down to kiss me.

As I close my eyes and lean in, I feel giddy on possibility. There’s nothing to stop me going home with this man, and it’s a sunlight-through-the-clouds moment — like something’s lifted. I can do whatever I want now. I’m free.

And then, as the kiss deepens, with disorientating suddenness I remember something.

Justin. I’m crying. We’ve just had a fight and it was all my fault. Justin has gone cold, his back turned on me in our enormous white bed with all its trendy brushed cotton and endless pillows.

I am deeply miserable. More miserable than I have remembered being before, and yet it doesn’t feel at all unfamiliar. Justin turns towards me, and suddenly, giddily, his hands are on me and we’re kissing. I’m muddled, lost. I’m so grateful he’s not angry with me any more. He knows just where to touch me. The misery hasn’t gone, it’s still there, but he wants me now, and the relief makes everything else seem small.

Back here, in the garden in Shoreditch, Ken pulls back from the kiss. He’s smiling. I don’t think he can even tell that my skin has gone clammy and my heart is racing for all the wrong reasons.

Fuck. Fuck. What the hell was that?