The Flatshare: A Novel

This is my first session with Someone Other Than Mo.

Mo himself suggested it. He said it would benefit me to do proper counselling and talk to a person who didn’t already know me. And then Rachel told me that, unbelievably, our employee benefits actually include up to fifteen sessions of counselling, paid for by Butterfingers. I have no idea why they’re willing to provide that but not pay above minimum wage – maybe they’re sick of employees leaving on stress.

So here I am. It is very weird. Someone Other Than Mo is called Lucie and is wearing a gigantic cricket jumper as a dress, which obviously immediately makes me like her and ask her where she shops. We talked about vintage stores in South London for a while, and then she got me a water, and now here we are, in her office, facing one another in matching armchairs. I’m extremely nervous, though I haven’t got a clue why.

‘So Tiffy, what was it that made you want to come and see me today?’ Lucie asks.

I open my mouth and close it again. God, there’s so much to explain. Where do I even begin?

‘Just start with that,’ Lucie says. She has Mo’s mindreading skills, clearly – they must teach them that when they’re accredited. ‘The thing that made you want to pick up the phone and make an appointment.’

‘I want to fix whatever the hell it was my ex-boyfriend did to me,’ I say, and then pause, startled. How have I managed to say that outright to a complete stranger within five minutes of meeting her? How embarrassing.

But Lucie doesn’t even blink. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Would you like to tell me a bit more about that?’

*

‘Are you healed?’ Rachel asks me, plonking a coffee down on my desk.

Ah, coffee, elixir of the overworked. Recently it has overtaken tea in my affections – a sign of how little I’m sleeping. I blow Rachel a kiss as she makes her way over to her screen. As per usual, we continue the conversation on instant messenger.

Tiffany [09:07]: It was really weird. I literally told her the most embarrassing stuff about me within like ten minutes of meeting her.

Rachel [09:08]: Did you tell her about when you vomited in your hair on the night bus?

Tiffany [09:10]: Well, that didn’t actually come up.

Rachel [09:11]: How about the time you broke that guy’s penis at university?

Tiffany [09:12]: Didn’t come up either.

Rachel [09:12]: That’s what he said.

Tiffany [09:13]: Does that joke work?

Rachel [09:15]: Well, anyway, I am now reassured that I know more of your embarrassing secrets than this new imposter into your affections. OK. Go on.

Tiffany [09:18]: She didn’t really say much. Even less than Mo does. I thought she’d tell me what was wrong with me. But instead I kind of figured some stuff out all on my own . . . which I totally couldn’t have done without her sitting there. So weird.

Rachel [09:18]: What kind of stuff?

Tiffany [09:19]: Like . . . Justin was cruel sometimes. And controlling. And other bad stuff.

Rachel [09:22]: Can I just say, I officially stand corrected on the Justin issue. Gerty is right. He’s scum of the earth.

Tiffany [09:23]: You realise you just typed ‘Gerty is right’?

Rachel [09:23]: I forbid you to tell her.

Tiffany [09:23]: Screenshot already sent.

Rachel [09:24]: Bitch. All right, so you’ll go again?

Tiffany [09:24]: Three sessions this week.

Rachel [09:24]: Blimey.

Tiffany [09:25]: I have this fear that because the first flashback happened when that Ken guy kissed me . . .

Rachel [09:26]: Yes?

Tiffany [09:26]: What if that’s what happens now? What if Justin has, like, reprogrammed me, and I WILL NEVER BE ABLE TO KISS A MAN AGAIN?!

Rachel [09:29]: I mean, that is fucking terrifying.

Tiffany [09:30]: Thanks Rachel.

Rachel [09:31]: You should see someone about that.

Tiffany [09:33]: [glaring emoji] Thank you, Rachel.

Rachel [09:34]: Oh, come on. I know that made you laugh. As in, I literally just watched you laugh and then try and turn it into a cough when you realised the head of Editorial was walking past.

Tiffany [09:36]: Did it work, do you think?

‘Tiffy? Do you have a minute?’ calls the head of Editorial.

Shit. ‘Do you have a minute’ is always bad. If it was urgent but non-problematic, he’d just shout it across the room or send me an email with one of those passive-aggressive red exclamation marks on it. No, ‘do you have a minute’ means it’s confidential, and that almost certainly means it’s worse than just sniggering at my desk because I’m messaging Rachel about kissing.

What’s Katherin done? Has she uploaded a picture of her vagina on Twitter, as she threatens to do literally every time I ask her to do another interview at Martin’s request?

Or is it one of the many, many books that I have completely ignored in the madness that has been Crochet Your Way? I can’t even remember their titles any more. I’ve shifted pub dates like I’ve been playing Bananagrams, and I definitely haven’t run the changes by the head of Editorial. It’ll be that, won’t it? I’ve ignored someone’s book for so long that it’s actually gone to print without any words in it.

‘Sure,’ I say, pushing away from my desk in what I hope is a brisk and professional manner.

I follow him into his office. He closes the door behind me.

‘Tiffy,’ he begins, perching on the edge of his desk. ‘I know it’s been a busy few months for you.’

I swallow. ‘Oh, it’s been fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though!’

He gives me a slightly odd look at this point, which is entirely understandable.

‘You’ve done a fantastic job with Katherin’s book,’ he says. ‘It really is a stellar piece of publishing. You spotted that trend – no, you shaped it. Really, top notch.’

I blink, bewildered. I neither spotted that trend nor shaped it – I’ve been publishing crochet books ever since I started at Butterfingers.

‘Thanks?’ I say, feeling a bit guilty.

‘We’re so impressed with your recent work, Tiffy, that we’d like to promote you to editor,’ he says.

It takes a good few seconds for the words to sink in, and when they do, I make a very peculiar choking noise.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, frowning.

I clear my throat. ‘Fine! Thanks!’ I squeak. ‘I mean, I just didn’t expect . . .’

. . . ever to get promoted. Literally, ever. I had entirely given up hope.

‘It’s extremely well deserved,’ he says, smiling benevolently.

I manage to smile back. I don’t really know what to do with myself. What I want to do is ask how much more money I’ll be getting, but there’s no dignified way to ask that question.

‘Thanks so much,’ I gush instead, and then I feel a bit pathetic, because let’s be honest they should have promoted me two years ago, and it’s undignified to grovel. I draw myself up to my full height and give him a more purposeful smile. ‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say. Senior people always like to hear you say that.

‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘HR will send over details of the salary increase et cetera.’

I like the sound of that et cetera.

*

Congratulations on the promotion! Better late than never? Made you mushroom stroganoff to celebrate. x

I smile. The note is stuck on the fridge, which is already one layer deep in Post-its. My current favourite is a doodle Leon did, depicting the man in Flat 5 sitting on an enormous heap of bananas. (We still don’t know why he keeps so many banana crates in his parking space.)

I rest my forehead against the fridge door for a moment, then run my fingers across the layers of paper scraps and Post-its. There’s so much here. Jokes, secrets, stories, the slow unfolding of two people whose lives have been changing in parallel – or, I don’t know, in synch. Different times, same place.

I reach for a pen.

Thank you  I’ve been doing a lot of celebratory dancing around the flat, just so you know. Like, seriously uncool, trying-to-moonwalk dancing. I can’t imagine that’s something you ever partake in, somehow . . .

Can I ask what you’re up to this weekend? I’m guessing you’ll be staying at your mum’s again? I just wondered if you wanted to maybe go out for a drink or something to celebrate with me. xx

Waiting for the reply makes me wish, for the very first time, that Leon and I communicated via WhatsApp like normal people. I’d kill for a little double blue tick right now. Then, when I get home, pasted carefully below my note on the fridge:

Am partial to the occasional moonwalk from kitchen to living room.

Can’t come for a drink unfortunately as I’m off hunting Johnny Whites. This one is in Brighton.

Then, just below, but in a different coloured pen:

Might be ridiculous idea but if you fancy a trip to the seaside you could come too?

I’m standing in the kitchen, facing the fridge, absolutely beaming.

I’d love to come! I totally love the seaside. It legitimises wearing a sunhat, for starters, or carrying a parasol, which are both wonderful things that I do NOT get to do enough. Where do you want to meet? xx

The response takes two days to come. I wonder if Leon is losing his nerve, but then, eventually, scribbled fast in blue ink:

Victoria station at half ten on Saturday. It’s a date! X