The Flatshare: A Novel

Mam at least provides distraction from painfully awkward memory of this morning.

She’s making astonishing effort. And it seems she was telling the truth about being single – no telltale signs of man about house (Richie and I got to be very good at identifying them in childhood) and she’s not changed her hair and clothes since last time I saw her, which means she’s not trying to fit to someone else.

I talk to her about Kay. Feels surprisingly good. She nods in the right places and pats my hand, welling up occasionally, then makes me oven chips with nuggets, which all make me feel ten years old again. Not unpleasant, though. Nice to be looked after.

The strangest part is going back to the bedroom Richie and I shared when we moved to London in our early teens. I’ve only been back here once since the trial. Came to stay for a week after that; didn’t think Mam could cope alone. Wasn’t needed for long, though – she met Mike, who was keen to have the place to themselves, so I moved back to the flat.

The room is unchanged. Has the feeling of a shell missing its sea creature. It’s full of holes where things should be: Blu-Tack marks on walls for posters long-since taken down, books tipping at diagonals without enough there to hold them up. Richie’s stuff still boxed up from when his old housemates dropped it around.

It takes enormous mental effort not to riffle through it. Would be unnecessarily upsetting, and he’d hate me doing it.

I lie down on the bed and find my mind drifting back to image of Tiffy – first in that red underwear, then padding into the bedroom wrapped in a towel. Second image feels even more unacceptable, as she didn’t even know I was watching. Fidget, uncomfortable. It’s wrong to be so attracted to her. It’s probably a reaction to Kay break-up.

Phone rings. Rising panic. Check screen: Tiffy.

Don’t want to answer. Phone rings and rings – seems to go on for ever.

She hangs up without leaving a message. I feel oddly guilty. Richie told me I had to talk to her. But I prefer option of total radio silence going forward, or, at most, the odd note left on kettle or back of door.

Lie back down. Reflect on this. Wonder if it’s true.

Phone buzzes. A text.

Hey. So. Hmm. I feel like we should chat about this morning? Tiffy x

The memory hits me afresh, and I find myself groaning again. Should definitely reply. Put phone down. Stare at ceiling.

Phone buzzes again.

I should totally have started with an apology. It was me who shouldn’t have been there, according to our flatsharing rules. And then I went and accosted you in the shower. So yes, I am very, very sorry! xx

Oddly, I feel a lot better after seeing this text. It doesn’t sound like she was traumatised, and also sounds familiarly Tiffy-ish, so is easier to imagine this text coming from the Tiffy I had in my head before I met the real one. That one was sort of . . . not irrelevant, exactly, but in the ‘safe space’ in my head. Person for talking to, without pressure or implication. Easy and undemanding.

Now Tiffy is definitely not in safe headspace.

I muster the courage to start a reply.

Don’t apologise. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry – it’s already forgotten.

Delete this last part. Clearly this is not true.

Don’t apologise. We were bound to bump into each other eventually! No need to worry – am happy to put it behind us if you are. Leon x

Send, then regret the kiss. Do I normally put a kiss? Have no recollection. Scroll back up thread of last few messages and find that I am entirely inconsistent, which is probably best outcome. I settle back on the bed and wait.

And wait.

What is she doing? She normally replies fast. Check the time – eleven at night. Could she have fallen asleep? Did seem like she was out late last night. Finally, though:

Let’s forget all about it! I promise it won’t happen again (the barging in OR the sleeping in, that is). I hope Kay didn’t totally flip out about me breaking the flatshare rules . . .? And, you know, accosting her boyfriend in the shower . . . xx

Deep breath.

Kay and I broke up a couple of weeks ago. X

Reply is almost instant.

Oh, shit, I’m so sorry. I did think something might be wrong – you were all quiet in your notes (more so than usual, I mean!) How are you holding up?

Think about it. How am I holding up? Am lying in bed in my mother’s flat, fantasising about naked flatmate, all thoughts of ex-girlfriend briefly but genuinely forgotten. Is probably not entirely healthy, but . . . better than yesterday? I go for:

Getting there. x

There’s a long pause after this one. Wonder if I should have said a bit more. Not that that’s ever put Tiffy off before.

Well, this might cheer you up: in my hungover state I walked into the printer at work today.

I snort. A beat later, an image of printer appears. It’s enormous. Could probably fit four Tiffys inside it.

Did you not . . . spot it?

I think I just lost the ability to stop walking at the necessary moment. I had just come off a call with my gorgeous bricklayer-turned-designer though, so . . .

Ah. You must’ve still been weak at the knees.

Probably! It’s been that sort of day xx

Stare at this one until phone screen times out. That sort of day. What sort of day? Weak-kneed sort of day? But why – because she . . .

No, no, won’t be because of me. That’s ridiculous. Except . . . what did she mean, then?

Hope this isn’t going to be how I am whenever communicating with Tiffy now. Is absolutely exhausting.