The Flatshare: A Novel

I lean back in my desk chair, taking my eyes off the screen. I’ve been staring at it for way too long – the castle knitwear photos have been picked up on Daily Mail’s Femail, and it’s weird. Katherin is officially a celebrity. I can’t believe how quickly this has happened, and also can’t stop reading comments from other women about how hot Leon is in those photos. I obviously already know he’s hot, but still, it’s simultaneously horrible and kind of good to get external validation.

I wonder how he’s feeling about it. I’m hoping he’s too technologically incapable to scroll to the comments section on the Daily Mail, because some of the comments are really quite X-rated. There’s obviously a few racist ones in there as well, this being a comments section on the Internet, and everything briefly descends into an argument about global warming being a liberalist conspiracy, and before I know it I have circled my way into the plughole of the Internet and wasted half an hour following people’s outlandish opinions on whether Trump is a neo-Nazi and whether Leon’s ears are too big.

I go to counselling after work. As per usual Lucie sits in borderline uncomfortable silence for a while, and then, seemingly spontan­eously, I start telling her awful, painful stuff I mostly can’t even bear to think about. How cleverly Justin made me believe I had a bad memory, so he could always say I’d misremembered things. How brazenly he convinced me I’d thrown a bunch of clothes out when really he’d just been chucking stuff he didn’t like me wearing to the back of the wardrobe.

How subtly he turned sex into something I owed him, even when he’d made me so sad I couldn’t think straight.

It’s all business as usual for Lucie, though. She just nods. Or tilts her head. Or sometimes – in extreme cases, when I’ve said something out loud that almost physically hurts to utter – she says a supportive ‘yes’.

This time she asks me at the end of the session how I think I’m getting on. I start with the usual stuff – ‘oh, this has been so great, honestly, thanks so much’, like when the hairdresser asks if you like the cut they’ve just given you. But Lucie just stares at me for a while, so then I think, how actually am I getting on? A couple of months ago I couldn’t face saying no to Justin taking me out for a drink. I was expending most of my mental energy keeping memories at bay. I wasn’t even willing to acknowledge that he’d abused me. And now, here I am, talking to Someone Who isn’t Mo about how what happened with Justin wasn’t my fault, and actually believing it.

I listen to a lot of Kelly Clarkson on my way home on the tube. Facing my reflection in the glass, I throw my shoulders back and meet my own gaze, just like that first train journey from Justin’s place to the flat. Yes, I’m a little teary-eyed from counselling, but this time I’m not wearing sunglasses.

You know what? I am extremely proud of myself.

*

The question of how Leon feels about the photos in Femail is answered on my return to the flat. He has left this note for me on the fridge:

Didn’t cook dinner. Too famous for that now.

(i.e. got Deliveroo to celebrate Katherin’s/your success. Delicious Thai food in fridge for you.) x

Well, it seems he’s not let it get to his head, so that’s something. I stick the Thai food in the microwave, humming ‘Stronger (What Doesn’t Kill You)’, and reach for a pen while it whirs. Leon’s working until Wednesday, then off to his mum’s; I won’t see him in person before Richie’s trial on Friday. He’s keeping busy – he’s off on his last Johnny White visit tomorrow morning, planning on taking the earliest train he can to Cardiff and getting back in time for a nap before he’s back to work. I’d point out that that’s not enough sleep for him to function on, but I can tell he’s not sleeping well even when he’s here, so maybe it’s better for him to be out and about. He’s finally finished The Bell Jar, a sure sign he’s awake in the daytime, and seems to be surviving on caffeine mostly – at this point in the month we are not usually running this low on instant coffee.

I keep it brief.

I’m glad you’ve taken well to your new life of celebrity. I, on the other hand, am now embarrassingly jealous of about a hundred women on the Internet who think you are ‘so yummy lol’, and have decided I much prefer it when it’s just me that gets to stare at you.

I’m crossing my fingers that Johnny White the Eighth is The One! xx

When the reply comes the next evening I can tell Leon’s exhausted. It’s something about the handwriting – it’s looser than usual, like he couldn’t muster the energy to hold the pen tight.

Johnny White the Eighth is not our guy. Is actually very unpleasant and homophobic. Also made me eat a lot of out-of-date fig rolls.

Richie says hi. He’s OK. Holding up. x

Hmm. Richie may be holding up, but I’m not convinced that Leon is.