The Flatshare: A Novel

Have never thought this hard about the notes before. Was much easier when I was just scribbling random thoughts to friend who I had not met. Now am carefully crafting messages to woman who has taken up residence in most of my waking thoughts.

It’s terrible. Sit down with pen and Post-it and suddenly forget all the words. Her messages are cheeky, flirty, noisily her. This was the first after the weekend in Brighton, fixed to the bedroom door with Blu-Tack:

So, hey, roomie. How’s the transition back to nocturnal life gone today? I see that Fatima and family went through the bins again while we were away – little minxes.

I wanted to write and say thanks again for whisking me out of the sea. Just make sure you fall in a large body of water at some point so I can return the favour, you know, in the name of equality. Also because I feel like you’d really own the whole Mr Darcy just-out-of-the-lake look. xx

Mine are stilted and overthought. Write them when I get in from work, then rewrite them before I walk out the door, then regret them all night in the hospice. Until I get home to a reply and feel instantly better again. Thus the cycle repeats.

Eventually, on Wednesday, I muster the courage to leave this one on the kitchen counter:

Weekend plans? x

Was paralysed by self-doubt as soon as I’d left the building and got far enough away for going back to be inconceivable. In retrospect, was a very short note. Perhaps too short for meaning to be clear? Perhaps insultingly short? Why is this so difficult?

Now, though, I’m feeling better.

Well I’ll be home alone this weekend. Do you fancy coming over and cooking me your mushroom stroganoff? I’ve only ever had it reheated, and I bet it’s even better fresh out the oven. xx

I reach for a Post-it and scribble my reply.

Tiffin for dessert? x

*

Richie: You’re nervous, aren’t you?

Me: No! No, no.

Richie snorts. He’s in good mood – he’s generally in a good mood now. He calls Gerty at least every other day to catch up on appeal case progress. So much to talk about, calls every other day are apparently essential. Evidence re-examined. Witnesses coming forward. And, at last, CCTV obtained.

Me: OK. A bit nervous.

Richie: You’ll be great, man. You know she’s into you. What’s the plan? Is tonight the night?

Me: Of course not. Far too soon.

Richie: Have you shaved your legs just in case?

Don’t deign to respond to this. Richie chuckles.

Richie: I like her, man. You’ve got a good one.

Me: Not sure I’ve ‘got’ her yet.

Richie: What? You think – the ex?

Me: She doesn’t love him any more. But it’s complicated. I’m a bit worried about her.

Richie: Was he a prick?

Me: Mm.

Richie: He hurt her?

Gut twists at the thought.

Me: To some degree, I think. She doesn’t really talk about it with me but . . . got a bad feeling about him.

Richie: Shit, man. Are we dealing with some kind of post-trauma situation here?

Me: You think so?

Richie: You’re speaking to the king of the night sweats. I dunno, I haven’t met her, but if she is still processing some shit she had to deal with, all you can do is be there and let her decide when she’s ready for whatever.

The trauma of the trial and first month in prison hit Richie about six weeks into his sentence. Shaking hands, sudden terrors, intrusive flashbacks, jumping at the slightest noises. The last part always annoyed him the most – he seemed to think that particular brand of PTSD should be reserved for people whose trauma had actually involved loud noises, like soldiers.

Richie: And don’t try and make the decision for her. Don’t assume she can’t be feeling better yet. That’s her call.

Me: You’re a good man, Richard Twomey.

Richie: Hold that thought and tell it to the judges in three weeks’ time, bro.

*

Arrive at the flat at five-ish; Tiffy’s with Mo and Gerty for the day. Weird, being here at a weekend. It’s her flat now.

Stop short of shaving legs, but do spend inordinately long time getting ready. Can’t stop thinking about where we’re each going to sleep tonight. Will I go back to Mam’s, or sleep here? We’ve already shared a bed in Brighton . . .

I consider messaging to say I’ll stay at Mam’s tonight, to show goodwill. But decide that’s putting nail in coffin earlier than necessary, and is an example of making decisions for her, as advised against by Richie, so I leave it be.

Key in door. I try to spring up from the beanbag, but that would be impossible even for a person with thighs of steel, so Tiffy walks in to find me in a half squat, attempting to extricate myself.

Tiffy, laughing: It’s like quicksand, isn’t it?

She looks beautiful. Tight blue top and a long floaty grey skirt with bright pink shoes that she proceeds to balance on her good leg to remove.

I move to give her a hand but she waves me off, hiking herself up to sit on kitchen counter and make the job easier. Her ankle looks more mobile, though – good sign. Seems to be healing well.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

Tiffy: Checking out my ankles?

Me: Purely medical interest.

Tiffy grins at me, sliding down from the counter and limping over to examine the pot on the hob.

Tiffy: Smells amazing.

Me: Something told me you’d like mushroom stroganoff.

She smiles over her shoulder, and I want to move behind her, put my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. Resist the urge, on account of it being very presumptuous and inappropriate.

Tiffy: That was in your cubby hole downstairs, by the way.

She points to small white envelope on the kitchen counter, addressed to me. I open it. It’s an invite, handwritten in careful, slightly wobbly joined-up letters.

Dear Leon,

I am having a birthday party on Sunday because I am going to be eight. Please come!!! Bring your friend Tiffy who likes nitting. Sorry that this is late Mum says your proper invitasion got lost at St Marks by one of the nurses who is rubbish and then they said we couldn’t have you’re address but they said they will send this for us so I hope they got it rite anyway please come!!

Holly xoxoxoxoxox

Smile and show it to Tiffy.

Me: Maybe not what you had planned for tomorrow?

Tiffy, looking delighted: She remembers me!

Me: She was obsessed with you. We don’t have to go, though.

Tiffy: Are you joking? We’re totally going. Please. You only turn eight once, Leon.