The Flatshare: A Novel

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.’