The Flatshare: A Novel

So, naturally I get curious and google him. Leon Twomey is a pretty unusual name, and I find him on Facebook without having to employ the creepy stalker techniques I reserve for new writers I’m trying to poach from other publishing houses.

It’s a relief to see that he’s not my type at all, which will definitely simplify things – if Justin did ever meet Leon, for instance, I don’t think he’d see him as a threat. He’s got light-brown skin and thick, curly hair long enough to be pushed back behind his ears, and he’s way too gangly for me. All elbows and neck, you know the type. He looks like a nice guy, though – in every photo he’s doing this sweet lopsided smile that doesn’t seem at all creepy or murderous, though actually if you look at a picture with that idea in mind everyone starts to look like an axe-wielding killer, so I try to put the thought out of my head. He looks friendly and unthreatening. These are good things.

However, I do now know unequivocally that he is a man.

Am I actually willing to share a bed with a man? Even sharing a bed with Justin was a bit horrible sometimes, and we were in a relationship. His side of the mattress sagged in the middle and he didn’t always shower in between getting home from the gym and going to bed, so there was a sort of . . . sweaty smell to his bit of the duvet. I always had to make extra sure it was the same way up so I didn’t get the sweaty side.

But still. £350 per month. And he would never actually be there.

‘Tiffany!’

My head shoots up. Crap, that’s Rachel, and I know what she wants. She wants the manuscript for this bloody Make a Stir Bake and Make book that I’ve been ignoring all day.

‘Don’t try sneaking off to the kitchen or pretending to be on the phone,’ she says, from over my wall of pot plants. This is the trouble with having friends at work: you drunkenly tell them your tricks when the two of you go to the pub, and then you’re defenceless.

‘You’ve had your hair done!’ I say. It’s a desperate ploy to redirect the conversation early, but her hair is especially cool today. It’s in braids, as always, but this time the tiny plaits have bright turquoise ribbon laced between them like corset strings. ‘How do you braid it like that?’

‘Don’t try to distract me with my Mastermind specialist subject, Tiffany Moore,’ Rachel says, tapping her perfectly polka-dotted nails. ‘When am I getting that manuscript?’

‘I just need . . . a little longer . . .’ I put my hand over the papers in front of me so she can’t see the page numbers, which are in the single digits.

She narrows her eyes. ‘Thursday?’

I nod eagerly. Yeah, why not? I mean, that’s totally unachievable at this point, but Friday sounds a lot better when you’re saying it on Thursday, so I’ll just tell her then.

‘And go for a drink with me tomorrow night?’

I pause. I was meant to be good and not spend any money this week, on account of the looming debt, but nights out with Rachel are always brilliant, and frankly I could really do with having some fun. Besides, she won’t be able to argue with me about this manuscript on Thursday if she’s hungover.

‘Done.’

*

Drunk Man No. 1 is the expressive kind. The sort of drunk who likes to throw his arms out wide regardless of what might be directly to his left or right (so far, that’s included one large fake palm tree, one tray of sambuca shots, and one relatively famous Ukrainian model). Every movement is exaggerated, even the basic walking steps – you know, left foot out in front, right foot out, repeat. Drunk Man No. 1 makes walking look like the hokey-cokey.

Drunk Man No. 2 is the deceitful sort. He keeps his face very still when he’s listening to you, as though the absence of expression will make it clear how very sober he is. He nods occasionally, and fairly convincingly, but doesn’t quite blink enough. His attempts to stare at your boobs are much less subtle than he thinks they are.

I wonder what they think of me and Rachel. They headed straight for us, but that’s not conclusively positive. Back when I was with Justin, if I was going out clubbing with Rachel he would always remind me that lots of men see ‘quirky girl’ and think ‘desperate and easy’. He’s right, as per usual. I actually wonder if it’s easier to get laid as a quirky girl than a perky cheerleader type: you’re more approachable, and nobody assumes you’ve already got a boyfriend. Which is probably another reason Justin wasn’t a fan of my nights out with Rachel, on reflection.

‘So, like, books about how to make cakes?’ says Drunk Man No. 2, thus proving his listening skills and aforementioned sobriety. (Honestly. What’s the point in having sambuca shots if you’re just going to pretend you haven’t been drinking all night?)

‘Yeah!’ Rachel says. ‘Or build shelves or make clothes or . . . or . . . what do you like to do?’

She is drunk enough to find Drunk Man No. 2 attractive, but I suspect she’s just trying to keep him busy to open the floor for me to jump Drunk Man No. 1. Of the two, Drunk Man No. 1 is clearly preferable – he is tall enough, for starters. This is the first challenge. I’m six foot, and though I have no problem with dating shorter men, it often seems to bother guys if I’m more than an inch or two taller than them. That’s fine by me – I’ve no interest in the ones who care about that sort of thing. It’s a useful filter.

‘What do I like to do?’ repeats Drunk Man No. 2. ‘I like to dance with beautiful women at bars with bad names and overpriced drinks.’ He flashes a sudden grin, which, though a little more sluggish and wonky than it’s probably intended to be, is actually quite attractive.

I can see Rachel is thinking the same. She shoots me a calculating look – not so drunk as all that, then – and I can see her evaluating the situation between me and Drunk Man No. 1.

I look at Drunk Man No. 1 too, and do some evaluating of my own. He’s tall, with nice broad shoulders and hair that’s greying at the temples in a way that’s actually quite sexy. He’s probably mid-thirties – he could be a little 1990s Clooney-ish if you squinted a bit or dimmed the lights.

Do I fancy him? If I do, I could sleep with him. You can do that when you’re single.

Weird.

I’ve not thought about sleeping with anyone since Justin. You get tons of time back when you’re single and not having sex – not just the actual time doing it, but the time shaving legs, buying nice underwear, wondering whether all other women get bikini waxes, etc. It’s a real plus. Of course, there’s the overwhelming absence of one of the greatest aspects of your adult life, but you do get much more admin done.

Obviously I know that we broke up three months ago. I know that in theory I can have sex with other people. But . . . I can’t help thinking about what Justin would say. How angry he’d be. I may be technically allowed, but I’m not . . . you know. Allowed allowed. Not in my head, not yet.

Rachel gets it. ‘Sorry, mate,’ she says, patting Drunk Man No. 2 on the arm. ‘I like to dance with my friend.’ She scribbles her number on a napkin – God knows where she got that pen from, the woman’s a magician – and then my hand is in hers and we’re winding our way into the centre of the dance floor where the music hits my skull from both sides, sending my eardrums shivering.

‘What kind of drunk are you?’ Rachel asks, as we grind inappropriately to classic Destiny’s Child.

‘I’m a bit . . . thoughtful,’ I shout at her. ‘Too analytical to sleep with that nice man.’

She reaches for a drink from the tray of one of those shot ladies who wanders around asking you to overpay for things, and hands the woman some cash.

‘“Not enough” sort of drunk, then,’ she says, giving me the drink. ‘You may be an editor, but no drunk girl trots out the word “analytical”.’

‘Assistant editor,’ I remind her, and knock back the drink. Jägerbomb. It’s strange how something so fundamentally disgusting, whose very aftertaste makes you want to vomit the next day, can taste delicious on a dance floor.

Rachel plies me with drink all night and flirts with every wingman in sight, chucking all attractive men in my direction. Whatever she says, I am plenty tipsy enough, so I don’t think much of it – she’s just being an excellent friend. The night spins by in a mass of dancers and brightly coloured drinks.

It is only when Mo and Gerty arrive that I start to wonder what this night out is all about.

Mo has the look of a man who was summoned on short notice. His beard is a little skewwhiff, like he slept on it funny, and he’s in a worn-out T-shirt I think I remember from uni – though it’s a little tighter on him now. Gerty looks haughtily beautiful, as usual, with no make-up on, and her hair yanked up in a ballerina topknot; it’s hard to tell if she was planning to come because she never wears make-up, and dresses impeccably all the time anyway. She could well have just pulled on a slightly higher pair of heels to go with her skinny jeans last minute.

They’re making their way across the dance floor. My suspicion that Mo was not planning to be here is confirmed – he’s not dancing. Take Mo to a club and there will always be dancing. So why have they turned up on my random Wednesday night out with Rachel? They don’t even know her that well – only through the odd birthday drinks or housewarming parties. In fact, Gerty and Rachel have a low-level alpha-wolf feud going on, and when we do all get together they usually end up bickering.

Is it my birthday? I drunkenly wonder. Do I have exciting surprise news?

I turn to Rachel. ‘Wha—?’

‘Table,’ she says, pointing at the booths at the back of the club.

Gerty does a relatively good job of hiding her irritation at being redirected just when she’s battled her way through to the centre of the dance floor.

I’m getting bad vibes. I’m just at the happiest point of drunk, though, so I’m willing to suspend worried thoughts in the hope that they’re coming to tell me that I’ve won a four-week holiday to New Zealand or something.

But no.

‘Tiffy, I didn’t know how to tell you this,’ Rachel is saying, ‘so this was the best plan I could come up with. Get you happy drunk, remind you what flirting feels like, then call your support team.’ She reaches to take both my hands. ‘Tiffy. Justin is engaged.’