The Flatshare: A Novel

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.