The Flatshare: A Novel

Rachel is positively vibrating with excitement.

‘You are joking! You are joking!’ she says, bouncing in her seat. ‘I cannot believe he had a hard-on!’

I groan and rub my temples, which I’ve sometimes seen tired people do on television so am hoping will make me feel better. It doesn’t work. How is Rachel so bloody perky? I was sure she drank nearly as much as me.

‘It’s not funny,’ I tell her. ‘And I said he might have done. I’m not saying he definitely did.’

‘Oh, please,’ she says. ‘You’re not so out of action that you’ve forgotten what that looks like. Three men in one night! You are literally living the dream.’

I ignore her. The head of Editorial luckily found it funny that I was late, but I still have a huge pile of work to get done today, and it hasn’t helped my to-do list that I arrived over an hour late.

‘Stop pretending to check those proofs,’ Rachel says. ‘We need a plan of action!’

‘For what?’

‘Well, what now? Are you calling Ken the hermit? Going for a drink with Justin? Or jumping in the shower with Leon?’

‘I’m going back to my desk,’ I tell her, grabbing the stack of proofs. ‘This has not been a productive session.’

She sings ‘Maneater’ at me as I walk away.

*

Rachel is right about the plan of action, though. I need to work out what the hell I’m going to do about the Leon situation. If we don’t speak soon, there’s a serious risk this morning will ruin everything – no more notes, no more leftovers, just silent, painful awkwardness. Humiliation is like mould: ignore it and the whole place will get smelly and green.

I’ve got to . . . I’ve got to text him.

No. I’ve got to call him, I decide. It needs to be drastic. I check the clock. Well, he’ll be asleep now – it’s two in the afternoon – so I’ve got a glorious four hours or so in which I can’t do anything about this situation. I suppose I should probably use that time to go through the proofs of Katherin’s book, especially now there’s a real danger that quite a lot of people might actually buy it, what with all this social media buzz about crochet.

Instead, after a long night and morning of trying very hard not to, I think about Justin.

And then, because I am not good at thinking on my own, I ring Mo to talk about Justin. He sounds a little groggy when he answers the phone, as if he’s just woken up.

‘Where are you?’ I ask.

‘At home. Why?’

‘You sound weird. Isn’t it Gerty’s day off?’

‘Yes, she’s here too.’

‘Oh.’ It’s odd to think of the two of them just hanging out together without me. It just . . . doesn’t work as a combination. From freshers’ week of uni it was Gerty and me, inseparable; we took Mo under our collective wing at the end of first year, after seeing him solo dancing very enthusiastically to ‘Drop it Like it’s Hot’ and deciding anyone with those moves needed to be involved in all our nights out. After that we did everything as a three, and if a rare pairing did come about it was always me plus Gerty or me plus Mo. ‘Put loudspeaker on?’ I say, trying not to sound petulant.

‘Hang on. Hey, you’re all set.’

‘Let me guess,’ Gerty says, ‘you’ve fallen in love with Leon’s brother.’

I pause. ‘Normally your radar is pretty good, but you’re way off.’

‘Damn. Leon, then?’

‘Can’t I just call you for a chat?’

‘This isn’t a chat,’ Gerty says. ‘You don’t call at two in the afternoon for chats. You WhatsApp for that.’

‘This,’ I tell her, ‘is why I rang Mo.’

‘So? What’s the drama?’ Gerty asks.

‘Justin,’ I say, too tired to argue with her.

‘Ooh! An oldie but a goodie.’

I roll my eyes. ‘Can you let Mo chime in with something supportive, at least occasionally?’

‘What happened, Tiffy?’ Mo says.

I fill them in on my evening. Or at least, an abridged version of it – I don’t mention the dreadful kiss incident. It’s just a lot of drama to fit in one phone call, especially when you’re trying to check page numbers while you’re talking.

Also, as well as that, there’s the whole I-desperately-don’t-want-to-think-about-it thing.

‘This all sounds like pretty typical Justin behaviour, Tiffy,’ Mo says.

‘Well done for saying no,’ Gerty says, with surprising fervour. ‘It’s fucking creepy that he was at the cruise, and now this? I wish you could see how—’ There’s a muffled noise and Gerty stops talking. I get the sense that Mo may have poked her.

‘I didn’t quite say no,’ I point out, staring down at my feet. ‘I said “in a couple of months”.’

‘That’s still a hell of a lot better than dropping everything and running off with him again,’ Gerty says.

There’s a long silence. My throat feels tight. I need to talk about that kiss, I know I need to, but I can’t seem to get there. ‘Gerty,’ I say eventually. ‘Would you mind if I just spoke to Mo? For a moment?’

There’s another muffled sort of silence.

‘Fine, sure,’ Gerty says. She is audibly trying not to sound miffed.

‘Just me now,’ Mo says.

I swallow. I don’t want to talk about this here – I head for the office doors, down the stairs and out of the building. Outside everyone is moving a little more slowly than usual, as if the heat has calmed London down.

‘You told me once that my – that me and Justin . . . took its toll on me.’

Mo doesn’t say anything, he just waits.

‘You said that would sink in eventually. And you said to call you when it does.’

More silence, but it’s Mo-style silence, which means it is somehow incredibly reassuring. Like an audio hug. He doesn’t need words, Mo – his arts are beyond them.

‘Something weird happened last night. I was – that Ken guy and I kissed, and then we . . . well, I, I remembered . . .’

Why can’t I say it?

‘I remembered sleeping with Justin after a fight. I was so unhappy.’ I’m tearing up; I sniff, trying very hard not to cry.

‘How did you feel?’ Mo asks. ‘When the thought came to you, I mean.’

‘Scared,’ I admit. ‘I don’t remember our relationship being like that. But now I think I might have just sort of – airbrushed it? Forgotten those bits? I don’t know, is that even possible?’

‘Your brain can do amazing stuff to protect itself from pain,’ Mo tells me. ‘But it’ll struggle to keep secrets from the rest of you for long. Has this feeling of remembering things differently happened a lot since you left Justin?’

‘Not a lot.’ But, you know, a bit. Like there was that note I wrote about not inviting Justin to Rachel’s party, even though I know I did. It sounds crazy but I think Justin might’ve made me believe I’d not invited him, because that way he could be mad about me going? And lately I keep finding things – clothes, shoes, jewellery – that I remember Justin telling me I’d sold or given away. I’d usually put it down to my bad memory, but I’ve had a nagging sense of wrongness for months now, not helped by Mo’s relentless, annoyingly supportive nudging every time we talk about Justin. I am very good at not thinking about things, though, so I’ve just . . . resolutely not thought about it.

Mo talks about gaslighting and triggers. I squirm uncomfortably, and finally a tear creeps from my bottom lashes down my cheek. I’m officially crying.

‘I should go,’ I say, wiping my nose.

‘Just think about what I’ve said, OK, Tiffy? And remember how well you stood up to him last night – you’ve come a million miles already. Give yourself credit for that.’

I head back inside, suddenly drained. This last day has been too much. Up and down and up and down . . . Ugh. And the hangover is crushing.

By the time I finally finish checking the proofs of Katherin’s book, I’ve filed the nasty Justin thoughts back into their usual box, and I’m feeling a lot calmer. I’ve also had three packets of Wotsits, which Rachel suggested as the ultimate hangover cure, and which do appear to have taken me from full-on zombie to semi-sentient. So once I’ve dumped Crochet Your Way on Rachel’s desk, I scuttle back to mine to do what I’ve been itching to do since last night: go back on Leon’s Facebook page.

There he is. He’s smiling at the camera, his arm slung around someone at what looks like a Christmas party – there are twinkly fairy lights hung up behind them, and a room full of heads. I flick through his profile pictures and remember looking at these before. I’d not thought he looked at all attractive – and it’s true that he’s too gangly and long-haired to be my usual type. But clearly he is just one of those people who suddenly becomes fanciable in person.

Maybe it was just the initial shock, and the nakedness. Maybe second time around it’ll all be nice and platonic, and I can forget about it and call Ken the sexy Norwegian hermit. Although I can’t face that, not after the way Justin humiliated me in front of him. Ugh, no, don’t think about Justin—

‘Who’s that?’ Martin says from behind me. I jump, spilling coffee across my scattering of very urgent Post-it notes.

‘Why do you always creep up on me?’ I ask, snapping the window closed and dabbing at the coffee with a tissue.

‘You’re just jumpy. So who was that?’

‘My friend Leon.’

‘Friend?’

I roll my eyes. ‘Since when have you been even slightly interested in my life, Martin?’

He gives me an oddly smug look, as if he knows something I don’t, or perhaps is just having some intestinal issues.

‘What do you need?’ I ask, through gritted teeth.

‘Oh, nothing, Tiffy. Don’t let me interrupt you.’ And he walks off.

I sit back in my chair and take a deep breath. Rachel pops her head up over her computer and mouths ‘Still can’t believe it! Hard-on!’ at me, then does a double thumbs-up. I sink further in my seat, hangover resettling, and decide that I will absolutely definitely never drink again.