The Flatshare: A Novel

Part 6 – SEPTEMBER

Already September. Summer starting to cool. Never thought it possible that time could pass quickly when Richie was in prison, but he says the same – his days move like they should, instead of dragging and trailing and forcing him to feel every minute.

It’s all because of Gerty. I’ve only met her a few times, but we speak on the phone every few days; often the solicitor joins the call too. Barely ever spoke to last solicitor. This one seems to be endlessly doing things. Amazing.

Gerty is brusque beyond the point of rudeness, but I like her – she does not seem to have the capacity for bullshitting (opposite of Sal?). She’s often in the flat, and has taken to joining Tiffy in writing me notes. Thankfully, though, it’s very easy to tell them apart. These two are side by side on breakfast bar:

Hey! I’m sorry to hear about that two-day hangover – I feel your pain, and recommend Wotsits. However . . . no WAY does your hair get curlier on hangover days! That just can’t be a thing, because there is no upside to a hangover. And, from my limited knowledge of what you look like, I’m betting the curlier your hair is the cooler you look. xx

*

Leon – tell Richie to call me. He has not supplied me with the answers to the ten-page list of enquiries I sent him last week. Please remind him that I am an extremely impatient person who is usually paid a lot for reviewing things. G

*

On way back from the last Richie visit, I popped in to see a Johnny White. He lives in a care home north of London, and, within moments, I felt sure he was not our guy. Wife and seven children was strong sign (though, obviously, not conclusive), but then, after a very difficult conversation, I discovered he only served in the army for three weeks before being shipped home with a gangrenous leg.

This resulted in a long conversation about gangrene. Felt a lot like being at work, except much more awkward.

The following week Mr Prior is unwell. Find myself surprisingly distressed. Mr Prior is a very old man – it’s entirely to be expected. My job is to make him comfortable. Has been from the first day I met him. But I always thought I’d find him the love of his life before he had to go, and none of my five Johnny Whites has been any use at all. Three to go, but still.

I was naïve. Pretty sure Kay said so at the time.

*

On the boiler:

So, if you’ve reached this point, you’ve probably figured out that the boiler is broken. But don’t worry, Leon, I have excellent news for you! I’ve already called a plumber and she is going to come tomorrow evening to sort it. Until then you’ll have to shower in ICE-COLD WATER but actually if you’ve come to look at the boiler you may well have already done that, in which case, the worst is over. I recommend curling up in the beanbag with a hot cup of spiced apple tea (yes, I bought a new fruit tea; no, we don’t already have too many in the cupboard) and our lovely Brixton blanket. That’s what I did, and it worked a treat xx

Not sure how I feel about it being our Brixton blanket, assuming she means the ratty multi-coloured thing I’m always having to throw off the bed. Is definitely one of the worst objects in the flat.

Settle down on beanbag with latest variety of fruit tea and think about Tiffy, here, in this spot, just a few hours before me. Wet hair, bare shoulders. Wrapped in just a towel and this blanket.

Blanket isn’t so bad. It’s . . . characterful. Quirky. Maybe I’m coming round to it.