The Flatshare: A Novel

Part 3 – MAY

As I peel the Post-its and taped scraps of paper off cupboard doors, tables, walls and (in one case) the bin lid, I find myself grinning. It was a weird way to get to know Leon, writing all these notes over the last few months, and it sort of happened without me noticing – one minute I was scribbling him a quick note about leftovers, the next I was in a full-on, day-to-day correspondence.

Though, as I follow the trail of heart-to-hearts along the back of the sofa, I can’t help noticing that I generally write about five times as many words as Leon does. And that my Post-its are a lot more personal and revealing than his. It’s kind of strange reading it all back – you can see how dodgy my memory is, for starters. Like in one of the notes, I mentioned how super awkward it was that I’d forgotten to pass on Rachel’s birthday-party invite to Justin last year, but I remember now – I did invite him. We ended up having a huge fight about whether I could go. Justin always said my memory was terrible; it’s very annoying to find written evidence that he’s right.

It’s half five now. I finished work early because everyone’s out of the office for a goodbye party that I can’t afford to go to, so I made an executive decision to go home in the absence of any actual execu­tives to make the decision for me. I’m sure it’s what they would have wanted.

I thought I might actually catch Leon tonight, as I got back at around 5 p.m. It felt a bit strange. I’m not really allowed to come home early and bump into him, according to the official terms of our agreement. I knew when I signed up for this that we wouldn’t be in the flat at the same time – that was why it was such a good idea. But I didn’t realise that we would literally never meet. Like, ever, at all, for four whole months.

I did think about spending this hour at the coffee place around the corner, but then I thought . . . it is starting to get a bit weird, being friends but not having actually met. And it does feel like that, like we’re friends – I don’t think it could be otherwise, the way we’re in each other’s space all the time. I know exactly how he likes his eggs fried, though I’ve never actually seen him eat one (there’s always tons of runny yolk left over on the plate). I could describe his dress sense pretty accurately, even though I’ve never seen him in any of the clothes drying on the clothes horse in the living room. And, weirdest of all, I know what he smells like.

I don’t see any reason why we shouldn’t meet – it wouldn’t change the terms of how we live here. It would just mean I would actually recognise my flatmate if I saw him walking down the street.

The phone rings, which is odd, because I wasn’t aware we had a phone. At first I go for my mobile, but my ringtone is a jingly happy tune from right down the list of those available from Samsung, not the retro ring ring that’s currently singing out from somewhere invisible in the living room.

I eventually track down a landline on the kitchen counter, under one of Mr Prior’s scarves and a string of notes about whether or not Leon used up all the butter (he totally did).

A landline! Who knew! I thought landlines were just relics you paid for in order to get broadband.

‘Hello?’ I try tentatively.

‘Oh, hey,’ says the guy at the other end. He sounds surprised (presumably I am more female than he had expected) and has a weird accent – kind of half Irish, half Londoner.

‘It’s Tiffy,’ I offer. ‘Leon’s flatmate.’

‘Ey! Hi!’ He seems to have been greatly cheered by this fact. ‘And don’t you mean bedmate?’

‘We prefer flatmate,’ I say, wincing.

‘Fair play,’ he says, and somehow I can sort of hear that he’s grinning. ‘Well, nice to meet you, Tiffy. I’m Richie. Leon’s brother.’

‘Pleased to meet you too, Richie.’ I didn’t know Leon had a brother. But then I suppose there are probably an enormous number of things I don’t know about Leon, even if I do know what he’s reading before bed at the moment (The Bell Jar, very slowly). ‘You just missed Leon, I guess. I got in half an hour ago and he was already gone.’

‘The man works too hard,’ Richie says. ‘I didn’t realise it was half five already. What’s your tap-in-tap-out time?’

‘Six, usually, but I got out of work early,’ I say. ‘You could try him on his mobile?’

‘Ah, now you see, Tiffy, I can’t do that,’ Richie says.

I frown. ‘You can’t call his mobile?’

‘To be honest with you, it’s a bit of a long story.’ Richie pauses. ‘Short version is, I’m in a high-security prison, and the only phone number I’ve managed to get set up for me to call is Leon’s home line. Mobiles cost twice as much to call, too, and I earn about fourteen pounds a week in my job cleaning the wing, which by the way I had to pay someone to get me . . . so that doesn’t get me very far.’

I feel a little shell-shocked. ‘Shit!’ I say. ‘That’s awful. Are you all right?’

It just comes out. It’s almost certainly not the right thing to say in the circumstance, but there we are – that’s what I’m thinking, and that’s what comes out of my mouth.

To my surprise – and maybe to his too – Richie starts laughing.

‘I’m all right,’ he says, after a moment. ‘Cheers, though. It’s been seven months now. I guess I’m . . . what is it Leon calls it? Acclimatising. Learning how to live, as well as just get through each minute.’

I nod. ‘Well, that’s something, at least. How is it? On the scale of, you know, Alcatraz to the Hilton?’

He laughs again. ‘Definitely somewhere on that scale, yeah. Whereabouts depends on how I’m feeling day to day. But I’m pretty lucky compared to lots of people, let me tell you that. I have my own cell now, and I can see visitors twice a month.’

It doesn’t seem like he’s lucky from where I’m standing. ‘I don’t want to keep you on the phone if it’s costing you. Did you have a message for Leon?’

There’s a rattling sort of silence at the other end, just the sound of echoing background noise.

‘Aren’t you going to ask what I’m in for, Tiffy?’

‘No,’ I say, taken aback. ‘Do you want to tell me?’

‘Yeah, a bit. But normally people ask.’

I shrug. ‘It’s not my place to judge – you’re Leon’s brother, and you rang to talk to him. And anyway, we were talking about how horrible prison is, and that’s true regardless of what you did. Everyone knows prison doesn’t work. Right?’

‘Right – I mean, do they?’

‘Oh, sure.’

More silence.

‘I’m in for armed robbery. But I didn’t do it.’

‘God. I’m sorry. This is really shit, then.’

‘Pretty much, yeah,’ Richie says. He waits. And then he asks, ‘Do you believe me?’

‘I don’t even know you. Why does it matter?’

‘I don’t know. It just . . . does.’

‘Well, I need some of the facts before I say I believe you. It wouldn’t mean much otherwise, would it?’

‘That’s my message for Leon then. Tell him I’d like him to give you the facts, so you can tell me if you believe me.’

‘Hang on.’ I reach for a pad of Post-its and a pen. ‘Hi Leon,’ I say, reading as I write. ‘This is a message from Richie. He says . . .’

‘I’d like Tiffy to know what happened to me. I want her to believe I didn’t do it. She seems like a very nice lady, and I bet she’s pretty to boot, you can just tell man, she’s got that kind of voice – deep and sexy, you know the—’

I’m laughing. ‘I’m not writing that!’

‘How far did you get?’

‘“Sexy”,’ I admit, and Richie laughs.

‘All right. You can sign the note off now. But leave that last bit, if you don’t mind – it’ll make Leon smile.’

I shake my head, but I’m smiling too. ‘Fine. I’ll leave it. It was good to meet you, Richie.’

‘You too, Tiffy. You look after my brother for me, all right?’

I pause, surprised at the request. For starters, it seems like Richie’s the one who needs looking after, and for seconds, I’m really not best placed for looking after any of the Twomey family, given that I’ve never met a single one of them. But by the time I open my mouth to respond, Richie’s hung up the phone, and all I can hear is the dial tone.