The Flatshare: A Novel

Lean back on bathroom door, eyes closed. No concussion and a sprained ankle. Could have been much, much worse.

Got time to think about how cold I am now; shrug off my wet clothes and turn the shower on to hot. I tap out a quick thank you text to Socha. Phone is thankfully still functional, if a little damp – it was in my trouser pocket.

I get in the shower and make myself stand until I stop shivering. Remind myself that Babs is with her. Still, dress faster than I have ever dressed before, and don’t even bother with belt to keep up ridiculously oversized trousers that Babs has found for me; will just wear them low, 90s-style.

When I head back into the bedroom, Tiffy has scraped her hair up into a bun. There’s a touch of pink in her lips and cheeks again. She smiles up at me and I feel something shift in my chest. Hard to describe. Maybe like a lock clicking into place.

Me: How’s that hot chocolate going down?

Tiffy pushes the other mug along the bedside table towards me.

Tiffy: Try yours and see.

Someone knocks at the door; I take the hot chocolate with me as I go to answer it. It’s Johnny White the Sixth, looking very worried and also wearing comically large trousers.

JW the Sixth: How’s our girl?

I have a feeling Tiffy becomes ‘our girl’ easily – she’s the sort of person distant relatives and absent neighbours still like to claim some credit for.

Tiffy: I’m fine, Mr White! Don’t you worry about me.

She lapses into an ill-timed fit of wet coughing. JW the Sixth fidgets in the doorway, looking miserable.

JW the Sixth: I’m so sorry. I feel responsible – it was my idea to go swimming. I should have checked you could both swim!

Tiffy, once recovered: I can swim, Mr White. I just lost my footing and got a little panicked, that’s all. Blame the rock that knackered my ankle if you feel the need to blame something.

JW the Sixth looks a little less anxious now.

Babs: Well, you two are staying here tonight. No arguments. It’s on the house.

Both Tiffy and I try to protest, but again Tiffy descends into spluttery half coughing, half retching, taking some of the sting out of our argument that she doesn’t need to stay in bed.

Me: I should at least go – you don’t need me now that—

Babs: Nonsense. It’s no extra bother to me, is it? Besides, Tiffy needs looking after, and my medical knowledge doesn’t extend much further than what a glass of whisky can do. John, do you want a lift home?

JW the Sixth tries to argue his way out of this favour also, but Babs is one of those formidably nice people who will not take no for an answer. It’s a good five minutes before they agree and head out the door. When they’re gone the click of the door makes me breathe out in relief. Hadn’t realised how much I want quiet.

Tiffy: Are you all right?

Me: Fine. Just not a fan of . . .

Tiffy: Commotion?

I nod.

Tiffy smiles, pulling her blankets up closer.

Tiffy: You’re a nurse – how can you avoid it?

Me: Work is different. But it still drains me. I need quiet afterwards.

Tiffy: You’re an introvert.

Make a face. I’m not a fan of those Myers–Briggs type things that tell you your personality type, like horoscopes for businesspeople.

Me: Guess so.

Tiffy: I’m the opposite. I can’t process anything without calling Gerty, or Mo, or Rachel.

Me: You want to call someone now?

Tiffy: Oh, shit, my phone was in my . . .

She spots the pile of her clothes, brought up from the shoreline by one of the hundred helpful strangers who followed us up the beach in procession. Tiffy claps hands in glee.

Tiffy: Would you pass my trousers?

I hand them over and watch as she rummages in the pockets for her phone.

Me: I’ll go get us some lunch. How long do you need?

Tiffy pushes a few stray strands of hair back from her face, looking up at me, phone in hand. That clicked-in lock hums in my chest again.

Tiffy: Half an hour?

Me: Got it.