The Flatshare

24 Leon

Richie: How are you feeling, man?

How am I feeling? Untethered. Like something’s got dislodged somewhere in my chest and my body doesn’t function quite right any more. Like I’m alone.

Me: Sad.

Richie: You’ve not been in love with Kay for months, I’m telling you. I’m so glad you’re out of that relationship, man — it was about habit, not about love.

Wonder why the fact that Richie’s right doesn’t lessen the pain in any meaningful way. Miss Kay almost constantly. Like a nagging ache. It worsens every time I pick up the phone to call her, and then have nobody to call.

Me: Anyway. Any news from Tiffy’s lawyer friend?

Richie: Not yet. I can’t stop thinking about it. You know every single thing in her letter just made me go, ‘Oh, yeah, shit, why didn’t we think of that?’

Me: Same.

Richie: You did pass on my reply? You made sure she got it?

Me: Tiffy gave it to her.

Richie: You’re sure?

Me: I’m sure.

Richie: OK. All right. Sorry. I’m just . . .

Me: I know. Me too.

For the last two weekends, have Airbnb’ed my way around UK on quest for Mr Prior’s boyfriend. It was an excellent distraction. Met two radically different Johnny Whites — one bitter, furious and alarmingly right wing, and the other living in a caravan and smoking weed out of the window as we discussed his life since the war. Has at least provided amusement for Tiffy — notes about Johnny Whites always get good response. Got this after describing trip to meet Johnny White the Third:

If you’re not careful I’ll commission you to write a book about this. Obviously in order for it to fit with my publishing list I’d have to introduce some element of DIY — could you learn a different craft from each Johnny, or something? You know, like, Johnny White the First spontaneously teaches you how to make a bookcase, and then there you are with Johnny White the Second and he’s making royal icing and you just happen to join in . . . Oh my God, is this the best idea I’ve ever had? Or maybe the worst? I absolutely cannot tell. xx

Often think it must be very tiring, being Tiffy. Even in note form she seems to expend so much energy. Quite cheering to come home to, though.

This weekend’s visit to Richie was cancelled — not enough prison staff. Will have been five weeks between visits. That’s too long for him, and, I’m realising, for me also. With Kay gone and Richie able to ring even less than usual — too few prison staff means more time banged up, less access to phones — I’m finding that even I can suffer from not talking enough. It’s not like there aren’t friends I can call. But they’re not . . . the people I can talk to.

Had booked Airbnb up near Birmingham for Richie visit, but have cancelled that now, and am forced to confront the fact that this coming weekend, I will need somewhere to stay. I was clearly too complacent about the state of my relationship when arranging this living situation. Am now homeless at weekends.

Wrack brains for options. Nothing for it. Am on way to work; check time on phone. It’s about the only window of the day when I can ring my mother. I get off the bus a stop early and call her as I walk.

Mam, on answering: You don’t call me enough, Lee.

Close eyes. Deep breath.

Me: Hi, Mam.

Mam: Richie calls me more than you. From prison.

Me: Sorry, Mam.

Mam: Do you know how hard this is for me? My boys never talking to me?

Me: I’m calling now, Mam. I’ve got a few minutes before work — I want to talk to you about something.

Mam, suddenly alert: Is it the appeal? Has Sal called you?

I haven’t told Mam about Tiffy’s lawyer friend. Don’t want to get her hopes up.

Me: No. It’s about me.

Mam, suspicious: About you?

Me: Kay and I broke up.

Mam melts. Suddenly all sympathy. This is what she needs: a son to call her and ask for help with something she can handle. My mother is good at dealing with romantic heartbreak. Has had lots of personal practice.

Mam: Oh, sweetheart. Why did she end it?

Mildly insulted.

Me: I ended it.

Mam: Oh! You did? What for?

Me: I . . .

Oh. It’s surprisingly difficult, even with Mam.

Me: She couldn’t handle my hours. Didn’t like me how I was — wanted me to be more sociable. And . . . she didn’t believe Richie’s innocent.

Mam: She what?

Wait. Silence. Gut twists; it feels terrible dobbing Kay in, even now.

Mam: That cow. She always did look down on us.

Me: Mam!

Mam: Well, I’m not sorry. Good riddance to her.

It’s like speaking ill of the dead, somehow. I’m desperate to veer off subject.

Me: Can I come stay this weekend?

Mam: Stay? Here? At mine?

Me: Yeah. I used to stay at Kay’s every weekend. It’s part of . . . the living arrangement. With Tiffy.

Mam: You want to come home?

Me: Yeah. Just for . . .

Bite tongue. It’s not just for this weekend. It’s until I find solution. But it’s automatic to put a firm endpoint on these things; that’s the only way to feel able to escape. When I get home, Mam will have me, and will not let me go.

Mam: You can stay as long as you need, and whenever you need, all right?

Me: Thanks.

Moment of quiet. I can hear how pleased she is; gut twists again. Should visit more.

Me: Can I check . . . Do you . . . Is there anyone else? Living there?

Mam, awkwardly: Nobody else, sweetie. I’ve been on my own for a few months now.

That’s good. Unusual, and good. Mam always has a man, and he always seems to be living with her, whoever he is. Almost always someone who Richie despises and I would rather not have to see. Mam has unequivocally bad taste. She’s always been a woman led astray by a bad man, a hundred times over.

Me: I’ll see you Saturday night.

Mam: Can’t wait. I’ll get us Chinese, all right?

Silence. That’s what we would do when Richie came home: Saturday night Chinese from Happy Duck down Mam’s road.

Mam: Or let’s get Indian. I feel like a change, don’t you?

25 Tiffy

‘Are you all right?’ Ken asks.

I’m pretty much frozen. My heart is pounding.

‘Yes. Sorry, yes, I’m fine.’ I try a smile.

‘Do you want to get out of here?’ he says tentatively. ‘I mean, the party’s nearly over . . .’

Do I? I did, about one minute ago. Now, even with the buzz of that kiss still warm on my lips, I want to run away. I’m not really thinking thoughts — my brain is just producing this extremely unhelpful one-tone note of panic, like a loud long uuuhhhh rattling back and forth between my ears.

Someone calls my name. I recognise the voice, but I don’t connect the dots until I turn and see Justin.

He’s standing in the doorway between the garden and the pub, dressed in an open-necked shirt with his old leather satchel slung over his shoulder. He looks painfully familiar, but things are different too: his hair is longer than he ever wore it when we were together, and he’s got new city-corporate shoes. I feel as if I’ve conjured him up by thinking about him — how else could he possibly be here?

His eyes flick to Ken for a moment, and then they’re back to me. He crosses the grass between us. I am glued to the spot, shoulders tensed, crouched over on the bench with Ken beside me.

‘You look beautiful.’

This, unbelievably, is the first thing he says.

‘Justin.’ This is about all I can manage. I look back at Ken, and no doubt my face is a picture of misery.

‘Let me guess,’ says Ken lightly. ‘Boyfriend?’

‘Ex,’ I say. ‘Ex! I would never — I . . .’

Ken smiles an easy, sexy smile at me, and then turns an equally good-natured one on Justin. ‘Hi,’ he says, holding out his hand for Justin to shake. ‘Ken.’

Justin barely looks at him; he shakes his hand for approximately half a second before turning back to me. ‘Can I talk to you?’

I look between him and Ken. I can’t believe I was even thinking about going home with Ken. I can’t do that.

‘I’m sorry,’ I begin. ‘I really . . .’

‘Hey, don’t worry about it,’ Ken says, standing up. ‘You have my contact details if you fancy getting in touch while I’m still in London.’ He waves the sampler, still in his hand. ‘Nice to meet you,’ he says, extremely politely, in Justin’s direction.

‘Yeah,’ is all Justin says.

As Ken walks away, the uuuhhhh quietens and I feel as if I’m waking up a little, coming out of some sort of trance. I stand, knees shaking, and face Justin.

‘What. The hell. Are you doing here?’

Justin doesn’t react to the venom in my voice. Instead he puts his hand on my back and starts leading me towards the side gate. I move mechanically, unthinking, and then shrug him off sharply as soon as I clock what’s happening.

‘Hey, whoa.’ He looks at me as we pause in the gateway. The evening air is warm, almost stifling. ‘Are you OK? Sorry if I surprised you.’

‘And ruined my evening.’

He smiles. ‘Come on, Tiffy. You needed rescuing. You’d never go home with a guy like that.’

I open my mouth to speak, and then close it again. I was going to say he doesn’t know me any more, but somehow it doesn’t come out. ‘What are you doing here?’ I manage instead.

‘I was just coming in for a drink. I come to this place a fair bit.’

I mean, this is just ridiculous. I cannot believe this. The cruise ship might have been a coincidence — a very weird one, but just about plausible — but this?

‘Do you not think this is odd?’

He’s confused. He tilts his head, like huh? My stomach flips — I used to love that little head-tilt.

‘We’ve bumped into each other twice in six months. Once, on a cruise ship.’

I need an explanation for this that isn’t ‘Justin appears when you think bad thoughts about him’, which is currently all my half-frozen brain can believe. I’m scaring myself a little.

He smiles indulgently. ‘Tiffy. Come on. What are you suggesting? That I got on that cruise to see you? That I turned up tonight just to see you? If I wanted to do that, why wouldn’t I just call you? Or turn up at your office?’

Oh. I . . . I guess that makes sense. My cheeks flush; I’m suddenly embarrassed.

He squeezes my shoulder. ‘It is great to see you, though. And yeah, it’s a pretty crazy coincidence. Fate, maybe? I did wonder why I suddenly wanted a pint this evening, of all evenings.’ He does an exaggerated mysterious face, and I can’t help smiling. I’d forgotten how cute he is when he clowns around.

No. Not smiling. Not cute. I think of what Gerty and Mo would say, and gather my resolve.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’

‘I am glad I bumped into you,’ he says. ‘I really . . . I have been meaning to call. But it’s so hard to know where to start.’

‘Hit the phone icon, I’d suggest, then search your contacts by name?’ I say. My voice is shaking a little, and I hope he doesn’t hear it.

He laughs. ‘I forgot how funny you are when you’re angry. No, I mean, I didn’t want to tell you this on the phone.’

‘Tell me what? Let me guess. That you’ve broken up with the woman you left me for?’

I’ve caught him off guard. There’s a little thrill when I see his perfect confident smile waver, and then a wash of something else — more like anxiety. I don’t want to piss him off. I take a deep breath. ‘I don’t want to see you, Justin. This doesn’t change anything. You still left me for her, you still — you still . . .’

‘I never cheated on you,’ he says immediately. We’ve begun walking, I’m not sure where; he stops me again and puts his hands on my shoulders, turning me so I have to look him in the face. ‘I would never do that to you, Tiffy. You know how crazy I am about you.’

‘Was.’

‘What?’

‘How crazy I was about you, is what you meant to say.’ Already I wish I’d taken the chance to tell him that the reason I don’t want to see him is actually nothing to do with Patricia. Although I’m not sure what it is about. It’s about . . . all the other stuff, whatever that was. I feel very muddled all of a sudden. Justin’s presence always does this to me — makes me all confused until I lose my train of thought. That was part of the romance, I guess, but right now it doesn’t feel nice at all.

‘Don’t tell me what I mean and don’t mean.’ He looks away for a moment. ‘Look, I’m here now. Can’t we just go get a drink somewhere and talk about it? Come on. We can go to that champagne bar around the corner where they serve your drinks in paint cans. Or we can go to the top of the Shard, remember when I took you there as a treat? What do you say?’

I stare at him. His big, brown eyes, always so earnest, always sparkling with that crazy excitement that caught me up every time. His perfect jawline. His confident smile. I try very hard not to think about the awful memory that came when I kissed Ken, but it seems to be in my system now, worse than ever with Justin here. My skin’s crawling with it.

‘Why didn’t you call me?’

‘I told you,’ he says, impatient now, ‘I didn’t know how to tell you about this.’

‘And why are you here?’

‘Tiffy,’ he says sharply, ‘just come for a drink.’

I flinch, and then take another deep breath. ‘You want to talk to me, you call ahead and we arrange a time. Not now.’

‘When, then?’ he asks, frowning, his hands still heavy on my shoulders.

‘Just . . . I need time.’ My head feels cloudy. ‘I don’t want to talk to you right now.’

‘Time like a couple of hours?’

‘Time like a couple of months,’ I say before I’ve thought about it, and then I bite my lip, because now I’ve given us a deadline.

‘I want to see you now,’ he says, and suddenly the hands that are on my shoulders have moved to touch my hair, my upper arm.

That flashback plays behind my eyes. I shrug him off. ‘Try delayed gratification, Justin. It’s the only kind you’re going to get, and I have a feeling it’ll be good for you.’

And with that, I turn before I can change my mind, and stumble back into the bar.

26 Leon

Holly has almost a full head of hair now. She’s like a female Harry Potter — hair sticking up all over the place no matter how much her mum tries to smooth it flat.

Her face has changed too, got fuller, livelier. Eyes look less out of proportion with the rest of her these days.

She grins up at me.

Holly: Have you come to say goodbye?

Me: I’ve come to check your bloods.

Holly: For one last time?

Me: Depends what they say.

Holly: You’re being grumpy. You don’t want me to leave.

Me: Of course I do. I want you to be well.

Holly: No you don’t. You don’t like stuff changing. You want me to stay here.

Don’t say anything. It’s annoying, being so completely understood by one so very small.

Holly: I’ll miss you too. Will you visit me at home?

I glance at her mum, who’s wearing a tired but very happy smile.

Me: You’ll be too busy at school and all your after-school clubs. You won’t want visitors.

Holly: Yes I will.

Holly’s Mum: I’d love to have you round for dinner. Really — and Holly would too. Just to say thank you.

Sheer euphoria surrounding Holly’s mother like a cloud of perfume.

Me: Well, maybe. Thanks.

Holly’s mum is welling up. I never cope well with these situations. Start to feel slightly panicked; edge towards door.

She hugs me before I can escape. Feel suddenly very wobbly. I’m not sure if it’s Holly or Kay I want to cry about, but someone hugging me is doing something involving my tear glands.

Wipe eyes and hope Holly doesn’t notice. Ruffle her messy brown hair.

Me: Be good.

Holly grins. Get the impression she has other plans.

I get out of work in time to see the last traces of a truly glorious sunrise behind London’s skyscrapers and reflected in the steel grey of the Thames, turning it blue-pink. Seem to have so much time now Kay is gone. Makes me wonder if I really did give her as little time as she always claimed — if that’s true, where have all these hours come from?

Decide to stop somewhere for a tea, then walk home — only takes an hour and a half, and it’s the sort of morning you want to be out in. People are buzzing in all directions, on their way to work, coffees clutched close. I let them all stream by. Walk up through the back roads as much as I can; they’re a little sleepier than the main roads.

I find myself on Clapham Road without really noticing. Go cold when I see the off-licence. But make myself stop. Seems respectful, like taking your hat off when a hearse goes by.

Can’t help noticing that the Aldi security cameras really do point in every possible direction, including this one. Something wishful grips me. I remember the whole point of why Kay and I broke up. I’ve been too sad to remember that there is hope for Richie.

Maybe Gerty will have written back to Richie by now. I walk on, faster now, keen to get home. He might try to call, expecting me to be back at usual time. Feel sure he has; am furious with myself for missing him.

Deep breaths. I fumble with the key in the door, but oddly it’s not double-locked — Tiffy has never forgotten before. I give a cursory look around the room when I get in to make sure we’ve not been burgled, but TV and laptop are still there, so head straight for landline and check for missed calls or voicemails.

Nothing. Breathe out. Am sweaty from power-walking in the morning sunshine; chuck keys in customary space (they now live under the Spot the Dog moneybox) and yank off T-shirt as I head to bathroom. Shove the row of multi-coloured candles off the edge of the bath so I can actually shower. Then turn the hot water on and stand there, washing off yet another week.

27 Tiffy

Oh, God.

I think this is the worst I’ve ever felt. It’s worse than the hangover I had after Rachel’s twenty-fifth. It’s worse than the time at uni when I drank two bottles of wine and vomited outside the faculty office. It’s worse than swine flu.

I’m still wearing the Alice in Wonderland dress. I have slept on top of the duvet, under just my Brixton blanket. I at least had the foresight to take my shoes off and leave them at the door.

Oh, God.

The line-of-sight from where I am to the shoes intersects with the alarm clock. It is saying a time that cannot possibly be correct. It is saying 08:59.

I should be at work in one minute.

How has this happened? I scramble up, my stomach lurching and my head spinning, and as I fumble about looking for my purse — oh good, at least I didn’t lose that, and ah yes, aspirin — I remember how this all started.

I’d gone back inside after walking away from Justin, and dragged Rachel off the bartender’s face in order to weep at her for a while. She was not the best person to speak to — she’s the only person left who’s Team Justin. (I didn’t mention that weird kiss flashback. And I do not want to think about it now, either.) At first Rachel told me to go back out there and hear what he had to say, but then she came around to my delayed gratification strategy, which Katherin also approved of — oh, God, I told Katherin . . .

I neck some aspirin and try not to gag. Was I sick last night? I have vague and unpleasant memories of being way too close to a toilet seat in that bar’s bathroom.

I type a quick apology text to the head of Editorial, panic rising. I’m never this late for work, and everyone will know it’s because I’m hungover. If they don’t, I’m sure Martin will be happy to enlighten them.

I can’t go to work like this, I realise, in my first moment of clarity of the morning. I need to wash and change. I unzip the dress and kick it off, already reaching for my towel on the back of the door.

I don’t hear the running water. There is a constant buzzing in my ears that sort of already sounds like a shower turned on, and I am in such a panic I don’t think I would notice if my stuffed elephant came alive on the armchair and started telling me I need to detox.

I only realise Leon is in the shower when I see him there. Our shower curtain is mostly opaque, but you can definitely see a bit. I mean, outlines.

He does the natural thing: panics and throws the curtain back to see who’s there. We stare at each other. The shower keeps running.

He comes to his senses faster than I do and pulls the curtain again.

‘Ahhh,’ he says. It’s more of a gargled noise than a word.

I am in my extremely small, lacy going-out underwear. I haven’t even wrapped my towel around myself — it’s thrown over my arm. Somehow that feels a lot worse than not having any means of covering myself up at all — I was so close to not exposing myself, and yet so far.

‘Oh, God,’ I squeak. ‘I’m so — I’m so sorry.’

He flips the shower off. He probably can’t hear me over the noise. He turns his back on me; the fact that I notice this makes me realise that I should really stop looking at the outline behind the shower curtain. I turn my back on him too.

‘Ahhh,’ he says again.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Oh, God. This is not . . . how I imagined meeting you.’

I wince. That sounded a bit keen.

‘Did you . . .’ he begins.

‘I didn’t see anything,’ I lie quickly.

‘Good. OK. Me neither,’ he says.

‘I should . . . I’m so late for work.’

‘Oh, you need the shower?’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘I’m finished,’ he says. We still have our backs to one another. I slip the towel off my arm and now — about five minutes too late — wrap it around myself.

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ I say.

‘Umm. Need my towel,’ he says.

‘Oh, of course,’ I say, grabbing it off the rail and turning.

‘Eyes closed,’ he yells.

I freeze and close my eyes. ‘They’re closed! They’re closed!’

I feel him take the towel from my hand.

‘OK. You can open them again.’

He steps out of the shower. I mean, he’s decent now, but he’s still not wearing a lot. I can see all of his chest, for instance. And quite a lot of his stomach.

He’s a couple of inches taller than me. Wet, his thick curly hair still doesn’t sit flat; it’s smoothed back behind his ears and dripping on to his shoulders. His face is fine-boned and his eyes are deep brown, a few tones darker than his skin; he has laughter lines, and his ears stick out a little, as if they’ve learnt the habit from always keeping his hair back from his face.

He turns to sidestep past me. He’s doing his best, but there’s really not room for two of us, and as he slides by me the warm skin of his back brushes against my chest. I inhale, hangover forgotten. Despite the lace bra and the towel between us, my skin has gone prickly and something has started fizzing hotly at the base of my stomach, where all the best feelings tend to sit.

He glances over his shoulder at me, an intense, half-nervous, half-curious look that only makes me feel warmer. I can’t help it. As he turns towards the door I glance down.

Is he . . . That looks like . . .

It can’t have been. It must have been some bunched-up towel.

He closes the door behind him and I collapse backwards against the basin for a moment. The reality of the last two minutes is so painfully embarrassing that I find myself saying ‘oh, God’ out loud and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. This does not help with my hangover, which has come rushing back now that the naked man has left the bathroom.

God. I’m flushed with heat, all flustered and skin-prickly and breathless — no, I’m turned on. I didn’t see that coming. Surely this situation was far too awkward for that to even be possible? I’m a grown woman! Can’t I handle seeing a man naked? It’s probably just because I haven’t had sex for so long. It’s some sort of biological thing, like how the smell of bacon gets you salivating, or how holding other people’s babies makes you want to end your career and immediately start procreating.

In a sudden panic I swivel to look at myself in the mirror, wiping the condensation from its surface to reveal my pale, gaunt face. My lipstick has ingrained itself into the dry skin of my lips, and my eyeshadow and eyeliner have blurred into a black mess around each eye. I look like a toddler who’s attempted to use its mother’s make-up.

I groan. This is a disaster. This could not have gone worse. I look terrible, and he looked really quite astonishingly good. I think back to the day when I checked him out on Facebook — I don’t remember him being attractive. How did I not notice? Oh, God, why does it even matter? It’s Leon. Flatmate Leon. Leon-with-a-girlfriend Leon.

Right, I’ve got to shower and go to work. I’ll deal with my hormones and incredibly awkward living situation tomorrow.

Oh, God. I am so late.

28 Leon

Ahhh.

Ahhh.

Lie on back in bed, immobilised by pounding shame. Cannot think in words. Ahhh is only sound adequate to express sufficient horror.

Didn’t Kay say Tiffy was unattractive? I’d just assumed! Or . . . or . . . I’d not even thought about it, actually. But, Jesus. She’s like . . . Ahhh.

Can’t spring a scantily clad lady on a man in the shower. Can’t do that. It’s not fair.

Can’t connect that woman in the bathroom in the red underwear with the woman I write notes to and clean up after. Had just never . . .

Landline rings. Freeze. Landline is in kitchen. Chance of bumping into Tiffy again: high.

Unfreeze and shake self. Obviously have to answer phone — will be Richie. Dart out of bedroom, clutching towel at waist, and locate phone under pile of Mr Prior’s hats on kitchen sideboard; answer while dashing back to bedroom.

Me: Hey.

Richie: Are you all right?

Make groaning noise.

Richie, alert: What is it? What’s happened?

Me: No, no, nothing bad. Just . . . met Tiffy.

Richie, cheered: Oh! Is she hot?

Repeat groaning noise.

Richie: She is! I knew it.

Me: She wasn’t meant to be. I assumed Kay made sure she wasn’t!

Richie: Did she look anything like Kay?

Me: Eh?

Richie: Kay wouldn’t think anyone’s hot unless they look like Kay.

Wince, but sort of know what he means. Can’t get image of Tiffy out of head. Ruffled red hair all over the place, like she’s just got out of bed. Light-brown freckles across pale skin, dusting her arms and dappled across her chest. Red lace bra. Ridiculously perfect breasts.

Ahhh.

Richie: Where is she now?

Me: Shower.

Richie: And where are you?

Me: Hiding in the bedroom.

Pause.

Richie: You realise she’s going to come there next, yeah?

Me: Shit!

Sit bolt upright. Flounder around looking for clothes. Can only find hers. See her dress, thrown on the floor unzipped.

Me: Hang on. Need to dress.

Richie: Wait, what?

Put him down on the bed as I pull on boxers and tracksuit bottoms. Horribly aware of my bum pointing towards door as I do so, but is better option than facing the other way. Find old vest within reach and throw it on, then breathe.

Me: OK. Right. I think it’s safest to . . . go to the kitchen? She won’t pass on the way from the bathroom to the bedroom. Then I can hide in the bathroom until she leaves.

Richie: What the hell happened? Why aren’t you wearing any clothes? Have you shagged her, man?

Me: No!

Richie: All right. It was a reasonable question.

Make my way across living room to kitchen. Skulk as far as possible behind fridge, so I can’t be seen en route from bathroom to bedroom.

Me: We bumped into each other in the shower.

Richie gives a proper belly laugh that makes me smile a little despite myself.

Richie: She was naked?

Groan.

Me: Nearly. I was, though.

Richie’s laugh scales up a notch.

Richie: Ah, man, this has made my day. So she was in, what, a towel?

Me: Underwear.

Richie groans too this time.

Richie: Good?

Me: I’m not talking about this!

Richie: Good point. Can she hear you?

Pause. Listen. Ahhh.

Me, in a hiss: Shower has stopped!

Richie: Don’t you want to be there when she comes out in a towel? Why don’t you just go back to the bedroom? It won’t look like you did it on purpose. I mean, you did nearly do it accidentally. Throw you together one more time, you never—

Me: I’m not going to lie in wait for the poor woman, Richie! I already exposed myself to her, didn’t I? She’s probably traumatised.

Richie: Did she look traumatised?

Think back. She looked . . . Ahhh. So much skin. And big blue eyes, freckles across her nose, that little intake of breath as I moved past her to the door, way too close for comfort.

Richie: You’re going to need to speak to her.

Sound of bathroom door unlocking.

Me: Shit!

Hide further behind fridge, then, when no noise follows, peek out.

She doesn’t look my way. Her towel is wrapped tightly under her arms and her long hair is darker now and dripping down her back. She disappears into the bedroom.

And breathe.

Me: She’s in the bedroom. I’m going to the bathroom.

Richie: Why don’t you just leave the flat if you’re that worried, man?

Me: I can’t talk to you, then! I cannot handle this alone, Richie!

I hear Richie grin.

Richie: There’s something you’re not telling me, isn’t there? No, let me guess . . . did you get a bit excited . . . ?

I make my loudest, most humiliated groan yet. Richie roars with laughter.

Me: She came from nowhere! I was not prepared! I have not had sex for weeks!

Richie, laughing hysterically: Ah, Lee! Do you think she noticed?

Me: No. Definitely not. No.

Richie: So maybe, then.

Me: No. She can’t have. Too awkward to think about.

Lock bathroom door behind me and pull toilet seat down to sit. Stare down at my legs, heart pounding.

Richie: I have to go.

Me: No! You can’t leave! What do I do now?

Richie: What do you want to do now?

Me: Run away!

Richie: Come on, now, Lee! Calm yourself down.

Me: This is terrible. We live together. I can’t be walking around with an erection in front of my flatmate! It’s . . . it’s . . . it’s obscene! It’s probably a crime!

Richie: If it is, then I definitely do belong in here. Come on, man. Don’t freak out about it. Like you say, you and Kay have been broken up a few weeks and not sleeping together for a fair while before that –

Me: How did you know that?

Richie: Come on. It was obvious.

Me: You haven’t seen us together for months!

Richie: The point is, it’s not a big deal. You saw a naked chick and you started thinking with your — hang on, man, give me . . .

He sighs.

Richie: Got to go. But chill out. She didn’t see anything, it doesn’t mean anything, just relax.

He hangs up.

29 Tiffy

Rachel is positively vibrating with excitement.

‘You are joking! You are joking!’ she says, bouncing in her seat. ‘I cannot believe he had a hard-on!’

I groan and rub my temples, which I’ve sometimes seen tired people do on television so am hoping will make me feel better. It doesn’t work. How is Rachel so bloody perky? I was sure she drank nearly as much as me.

‘It’s not funny,’ I tell her. ‘And I said he might have done. I’m not saying he definitely did.’

‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘You’re not so out of action that you’ve forgotten what that looks like. Three men in one night! You are literally living the dream.’

I ignore her. The head of Editorial luckily found it funny that I was late, but I still have a huge pile of work to get done today, and it hasn’t helped my to-do list that I arrived over an hour late.

‘Stop pretending to check those proofs,’ Rachel says. ‘We need a plan of action!’

‘For what?’

‘Well, what now? Are you calling Ken the hermit? Going for a drink with Justin? Or jumping in the shower with Leon?’

‘I’m going back to my desk,’ I tell her, grabbing the stack of proofs. ‘This has not been a productive session.’

She sings ‘Maneater’ at me as I walk away.

Rachel is right about the plan of action, though. I need to work out what the hell I’m going to do about the Leon situation. If we don’t speak soon, there’s a serious risk this morning will ruin everything — no more notes, no more leftovers, just silent, painful awkwardness. Humiliation is like mould: ignore it and the whole place will get smelly and green.

I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to text him.

No. I’ve got to call him, I decide. It needs to be drastic. I check the clock. Well, he’ll be asleep now — it’s two in the afternoon — so I’ve got a glorious four hours or so in which I can’t do anything about this situation. I suppose I should probably use that time to go through the proofs of Katherin’s book, especially now there’s a real danger that quite a lot of people might actually buy it, what with all this social media buzz about crochet.

Instead, after a long night and morning of trying very hard not to, I think about Justin.

And then, because I am not good at thinking on my own, I ring Mo to talk about Justin. He sounds a little groggy when he answers the phone, as if he’s just woken up.

‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘At home. Why?’

‘You sound weird. Isn’t it Gerty’s day off?’

‘Yes, she’s here too.’

‘Oh.’ It’s odd to think of the two of them just hanging out together without me. It just . . . doesn’t work as a combination. From freshers’ week of uni it was Gerty and me, inseparable; we took Mo under our collective wing at the end of first year, after seeing him solo dancing very enthusiastically to ‘Drop it Like it’s Hot’ and deciding anyone with those moves needed to be involved in all our nights out. After that we did everything as a three, and if a rare pairing did come about it was always me plus Gerty or me plus Mo. ‘Put loudspeaker on?’ I say, trying not to sound petulant.

‘Hang on. Hey, you’re all set.’

‘Let me guess,’ Gerty says, ‘you’ve fallen in love with Leon’s brother.’

I pause. ‘Normally your radar is pretty good, but you’re way off.’

‘Damn. Leon, then?’

‘Can’t I just call you for a chat?’

‘This isn’t a chat,’ Gerty says. ‘You don’t call at two in the afternoon for chats. You WhatsApp for that.’

‘This,’ I tell her, ‘is why I rang Mo.’

‘So? What’s the drama?’ Gerty asks.

‘Justin,’ I say, too tired to argue with her.

‘Ooh! An oldie but a goodie.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Can you let Mo chime in with something supportive, at least occasionally?’

‘What happened, Tiffy?’ Mo says.

I fill them in on my evening. Or at least, an abridged version of it — I don’t mention the dreadful kiss incident. It’s just a lot of drama to fit in one phone call, especially when you’re trying to check page numbers while you’re talking.

Also, as well as that, there’s the whole I-desperately-don’t-want-to-think-about-it thing.

‘This all sounds like pretty typical Justin behaviour, Tiffy,’ Mo says.

‘Well done for saying no,’ Gerty says, with surprising fervour. ‘It’s fucking creepy that he was at the cruise, and now this? I wish you could see how—’ There’s a muffled noise and Gerty stops talking. I get the sense that Mo may have poked her.

‘I didn’t quite say no,’ I point out, staring down at my feet. ‘I said “in a couple of months”.’

‘That’s still a hell of a lot better than dropping everything and running off with him again,’ Gerty says.

There’s a long silence. My throat feels tight. I need to talk about that kiss, I know I need to, but I can’t seem to get there. ‘Gerty,’ I say eventually. ‘Would you mind if I just spoke to Mo? For a moment?’

There’s another muffled sort of silence.

‘Fine, sure,’ Gerty says. She is audibly trying not to sound miffed.

‘Just me now,’ Mo says.

I swallow. I don’t want to talk about this here — I head for the office doors, down the stairs and out of the building. Outside everyone is moving a little more slowly than usual, as if the heat has calmed London down.

‘You told me once that my — that me and Justin . . . took its toll on me.’

Mo doesn’t say anything, he just waits.

‘You said that would sink in eventually. And you said to call you when it does.’

More silence, but it’s Mo-style silence, which means it is somehow incredibly reassuring. Like an audio hug. He doesn’t need words, Mo — his arts are beyond them.

‘Something weird happened last night. I was — that Ken guy and I kissed, and then we . . . well, I, I remembered . . .’

Why can’t I say it?

‘I remembered sleeping with Justin after a fight. I was so unhappy.’ I’m tearing up; I sniff, trying very hard not to cry.

‘How did you feel?’ Mo asks. ‘When the thought came to you, I mean.’

‘Scared,’ I admit. ‘I don’t remember our relationship being like that. But now I think I might have just sort of — airbrushed it? Forgotten those bits? I don’t know, is that even possible?’

‘Your brain can do amazing stuff to protect itself from pain,’ Mo tells me. ‘But it’ll struggle to keep secrets from the rest of you for long. Has this feeling of remembering things differently happened a lot since you left Justin?’

‘Not a lot.’ But, you know, a bit. Like there was that note I wrote about not inviting Justin to Rachel’s party, even though I know I did. It sounds crazy but I think Justin might’ve made me believe I’d not invited him, because that way he could be mad about me going? And lately I keep finding things — clothes, shoes, jewellery — that I remember Justin telling me I’d sold or given away. I’d usually put it down to my bad memory, but I’ve had a nagging sense of wrongness for months now, not helped by Mo’s relentless, annoyingly supportive nudging every time we talk about Justin. I am very good at not thinking about things, though, so I’ve just . . . resolutely not thought about it.

Mo talks about gaslighting and triggers. I squirm uncomfortably, and finally a tear creeps from my bottom lashes down my cheek. I’m officially crying.

‘I should go,’ I say, wiping my nose.

‘Just think about what I’ve said, OK, Tiffy? And remember how well you stood up to him last night — you’ve come a million miles already. Give yourself credit for that.’

I head back inside, suddenly drained. This last day has been too much. Up and down and up and down . . . Ugh. And the hangover is crushing.

By the time I finally finish checking the proofs of Katherin’s book, I’ve filed the nasty Justin thoughts back into their usual box, and I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve also had three packets of Wotsits, which Rachel suggested as the ultimate hangover cure, and which do appear to have taken me from full-on zombie to semi-sentient. So once I’ve dumped Crochet Your Way on Rachel’s desk, I scuttle back to mine to do what I’ve been itching to do since last night: go back on Leon’s Facebook page.

There he is. He’s smiling at the camera, his arm slung around someone at what looks like a Christmas party — there are twinkly fairy lights hung up behind them, and a room full of heads. I flick through his profile pictures and remember looking at these before. I’d not thought he looked at all attractive — and it’s true that he’s too gangly and long-haired to be my usual type. But clearly he is just one of those people who suddenly becomes fanciable in person.

Maybe it was just the initial shock, and the nakedness. Maybe second time around it’ll all be nice and platonic, and I can forget about it and call Ken the sexy Norwegian hermit. Although I can’t face that, not after the way Justin humiliated me in front of him. Ugh, no, don’t think about Justin—

‘Who’s that?’ Martin says from behind me. I jump, spilling coffee across my scattering of very urgent Post-it notes.

‘Why do you always creep up on me?’ I ask, snapping the window closed and dabbing at the coffee with a tissue.

‘You’re just jumpy. So who was that?’

‘My friend Leon.’

‘Friend?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Since when have you been even slightly interested in my life, Martin?’

He gives me an oddly smug look, as if he knows something I don’t, or perhaps is just having some intestinal issues.

‘What do you need?’ I ask, through gritted teeth.

‘Oh, nothing, Tiffy. Don’t let me interrupt you.’ And he walks off.

I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Rachel pops her head up over her computer and mouths ‘Still can’t believe it! Hard-on!’ at me, then does a double thumbs-up. I sink further in my seat, hangover resettling, and decide that I will absolutely definitely never drink again.

30 Leon

Mam at least provides distraction from painfully awkward memory of this morning.

She’s making astonishing effort. And it seems she was telling the truth about being single — no telltale signs of man about house (Richie and I got to be very good at identifying them in childhood) and she’s not changed her hair and clothes since last time I saw her, which means she’s not trying to fit to someone else.

I talk to her about Kay. Feels surprisingly good. She nods in the right places and pats my hand, welling up occasionally, then makes me oven chips with nuggets, which all make me feel ten years old again. Not unpleasant, though. Nice to be looked after.

The strangest part is going back to the bedroom Richie and I shared when we moved to London in our early teens. I’ve only been back here once since the trial. Came to stay for a week after that; didn’t think Mam could cope alone. Wasn’t needed for long, though — she met Mike, who was keen to have the place to themselves, so I moved back to the flat.

The room is unchanged. Has the feeling of a shell missing its sea creature. It’s full of holes where things should be: Blu-Tack marks on walls for posters long-since taken down, books tipping at diagonals without enough there to hold them up. Richie’s stuff still boxed up from when his old housemates dropped it around.

It takes enormous mental effort not to riffle through it. Would be unnecessarily upsetting, and he’d hate me doing it.

I lie down on the bed and find my mind drifting back to image of Tiffy — first in that red underwear, then padding into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. Second image feels even more unacceptable, as she didn’t even know I was watching. Fidget, uncomfortable. It’s wrong to be so attracted to her. It’s probably a reaction to Kay break-up.

Phone rings. Rising panic. Check screen: Tiffy.

Don’t want to answer. Phone rings and rings — seems to go on for ever.

She hangs up without leaving a message. I feel oddly guilty. Richie told me I had to talk to her. But I prefer option of total radio silence going forward, or, at most, the odd note left on kettle or back of door.

Lie back down. Reflect on this. Wonder if it’s true.

Phone buzzes. A text.

Hey. So. Hmm. I feel like we should chat about this morning? Tiffy x

The memory hits me afresh, and I find myself groaning again. Should definitely reply. Put phone down. Stare at ceiling.

Phone buzzes again.

I should totally have started with an apology. It was me who shouldn’t have been there, according to our flatsharing rules. And then I went and accosted you in the shower. So yes, I am very, very sorry! xx

Oddly, I feel a lot better after seeing this text. It doesn’t sound like she was traumatised, and also sounds familiarly Tiffy-ish, so is easier to imagine this text coming from the Tiffy I had in my head before I met the real one. That one was sort of . . . not irrelevant, exactly, but in the ‘safe space’ in my head. Person for talking to, without pressure or implication. Easy and undemanding.

Now Tiffy is definitely not in safe headspace.

I muster the courage to start a reply.

Don’t apologise. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry — it’s already forgotten.

Delete this last part. Clearly this is not true.

Don’t apologise. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry — am happy to put it behind us if you are. Leon x

Send, then regret the kiss. Do I normally put a kiss? Have no recollection. Scroll back up thread of last few messages and find that I am entirely inconsistent, which is probably best outcome. I settle back on the bed and wait.

And wait.

What is she doing? She normally replies fast. Check the time — eleven at night. Could she have fallen asleep? Did seem like she was out late last night. Finally, though:

Let’s forget all about it! I promise it won’t happen again (the barging in OR the sleeping in, that is). I hope Kay didn’t totally flip out about me breaking the flatshare rules . . .? And, you know, accosting her boyfriend in the shower . . . xx

Deep breath.

Kay and I broke up a couple of weeks ago. X

Reply is almost instant.

Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I did think something might be wrong — you were all quiet in your notes (more so than usual, I mean!) How are you holding up?

Think about it. How am I holding up? Am lying in bed in my mother’s flat, fantasising about naked flatmate, all thoughts of ex-girlfriend briefly but genuinely forgotten. Is probably not entirely healthy, but . . . better than yesterday? I go for:

Getting there. x

There’s a long pause after this one. Wonder if I should have said a bit more. Not that that’s ever put Tiffy off before.

Well, this might cheer you up: in my hungover state I walked into the printer at work today.

I snort. A beat later, an image of printer appears. It’s enormous. Could probably fit four Tiffys inside it.

Did you not . . . spot it?

I think I just lost the ability to stop walking at the necessary moment. I had just come off a call with my gorgeous bricklayer-turned-designer though, so . . .

Ah. You must’ve still been weak at the knees.

Probably! It’s been that sort of day xx

Stare at this one until phone screen times out. That sort of day. What sort of day? Weak-kneed sort of day? But why — because she . . .

No, no, won’t be because of me. That’s ridiculous. Except . . . what did she mean, then?

Hope this isn’t going to be how I am whenever communicating with Tiffy now. Is absolutely exhausting.

31 Tiffy

My dad likes to say, ‘Life is never simple’. This is one of his favourite aphorisms.

I actually think it’s incorrect. Life is often simple, but you don’t notice how simple it was until it gets incredibly complicated, like how you never feel grateful for being well until you’re ill, or how you never appreciate your tights drawer until you rip a pair and have no spares.

Katherin has just done a guest vlog on Tasha Chai-Latte’s page about crocheting your own bikini. The Internet has gone mental. I can’t keep track of all the influential people who have retweeted her — and because Katherin hates Martin, every time she freaks out or needs help with something, she calls me. I, who know nothing about PR, then have to go to Martin and feed back to Katherin. If this was a divorce and I was their child, social services would be called.

Gerty rings me as I’m leaving work.

‘You’ve only just left? Have you asked for a rise yet?’ she asks. I check my watch — it’s half seven. How have I been at work for almost twelve hours, and yet achieved so little?

‘No time,’ I tell her. ‘And they don’t do rises. They’d probably fire me for asking.’

‘Ridiculous.’

‘What’s up, anyway?’

‘Oh, I just thought you might want to know I’ve got Richie’s appeal moved forward by three months,’ Gerty says airily.

I stop dead in my tracks. Someone behind me walks into me and swears (stopping abruptly in central London is a heinous crime, and immediately gives the people around you permission to kick you).

‘You took his case?’

‘His previous barrister was appalling,’ Gerty says. ‘Really. I’ve half a mind to report him to the bar standards board. We’ll have to find Richie a new solicitor, too, especially since I’ve gone over this one’s head and royally pissed him off, but—’

‘You took his case?’

‘Keep up, Tiffy.’

‘Thank you. So much. God, I . . .’ I can’t stop smiling. ‘Has Richie told Leon?’

‘Richie probably doesn’t know yet,’ Gerty says. ‘I only wrote to him yesterday.’

‘Can I tell Leon?’

‘That’d save me a job,’ Gerty says, ‘so go for it.’

My phone buzzes almost as soon as I hang up. It’s a text from Leon; my heart does a funny little twisty spasm thing. He’s not messaged me or left me a note since we texted at the weekend.

Heads up: enormous bunch of flowers for you in foyer from your ex. Not sure whether to ruin surprise (good or bad surprise?) but if it was me, would want to be pre-warned x

I stop dead in my tracks again; this time a businessman on a scooter runs over my foot.

I’ve not heard from Justin since Thursday. No call, no text, nothing. I had just about convinced myself that he’d taken what I’d said seriously and wasn’t going to contact me, but I should have known better — that would have been entirely out of character. This, though — this is much more like it.

I don’t want a big bunch of flowers from Justin. I just want him gone — it’s so hard to get on with getting better when he keeps popping up all over the place. As I march up to our building, I press my lips together and prepare myself.

It really is an enormous bunch of flowers. I’d forgotten how rich he is, and how inclined to spend money on ridiculous things. For my birthday dinner last year he bought me an insanely pricey designer gown, all silver silk and sequins; wearing it felt like going out in costume as somebody else.

Stuck in amongst the flowers is a note that reads, To Tiffy — we’ll speak in October. Love, Justin. I lift the bouquet and check underneath it for a proper note, but no. A note would be far too straightforward — a giant, expensive gesture is much more Justin’s style.

This has really annoyed me, for some reason. Perhaps because I’ve never told Justin where I live. Or maybe because it’s so flagrantly disregarding what I asked of him on Thursday, and because he’s made my ‘I need a couple of months’ into a ‘I will speak to you in two months’ time’.

I stuff the flowers into the ornamental plant pot I usually keep my spare wool in. I was waiting for Justin to do this — to turn up with his explanations and his expensive gestures and sweep me off my feet again. But that Facebook message, the engagement . . . He tipped me over the edge, and now I am in a very different place from the last time he tried to get me back.

I slump down on the sofa and stare at the flowers. I think about what Mo said, and how despite myself I’ve been remembering things. The way Justin used to tell me off for forgetting stuff, how confused it made me feel. The half-excitement, half-anxiety every day when he came home. The reality of how my stomach lurched when he put his hand on my shoulder and snapped at me to go for a drink with him at the pub on Thursday.

That flashback.

God. I don’t want to go back to all that. I’m happier now — I like living here, safely hidden away in this flat which I’ve made my own. In two weeks’ time I’ll be at the end of my lease here — Leon’s not mentioned it, so I’ve not brought it up either, because I don’t want to move out. I’ve got money, for once, even if most of it is paying off my overdraft. I’ve got a flatmate who I can talk to — who cares if it’s not face-to-face? And I’ve got a home that actually feels like it’s exactly fifty per cent mine.

I reach for my phone and reply to Leon.

Bad surprise. Thanks for the heads-up. We now have a lot of flowers in the flat xx

He replies almost instantly, which is unusual.

Glad to hear it x

And then, a minute or so later:

About the flowers in the flat, not the surprise, obviously x

I smile.

I have some good news for you xx

Perfect timing — on coffee break. Hit me. x

He doesn’t get it — he thinks this is small good news, like I cooked a crumble or something. I pause, fingers hovering over the keys. This is the perfect thing to cheer me up — and what’s more important, the ins and outs of my old relationship, or the reality of Richie’s case right now?

Can I call you? As in, if I call you, can you pick up? xx

The reply comes more slowly this time.

Sure. x

I’m hit with a very abrupt and intense wave of nerves, and a flashback to Leon, naked, dripping wet, his hair pushed back from his face. I press the call button because there is now no other option but to do it, or to come up with a very weird and elaborate excuse.

‘Hey,’ he says, his voice a little low, as if he’s somewhere he has to be quiet.

‘Hi,’ I say. We wait. I think about him naked, and then try very hard not to. ‘How’s the shift?’

‘Quiet. Hence the coffee break.’

His accent is almost exactly like Richie’s, and completely unlike anyone else’s. It’s like South London had a fling with Irish. I sit back on the sofa, pulling my knees up and hugging them close.

‘So, uh . . .’ he begins.

‘Sorry,’ I say, almost at the same time. We wait again, and then I find myself doing a stupid little awkward laugh I’m sure I’ve never done before. What an excellent time to wheel out a brand-new awkward laugh.

‘You go,’ he says.

‘Let’s just . . . I didn’t call to talk about the other day,’ I begin, ‘so let’s just pretend that whole shower situation was a strange shared dream for the duration of this conversation so I can tell you my good news without us both feeling incredibly awkward?’

I think I hear him smile. ‘Deal.’

‘Gerty took Richie’s case.’

All I hear is a sharp intake of breath, and then silence. I wait until it has been a painfully long time, but I have a feeling Leon is the kind of person who needs time to absorb stuff the same way Mo does, so I resist the urge to say anything else until he’s ready.

‘Gerty took Richie’s case,’ Leon repeats, in a wondering sort of way.

‘Yeah. She took it. And that’s not even the good news!’ I find I’m bouncing slightly on the sofa cushions.

‘What’s . . . the good news?’ he asks, sounding slightly faint.

‘She’s got his appeal moved forward by three months. You were looking at January next year, right? So now we’re talking, what . . .’

‘October. October. That’s . . .’

‘Soon! Really soon!’

‘That’s two months away! We’re not ready!’ Leon says, suddenly sounding panicked. ‘What if— Does she—’

‘Leon. Breathe.’

More silence. I can hear the distant sound of Leon taking deep, slow breaths. My cheeks are starting to hurt from supressing an enormous grin.

‘She’s an amazing lawyer,’ I tell him. ‘And she wouldn’t take the case if she didn’t think Richie stood a chance. Really.’

‘Don’t do this to me if she’s going to — to pull out, or . . .’ His voice comes out strangled, and my stomach twists in sympathy.

‘I’m not telling you she’s definitely going to get him out of there, but I think there’s reason to hope again. I wouldn’t say that if I didn’t mean it.’

He lets out a long, slow breath, half-laughing. ‘Does Richie know?’

‘Not yet, I don’t think. She wrote to him yesterday — how long do letters take to get there?’

‘Depends — they tend to get held up at prison before they get to him. It means I get to tell him myself, though, when he next calls.’

‘Gerty will want to talk to you about the case soon too,’ I say.

‘A lawyer who wants to talk about Richie’s case,’ Leon says. ‘Lawyer. Who. Wants. To . . .’

‘Yeah,’ I interrupt, laughing.

‘Tiffy,’ he says, suddenly serious. ‘I cannot thank you enough.’

‘No, shh,’ I begin.

‘Really. It’s . . . I cannot tell you how much this means to — to Richie. And to me.’

‘I just passed on Richie’s letter.’

‘That was more than anyone else has done off their own back for my brother.’

I fidget. ‘Well, you tell Richie he owes me a letter.’

‘He’ll write. I should go. But — thank you. Tiffy. I’m so glad it was you, and not the drug-dealer or the man with the hedgehog.’

‘Pardon?’

‘Don’t worry,’ he says quickly. ‘See you later.’

32 Leon

New string of notes (Tiffy always uses several. Never has enough room):

Written on back of draft manuscript on coffee table:

Below:

Then, added that evening, post-sleep:

Beneath this, Tiffy has sketched a group of foxes on a sofa, with heading Flat 2. Each fox is carefully labelled.

Below this:

New note, beside empty tiffin tray:

Same note, now left beside large plate of shepherd’s pie:

Shepherd’s pie all gone. New note:

New double Post-it. Very occasionally, I run out of room. Also, thought quite hard about what to say in this one.

33 Tiffy

I’m sitting on the balcony crying like a toddler who’s dropped their ice cream. Full on, stuttering, mouth-pulled-wide crying.

The sudden rememberings are striking at entirely random times now, just bobbing up out of nowhere and sending me absolutely reeling. This one was particularly nasty: I was minding my own business heating up some soup, and then BAM, up it popped — the night Justin came around in February, before the Facebook message, and brought Patricia. He’d looked at me with total disgust, barely saying a word to me. Then, when Patricia was out in the hallway, he’d kissed me goodbye on the lips, one hand on the back of my neck. Like I was his. For a moment, as I was remembering it, I felt with absolute horror that I still was.

So. Despite me being technically much happier, this remembering thing keeps happening and ruining it. It is clear that I have some problems to confront here, and my diversionary tactics are no longer serving me. I have to think about this.

Thinking time means I need Mo and Gerty. They arrive together, an hour or so after I text them. As Gerty pours out glasses of white wine, I realise I’m nervous. I don’t want to talk. But then once I start I can’t really stop, and it all comes out in this big garbled mess: the memories, the old stuff from the very start, all of it right through to the flowers he sent me last week.

Eventually I trail off, exhausted. I down the rest of the glass of wine.

‘Let’s not beat around the bush,’ says Gerty, who has literally never beaten around a single bush in her whole life. ‘You’ve got a crazy ex-boyfriend, and he knows where you live.’

My pulse starts to quicken; it feels as if there’s something trapped in my chest.

Mo shoots Gerty the sort of look that usually only Gerty is allowed to give people. ‘I’ll talk,’ he says, ‘and you can be in charge of the wine. OK?’

Gerty looks as if someone’s just slapped her in the face. But then, curiously, she turns her head away from him, and from where I’m sitting I can see she’s smiling.

Weird.

‘I wish I hadn’t said I’d go for a drink with him in October,’ I say, faced with Mo’s listening face. ‘Why did I say that?’

‘I’m not sure you did say that, did you? I think he chose to take it that way,’ Mo says. ‘But you don’t have to see him. You don’t owe him anything.’

‘Do you two remember all of this?’ I ask abruptly. ‘I’m not imagining it?’

Mo pauses for a moment, but Gerty doesn’t miss a beat.

‘Of course we do. I remember every bloody minute of it. He was vile to you. He’d tell you where to be and how to get there, and then he’d walk you there because you wouldn’t be able to find your way on your own. He’d make every argument your fault, and he wouldn’t give up until you were sorry. He’d ditch you and then pick you up again at a moment’s notice. He told you you were overweight and weird and nobody else would want you, even though you are clearly a goddess of a woman and he ought to have felt lucky to have you. It was terrible. We hated him. And if you hadn’t banned me from talking about him, I would have told you that every bloody day.’

‘Oh,’ I say, in a small voice.

‘Is that how it felt to you?’ Mo asks, with the air of a handyman with limited tools trying to patch up the damage done by a bomb going off.

‘I . . . I remember being really happy with him,’ I say. ‘As well as being, you know, really bloody miserable.’

‘He wasn’t horrible to you all the time,’ Gerty begins.

‘He wouldn’t have been able to keep you with him if he was,’ Mo goes on. ‘He knew that. He’s a smart guy, Tiffy. He knew how to . . .’

‘. . . play you,’ Gerty finishes.

Mo winces at her choice of words.

‘But I think we were happy together once.’ I don’t know why this feels important. I don’t like the thought of everyone seeing me in that relationship and thinking I was an idiot for being with someone who treated me that way.

‘Sure,’ Mo says, nodding. ‘Especially at the start.’

‘Right,’ I say. ‘At the start.’

We sip our wine in silence for a while. I feel very odd. Like I ought to be crying, and I sort of want to be crying, but there’s a strange tightness in my eyes that’s making tears impossible.

‘Well. Thanks. You know, for trying. And sorry for . . . making you stop talking about him,’ I say, looking down at my feet.

‘It’s all right. At least that meant you would still see us,’ Mo says. ‘You had to come to this on your own, Tiff. As tempting as it was to bulldoze in and whisk you away from him, you would have just gone back.’

I muster the courage to glance up at Gerty. She holds my gaze; her expression is fierce. I can’t imagine how hard she found it sticking to her word and not mentioning Justin.

I wonder how on earth Mo persuaded her to leave me to do this on my own. He was right, though — I would have just pushed them away if they’d told me to leave Justin. The thought is faintly nauseating.

‘You’re doing great, Tiff,’ Mo says, topping up my wine. ‘Just hold on to what you’re figuring out. It might be hard to remember it all the time, but it’s important. So do your best.’

Somehow, when Mo says something, it seems to make it true.

It is so hard to remember. One week with no sudden memories or random Justin appearances, and I waver. I wobble. I almost topple altogether and decide I made the whole thing up.

Thankfully Mo is there to talk to. We go through incidents as I remember them — shouted arguments, subtle jabs, the even subtler ways my independence was eroded. I can’t believe how not-OK my relationship with Justin was, but even more than that, I can’t believe I hadn’t noticed. I think that will take a while to sink in in itself.

Thank God for friends and flatmates. Leon has no idea this is all going on, of course, but seems to have clocked that I need some distraction — he’s cooking more, and if we don’t speak for a while he’ll start a new thread of notes. It used to always be me that did that — I get the feeling that initiating conversation is not something Leon is particularly keen on doing, as a rule.

This one is on the fridge when I get home from work with Rachel, who’s come around so I can cook her dinner (she says I owe her indefinite free meals because I’ve ruined her life by commissioning Crochet Your Way):

Rachel raises her eyebrows at me, reading it over my shoulder. ‘Memorable, eh?’

‘Oh, shut up. You know what he means.’

‘I believe I do,’ she says. ‘He means: I keep thinking about you in your underwear. Do you think about me naked?’

I chuck an onion at her. ‘Dice that and make yourself useful,’ I say, but I can’t help smiling.