The Flatshare

13 Tiffy

‘I think I’m having palpitations.’

‘Nobody has had palpitations since the olden days finished,’ Rachel informs me, taking an unacceptably large sip of the latte the head of Editorial bought me (every so often he feels guilty for Butterfingers not paying me enough, and splashes out £2.20 on a coffee to assuage his conscience).

‘This book. Is. Killing me,’ I say.

‘The saturated fat in your lunch is killing you.’ Rachel prods the banana bread I’m currently munching my way through. ‘Your baking is getting worse. By which I mean better, obviously. Why aren’t you getting fatter?’

‘I am, but I’m just bigger than you, so you don’t notice the difference as much. I stash my new cake weight in bits you won’t spot. Like the upper arm, for instance. Or the cheek. I’m getting rounder cheeks, don’t you think?’

‘Edit, woman!’ Rachel says, slapping a hand on the layouts between us. Our weekly catch-ups about Katherin’s book soon became daily catch-ups as March slipped by; now, faced with the terrifying real­isation that it is April and our print date is only a couple of months away, they have become daily catch-ups and daily lunches. ‘And when are you getting me the photos of the hats and scarves?’ Rachel adds.

Oh, God. The hats and scarves. I wake up in the middle of the night thinking about hats and scarves. There is no agency free to take on making them at such short notice, and Katherin really doesn’t have time. Contractually she doesn’t have to make all the samples herself — this is a mistake I will never make again at negotiation stage — so I have no ammunition to make her do it. I tried actual begging, but she told me, not unkindly, that I was embarrassing myself.

I gaze mournfully at my banana bread. ‘There is no solution,’ I say. ‘The end is nigh. The book is going to go to print with no pictures in the hats and scarves chapter.’

‘No it bloody well isn’t,’ Rachel says. ‘For starters, you’ve not got enough words to fill the space. Edit! And then think of something! And do it fast!’

Ugh. Why do I like her again?

When I get home I put the kettle on straight away — it’s a cup-of-tea sort of evening. There’s an old note from Leon stuck on the underside of the kettle. They get everywhere, these Post-its.

Leon’s mug is still by the sink, half full of milky coffee. He always drinks it that way, from the same chipped white mug with a cartoon rabbit on the side. Every night that mug will either be on this side of the sink, half drunk, which I guess means he was pushed for time, or washed up on the draining board, which I assume means he managed to get up with the alarm.

The flat is pretty homely now. I had to let Leon reclaim some of the space in the living area — sometime last month he removed half of my cushions and put them in a pile in the hall with a label reading ‘I Am Finally Putting My Foot Down (sorry)’ — but he may have been right that there were a few too many. It was getting quite hard to sit on the sofa.

The bed is still the strangest part of this whole flatsharing thing. For the first month or so I put my own sheets on and took them off again every morning, and I’d lie on the furthest edge of my left-hand side, my pillow pulled away from his. But now I don’t bother alternating the sheets — I only lie on my side anyway. It’s really all quite normal. Of course, I still haven’t actually met my flatmate, which I acknowledge is technically a bit weird, but we’ve started leaving each other notes more and more often now — sometimes I forget we haven’t had these conversations in person.

I chuck my bag down and collapse on the beanbag while the tea brews. If I’m honest with myself, I’m waiting. I’ve been waiting for months now, ever since I saw Justin.

Surely he’s going to get in touch with me. OK, so I never replied to his text — something I still intermittently hate Gerty and Mo for not letting me do — but he gave me that look on the cruise ship. Obviously it’s now been so long that I’ve almost entirely forgotten the look itself, and it’s just a compilation of different expressions I remember on Justin’s face (or, maybe more realistically, remember from all his Facebook photos) . . . but still. At the time it felt very . . . OK, I still don’t know what it felt. Very something.

As more time passes I’ve found myself thinking about how weird it was that Justin was on that very cruise ship on the one day that Katherin and I were doing the How to Crochet Your Own Clothes Fast show. As much as the thought appeals, it can’t have been because he came specially to see me — we were rescheduled at the last minute, so he wouldn’t have known I was going to be there. Plus his text said he was there for work, which is perfectly plausible — he works for an entertainment company that arranges shows for things like cruises and tourist tours of London. (I was always a bit hazy on the details, to be honest. It all seemed very logistical and stressful.)

So if he didn’t come on purpose, then doesn’t it feel a bit like fate?

I grab my tea and wander into the bedroom, at a loose end. I don’t even want to get back together with Justin, do I? This is the longest we’ve ever been broken up, and it does feel different from the other times. Maybe because he left me for a woman he then promptly proposed to. It’s probably that.

In fact, I shouldn’t even care whether he’s going to get in touch with me. What does that say about me, that I’m waiting for a man who most likely cheated on me to give me a call?

‘It says that you’re loyal and trusting,’ Mo says, when I ring him and ask this very question. ‘The exact qualities that mean Justin is likely to try and get in touch again.’

‘You think he will too?’ I realise I’m twitchy, jumpy, hungry for reassurance, which annoys me even more. I start tidying my Gilmore Girls DVDs into the correct order, too jittery to stand still. There’s another note jammed between series one and two; I yank it loose and skim over it. I’d been trying to persuade Leon to try actually using our television, offering him my very high-quality DVD collection as a place to start. He was not convinced.

‘Almost certainly,’ Mo says. ‘That seems to be Justin’s way. But . . . are you sure you want him to?’

‘I’d like him to talk to me. Or at least acknowledge me. I don’t know where his head is at. He seemed so mad at me about the flat, but then that message after I saw him on the cruise ship was really sweet, so . . . I don’t know. I want him to call. Ugh.’ I clench my eyes shut. ‘Why is that?’

‘Maybe you spent a lot of time being told you couldn’t manage without him,’ Mo says gently. ‘That would explain why you want him back, even when you don’t want him.’

I flounder around looking for a change of subject. The latest episode of Sherlock? The new assistant at work? But I find I don’t even have the energy to be diverting.

Mo waits quietly. ‘It’s true, though, isn’t it?’ he says. ‘I mean, have you thought about dating anyone else?’

‘I could date someone else,’ I protest.

‘Hmm.’ He sighs. ‘How did that look on the cruise ship really make you feel, Tiffy?’

‘I don’t know. It was ages ago now. I guess . . . it was kind of . . . sexy? And nice to be wanted?’

‘You weren’t afraid?’

‘What?’

‘Did you feel afraid? Did the look make you feel smaller?’

I frown. ‘Mo, give it a rest. It was just a look. He definitely wasn’t trying to scare me — besides, I rang you to talk about whether he’ll ever call me, and thanks, you made me feel a bit better about that, so let’s draw the line there.’

For a long while there’s silence at the other end of the phone. I’m a little shaken despite myself.

‘That relationship took its toll on you, Tiffy,’ Mo says gently. ‘He made you miserable.’

I shake my head. I mean, I know me and Justin argued, but we always made up, and things only got more romantic after a fight, so it didn’t really count. It wasn’t like when other couples argued — it was all just part of the beautiful, crazy rollercoaster that was our relationship.

‘It’ll all sink in eventually, Tiff,’ Mo says. ‘When it does, you just get on the phone to me, OK?’

I nod, not really sure what I’m agreeing to. From my vantage point I’ve just spotted the perfect distraction from how I’m feeling right now: the bag of scarves under Leon’s bed. The one I found on my first night here, which convinced me that Leon was probably some kind of serial killer. There’s a note on them which I’m sure wasn’t there when I looked at them before — it says FOR CHARITY SHOP.

‘Thanks, Mo,’ I say into the phone. ‘See you Sunday for coffee.’ I hang up, already looking around for a pen.

14 Leon

Arms out wide, legs akimbo. A stern-looking prison guard frisks me very enthusiastically. Suspect I fit her profile of person who may bring drugs or weapons into visiting hall. Imagine her flicking through her mental checklist. Gender: Male. Race: Indeterminate, but a bit browner than would be preferable. Age: Young enough not to know better. Appearance: Scruffy.

Try to smile in a non-threatening, good-citizen sort of way. Probably comes across as cocky, on reflection. Begin to feel slightly queasy, the reality of this place seeping in despite the efforts I have made to pointedly ignore rolls of barbed wire on top of thick steel fences, windowless buildings, aggressive signs about consequences of smuggling drugs into prisons. Despite having done this at least once a month since November.

The walk from security to the visiting hall is perhaps the worst part. It involves a maze of concrete and barbed wire, and all the way you are ferried by different prison guards, taking their key chains from their hips for gates and doors that need locking behind you before you can even take a step towards the next one. It’s a beautiful spring day; the sky is just visible above the wires, tauntingly blue.

Visiting hall is better. Kids toddle between tables, or get lifted overhead, squealing, by muscly dads. Prisoners wear bright-coloured bibs to differentiate them from the rest of us. Men in high-viz orange inch closer to visiting girlfriends than they’re strictly allowed to be, fingers wound tight. There’s more emotion here than at an airport arrivals lounge. Love Actually was missing a trick.

Sit at assigned table. Wait. When they bring Richie in, my stomach does a peculiar lurch, like it’s trying to turn inside out. He looks tired and unwashed, cheeks hollow, head hastily shaved. He’s in his only pair of jeans — won’t have wanted me to see him in the prison-issue joggers — but they’re too loose around the waist now. Hate it, hate it, hate it.

I get up and smile, stretching my arms out for a hug. Wait for him to come to me; can’t leave allocated area. Prison guards line the walls, watching closely, expressionless.

Richie, slapping me on the back: All right, brother, you’re looking good!

Me: You too.

Richie: Liar. I look like shit warmed up. Water’s been knocked out after some scene on E Wing — no idea when it’ll come back on, but until then, I wouldn’t recommend trying to use the toilets.

Me: Noted. How’re you doing?

Richie: Peachy. Have you heard anything from Sal?

Thought I could avoid that topic for at least one minute.

Me: Yeah. He’s sorry about those papers holding up the appeal, Richie. He’s working on it.

Richie’s face closes up.

Richie: I can’t keep waiting, Lee.

Me: You want me to try and find someone new, I’ll do it.

Glum silence. Richie knows as well as I do that this’ll probably slow things down even further.

Richie: Did he get the footage from the Aldi camera?

Did he even request the footage from the Aldi camera is the question. Am starting to doubt it, even though he told me he did. Rub back of neck, look down at shoes, wish harder than ever that Richie and I were anywhere but here.

Me: Not yet.

Richie: That’s the key, man, I’m telling you. That camera in Aldi will show them. They’ll see it’s not me.

Wish this was true. How high-res is this footage, though? How likely is it that it’ll be clear enough to counteract the witness identification?

We talk about the appeal case for almost the full hour. Just can’t get him off the topic. Forensics, overlooked evidence, always the CCTV. Hope, hope, hope.

Leave with shaking knees, take a cab to the station. Need sugar. Have some tiffin Tiffy made in bag; eat about three thousand calories of it as the train rolls through the countryside, flat field after flat field, taking me away from my brother and back to the place where everyone’s forgotten him.

Find bin-bag of scarves in centre of bedroom when I get home, with Tiffy’s note pasted on its side.

Mr Prior makes two-hundred-pound scarves? Doesn’t even take him very long! Ahhh. Think of all the times I turned down his offer of new scarf, hat, glove, or tea cosy. Could have been a billionaire by now.

On bedroom door:

Fallen on floor by bedroom door (quite hard to track down):

Back to bedroom door again:

On kitchen breakfast bar, beside unsealed envelope:

I pass Tiffy’s letter to Matron, who gives me the all-clear to offer Mr Prior the opportunity to knit for Tiffy’s book. Or crochet. Am extremely unclear on the difference. No doubt Tiffy will write me a long note at some point with detailed explanation, unprompted. She loves a lengthy explanation. Why use one clause when you could use five? Strange, ridiculous, hilarious woman.

One night later and Mr Prior’s got two hats done already — they look hat-like and woolly, so I’m assuming all is as it should be.

Only downside to this arrangement is now Mr Prior is fascinated with Tiffy.

Mr Prior: So she’s a book editor.

Me: Yes.

Mr Prior: What an interesting profession.

A pause.

Mr Prior: And she lives with you?

Me: Mm.

Mr Prior: How interesting.

Look at him sideways while writing his notes. He blinks back at me, beady-eyed and innocent.

Mr Prior: I just didn’t imagine you’d like living with another person. You like your independence so much. Isn’t that why you didn’t want to move in with Kay?

Must stop talking to patients about personal life.

Me: It’s different. I don’t have to see Tiffy. We just leave each other notes, really.

Mr Prior nods thoughtfully.

Mr Prior: The art of letter writing. A profoundly . . . intimate thing, a letter, isn’t it?

I stare at him suspiciously. Not sure what he’s getting at here.

Me: It’s Post-its on the fridge, Mr Prior, not hand-delivered letters on scented paper.

Mr Prior: Oh, yes, I’m sure you’re right. Absolutely. Post-its. No art in that, I’m sure.

Next night, and even Holly has heard about Tiffy. Amazing how uninteresting news travels so fast between wards when significant proportion of people in building are bedbound.

Holly: Is she pretty?

Me: I don’t know, Holly. Does it matter?

Holly pauses. Thoughtful.

Holly: Is she nice?

Me, after a moment’s thought: Yes, she’s nice. Bit nosy and strange, but nice.

Holly: What does it mean, that she’s your ‘flatmate’?

Me: Flatmate means she shares my flat. We live there together.

Holly, eyes widened: Like boyfriend and girlfriend?

Me: No, no. She’s not my girlfriend. She’s a friend.

Holly: So you sleep in different rooms?

Get bleeped before I have to answer that one, thankfully.