The Flatshare

34 Leon

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:

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:

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.

35 Tiffy

This is my first session with Someone Other Than Mo.

Mo himself suggested it. He said it would benefit me to do proper counselling and talk to a person who didn’t already know me. And then Rachel told me that, unbelievably, our employee benefits actually include up to fifteen sessions of counselling, paid for by Butterfingers. I have no idea why they’re willing to provide that but not pay above minimum wage — maybe they’re sick of employees leaving on stress.

So here I am. It is very weird. Someone Other Than Mo is called Lucie and is wearing a gigantic cricket jumper as a dress, which obviously immediately makes me like her and ask her where she shops. We talked about vintage stores in South London for a while, and then she got me a water, and now here we are, in her office, facing one another in matching armchairs. I’m extremely nervous, though I haven’t got a clue why.

‘So Tiffy, what was it that made you want to come and see me today?’ Lucie asks.

I open my mouth and close it again. God, there’s so much to explain. Where do I even begin?

‘Just start with that,’ Lucie says. She has Mo’s mindreading skills, clearly — they must teach them that when they’re accredited. ‘The thing that made you want to pick up the phone and make an appointment.’

‘I want to fix whatever the hell it was my ex-boyfriend did to me,’ I say, and then pause, startled. How have I managed to say that outright to a complete stranger within five minutes of meeting her? How embarrassing.

But Lucie doesn’t even blink. ‘Sure,’ she says. ‘Would you like to tell me a bit more about that?’

‘Are you healed?’ Rachel asks me, plonking a coffee down on my desk.

Ah, coffee, elixir of the overworked. Recently it has overtaken tea in my affections — a sign of how little I’m sleeping. I blow Rachel a kiss as she makes her way over to her screen. As per usual, we continue the conversation on instant messenger.

‘Tiffy? Do you have a minute?’ calls the head of Editorial.

Shit. ‘Do you have a minute’ is always bad. If it was urgent but non-problematic, he’d just shout it across the room or send me an email with one of those passive-aggressive red exclamation marks on it. No, ‘do you have a minute’ means it’s confidential, and that almost certainly means it’s worse than just sniggering at my desk because I’m messaging Rachel about kissing.

What’s Katherin done? Has she uploaded a picture of her vagina on Twitter, as she threatens to do literally every time I ask her to do another interview at Martin’s request?

Or is it one of the many, many books that I have completely ignored in the madness that has been Crochet Your Way? I can’t even remember their titles any more. I’ve shifted pub dates like I’ve been playing Bananagrams, and I definitely haven’t run the changes by the head of Editorial. It’ll be that, won’t it? I’ve ignored someone’s book for so long that it’s actually gone to print without any words in it.

‘Sure,’ I say, pushing away from my desk in what I hope is a brisk and professional manner.

I follow him into his office. He closes the door behind me.

‘Tiffy,’ he begins, perching on the edge of his desk. ‘I know it’s been a busy few months for you.’

I swallow. ‘Oh, it’s been fine,’ I say. ‘Thanks, though!’

He gives me a slightly odd look at this point, which is entirely understandable.

‘You’ve done a fantastic job with Katherin’s book,’ he says. ‘It really is a stellar piece of publishing. You spotted that trend — no, you shaped it. Really, top notch.’

I blink, bewildered. I neither spotted that trend nor shaped it — I’ve been publishing crochet books ever since I started at Butterfingers.

‘Thanks?’ I say, feeling a bit guilty.

‘We’re so impressed with your recent work, Tiffy, that we’d like to promote you to editor,’ he says.

It takes a good few seconds for the words to sink in, and when they do, I make a very peculiar choking noise.

‘Are you all right?’ he asks, frowning.

I clear my throat. ‘Fine! Thanks!’ I squeak. ‘I mean, I just didn’t expect . . .’

. . . ever to get promoted. Literally, ever. I had entirely given up hope.

‘It’s extremely well deserved,’ he says, smiling benevolently.

I manage to smile back. I don’t really know what to do with myself. What I want to do is ask how much more money I’ll be getting, but there’s no dignified way to ask that question.

‘Thanks so much,’ I gush instead, and then I feel a bit pathetic, because let’s be honest they should have promoted me two years ago, and it’s undignified to grovel. I draw myself up to my full height and give him a more purposeful smile. ‘I’d better get back to work,’ I say. Senior people always like to hear you say that.

‘Absolutely,’ he says. ‘HR will send over details of the salary increase et cetera.’

I like the sound of that et cetera.

I smile. The note is stuck on the fridge, which is already one layer deep in Post-its. My current favourite is a doodle Leon did, depicting the man in Flat 5 sitting on an enormous heap of bananas. (We still don’t know why he keeps so many banana crates in his parking space.)

I rest my forehead against the fridge door for a moment, then run my fingers across the layers of paper scraps and Post-its. There’s so much here. Jokes, secrets, stories, the slow unfolding of two people whose lives have been changing in parallel — or, I don’t know, in synch. Different times, same place.

I reach for a pen.

Waiting for the reply makes me wish, for the very first time, that Leon and I communicated via WhatsApp like normal people. I’d kill for a little double blue tick right now. Then, when I get home, pasted carefully below my note on the fridge:

Then, just below, but in a different coloured pen:

I’m standing in the kitchen, facing the fridge, absolutely beaming.

The response takes two days to come. I wonder if Leon is losing his nerve, but then, eventually, scribbled fast in blue ink:

36 Leon

It’s a date? It’s a date?!

What has happened to me? Should have written see you there. Instead, I said it’s a date. Which it’s not. Probably. Also, am not a person who says things like it’s a date, even when it is.

Rub eyes and fidget on the spot. I’m under the departure boards at London Victoria station, along with a hundred or so other people, but while they’re all staring up at the boards, I’m keeping my eyes on the exit from the underground. Wonder if Tiffy will recognise me when I’ve got clothes on. On that point: it’s a freakishly warm day for September. Should not have worn jeans.

Check directions from Brighton station are loaded up on my phone. Check time. Check train platform. Fidget some more.

When she finally appears, there’s no danger of missing her. She’s in a canary yellow jacket and tight trousers; her orange-red hair is thrown over her shoulders and bounces as she walks. She’s also taller than most of the people streaming all around her, and is wearing yellow sandals with a heel, giving her an extra few inches on the general population.

She seems entirely oblivious of how many eyes she catches as she walks by, which only makes the whole effect more attractive.

Smile and wave as she spots me. Proceed to stand awkwardly smiling as she approaches, then, at this extremely late moment, am struck by question of whether we should hug hello. Could have spent last ten minutes of waiting time debating this. Instead, have left it until she is right in front of me, eye to eye, her cheeks flushed from the stuffy heat hanging in the station air.

She hangs back; too late for a hug.

Tiffy: Hey.

Me: Hi.

And then, simultaneously:

Tiffy: Sorry I’m late—

Me: Not seen those yellow shoes before—

Tiffy: Sorry, you go.

Me: Don’t worry, you’re hardly late.

Thank God she spoke over me. Why would I draw attention to the fact I am familiar with most of her shoes? Sounds extremely creepy.

We walk to the platform side by side. I keep glancing at her; can’t get over how tall she is, for some reason. Didn’t imagine her tall.

Tiffy looks sideways at me, catches my eye, and smiles.

Tiffy: Not what you expected?

Me: Sorry?

Tiffy: Me. Am I what you expected?

Me: Oh, I—

Tiffy quirks an eyebrow.

Tiffy: As in, before you saw me last month.

Me: Well, didn’t expect you to be so . . .

Tiffy: Big?

Me: I was going to say naked. But also tall, yes.

Tiffy laughs.

Tiffy: I wasn’t as naked as you were.

Me, wincing: Don’t remind me. I’m so sorry for—

Ahhh. How to finish that sentence? It might be my imagination, but her cheeks seem to be flushed a little pinker.

Tiffy: Seriously, it was my fault. You were just innocently showering.

Me: Not your fault. Everyone oversleeps.

Tiffy: Especially when they’ve drunk pretty much a whole bottle of gin.

We’re on the train now, so conversation stops as we move down the aisle. She chooses us a table seat; in a split second, I decide it’s less awkward to sit facing one another rather than side by side, but as I slide into the seat, realise my mistake. This way is very eye-contacty.

She slips off her jacket; underneath she’s wearing a blouse covered in enormous green flowers. Her arms are bare, and the blouse drops to a low V across her chest. My inner teenager attempts to take control of my gaze and I just about catch myself in time.

Me: So — whole bottle of gin?

Tiffy: Oh yeah. Well, I was at this book launch, then Justin turned up, and — anyway, lots of gin was involved in the aftermath.

Frown.

Me: The ex? That’s . . . weird?

Tiffy shakes her hair out and looks a little uneasy.

Tiffy: I thought that too at first, and wondered if he’d tracked me down or something, but if he wanted to see me he could have just come to my work — or, apparently, my flat, judging by that bunch of flowers. I’m clearly just paranoid.

Me: Did he say that? That you were paranoid?

Tiffy, after a pause: No, he never said that exactly.

Me, catching up: Wait. You didn’t tell him where you live?

Tiffy: No. I’m not sure how he found me. Facebook or something, probably.

She rolls eyes like it’s a minor irritation, but I’m still frowning. This doesn’t sound right. Have nasty suspicion I know men like this from my mother’s life. Men who tell you you’re crazy for getting suspicious of their behaviour, who know where you live when you don’t expect them to.

Me: Were you together long?

Tiffy: A couple of years. It was all very intense, though. Lots of breaking up and shouting and crying and things.

She looks slightly surprised at herself, opens her mouth as though to correct that, then thinks better of it.

Tiffy: Yeah. It was about two years in all.

Me: And your friends don’t like him?

Tiffy: They never did, actually. Not even at the start. Gerty said she got ‘bad vibes’ even when she only saw him from far away.

Am liking Gerty more and more.

Tiffy: Anyway, so he turned up and tried to whisk me off somewhere for a drink to explain everything away, as per.

Me: You said no?

Tiffy nods.

Tiffy: I said he has to wait a while to ask me out for a drink. A couple of months, at least.

Tiffy looks out of the window, eyes flicking as she watches London slide away around us.

Tiffy, quietly: I just didn’t feel like I could say no. Justin’s like that. He makes you want what he wants. He’s very . . . I don’t know. He owns a room straight away, you know? He’s forceful.

Try to ignore warning sirens in my head. I’m not liking this situation at all. Hadn’t got this sense of things from the notes — but maybe Tiffy herself hadn’t got this sense of things until recently. It can take people time to notice and process emotional abuse.

Tiffy: Anyway! Sorry. God. Weird.

She smiles.

Tiffy: This is a very deep conversation to have with someone you’ve only just met.

Me: We’ve not just met.

Tiffy: True. There was the memorable bathroom collision.

Another eyebrow quirk.

Me: I meant, it feels like we’ve known each other ages.

Tiffy smiles at that.

Tiffy: It does, doesn’t it? I guess that’s why it’s so easy to talk.

Yes. It’s true: it is easy to talk, which is even more surprising to me than to her, probably, because there are about three people in the world I find it easy to talk to.

37 Tiffy

I don’t understand what compelled me to go on about Justin like that. I’ve not mentioned anything about the counselling or the flashbacks in my notes to Leon — those Post-its make me warm and fuzzy, I’m not ruining them with Justin crap — but suddenly now I’m face-to-face with him it feels natural to talk to him about the things occupying my thoughts. He just has one of those non-judgemental faces that make you want to, you know . . . share.

We slip into silence as the train speeds through open countryside. I get the sense that Leon likes silence; it doesn’t feel as awkward as I would expect it to, more like this is his natural state. It’s strange, because when he talks, he’s really engaging, albeit in a quiet, intense sort of way.

He’s looking out of the window, squinting against the sunlight, so I sneak a chance to look at him. He’s a little scruffy, in a worn grey T-shirt with a cord necklace around his neck that has the look of something he hardly ever takes off. I wonder what its significance is. Leon doesn’t strike me as the type to wear accessories for anything other than sentimental reasons.

He catches me looking and meets my gaze. My stomach flutters. Suddenly the silence feels different.

‘How’s Mr Prior?’ I blurt.

Leon looks startled. ‘Mr Prior?’

‘Yeah. My life-saving knitter. The last time I spoke to him was at the hospice.’ I give him a wry smile. ‘When you were busy avoiding me.’

‘Ah.’ He rubs the back of his neck, looking down, then shoots me a little lopsided grin. It’s so quick I almost miss it. ‘Wasn’t my finest moment.’

‘Mmm.’ I pull a mock stern face. ‘Do I scare you, is that it?’

‘A bit.’

‘A bit! Why?’

He swallows, Adam’s apple bobbing, and pushes his hair back from his face. I think he’s nervous-fidgeting. It’s absolutely adorable.

‘You’re very . . .’ He waves a hand.

‘Loud? Brash? Larger than life?’

He winces. ‘No,’ he says. ‘No, not that.’

I wait.

‘Look,’ he says, ‘have you ever looked forward to reading a book so much you can’t actually start it?’

‘Oh, totally. All the time — if I had a grain of self-restraint I never would’ve been able to read the last Harry Potter book. The anticipation was painful. You know, like, what if it doesn’t live up to the last ones? What if it’s not what I hope it’ll be?’

‘Right, well.’ He waves a hand at me. ‘I think it might have been . . . like that.’

‘But with me?’

‘Yeah. With you.’

I look down at my hands in my lap, trying very hard not to smile.

‘As for Mr Prior . . .’ Leon’s talking out of the window now. ‘I’m sorry. Can’t really talk about a patient.’

‘Oh, of course. Well, I hope we find his Johnny White. Mr Prior is lovely. He deserves a happy ending.’

As we rumble on, slipping in and out of comfortable conversation, I sneak more discreet little looks at Leon across the table. At one point our eyes meet in the window’s glass, and we both look away fast, like we’ve seen something we shouldn’t have.

I’m just about feeling that all awkwardness has departed when we arrive at Brighton, but then he gets up to grab his rucksack from the overhead space and he’s suddenly standing, with his T-shirt riding up to show the dark band of his Calvin Klein boxers above his jeans, and I’m back to not knowing what to do with myself. I attempt to find the table very interesting.

When we reach Brighton there’s a weak September sun shining; it’s not quite autumn yet. From outside the station I can see streets of white town houses stretching out ahead of us, dotted with the sorts of pubs and cafés that everyone in London would overpay to have on their street corner.

Leon has arranged to meet Mr White on the pier. When we reach the seafront I let out an involuntary squeal of excitement. The pier stretches out into the grey-blue sea like this is a painting of one of those old seaside resorts where Victorians used to hang out in ridiculous knee-length swimwear. It’s perfect. I reach into my bag and get out my big, floppy, 1950s sunhat, yanking it on to my head.

Leon looks at me with amusement.

‘What a hat,’ he says.

‘What a day,’ I counter, spreading my arms out wide. ‘No other headwear would do it justice.’

He grins. ‘To the pier?’

My hat bobs as I nod. ‘To the pier!’

38 Leon

We spot Johnny White without any difficulty. Very old man sitting on end of pier. Literally, right on the end, sitting on the railings with feet dangling over — I’m surprised nobody has had him moved. It looks pretty dangerous.

Tiffy, on the other hand, is not worried. She bounces, sunhat flapping.

Tiffy: Look! A Johnny White of my very own! I bet he’s the real deal. I can just tell.

Me: Impossible. You can’t win on first go.

But have to admit, Brighton-dweller is a better bet than weed-smoking Midlander was.

Tiffy is over there before I’ve had time to collect my thoughts or consider the safest means of approaching; she climbs on to the railings to join him.

Tiffy, to JW the Sixth: Hello, are you Mr White?

The old man turns. He’s beaming.

JW the Sixth: I am indeed. Are you Leon?

Me: I’m Leon. Pleased to meet you, sir.

JW the Sixth’s beam widens.

JW the Sixth: The pleasure’s all mine! Will you join me? It’s my favourite spot.

Me: Is it . . . safe?

Tiffy has already swung her feet over.

Me: Don’t people worry? About you jumping, or falling in?

JW the Sixth: Oh, everyone here knows me.

He gives a cheerful wave in the direction of the man running the candyfloss stall, who equally cheerfully flips him the bird. JW the Sixth chuckles.

JW the Sixth: So what’s this family project, then? Are you my long-lost grandson, young man?

Me: Unlikely. Though not impossible.

Tiffy gives me a curious look. Doesn’t feel like the time to fill her in on the many gaps in my family history. I shift, uncomfortably warm; the heat is stronger here with the sun on the water, and I can feel sweat prickling on my hairline.

Tiffy: We’re here for a friend. A . . . a Mr Prior?

A seagull caws behind us, and Johnny White the Sixth gives a little start.

JW the Sixth: You’re going to need to give me more than that, I’m afraid.

Me: Robert Prior. Think he served in the same regiment as you during the—

JW the Sixth’s smile drops. He holds up a hand to stop me.

JW the Sixth: If you don’t mind, I would prefer you stopped there. That’s not . . . my favourite topic of conversation.

Tiffy, smoothly: Hey Mr White, how about we go somewhere to cool off? I’ve not got the complexion for this sort of sunshine.

She holds out her arms to show him. His smile returns slowly.

JW the Sixth: An English rose! And what a beautiful one.

He turns to me.

JW the Sixth: You’re a lucky man, finding a woman like that. They don’t make ’em that way any more.

Me: Oh, she’s not—

Tiffy: I’m not—

Me: We’re actually just . . .

Tiffy: Flatmates.

JW the Sixth: Oh!

Looks between the two of us. Does not seem convinced.

JW the Sixth: Anyhow. The best way to cool off around here is to go for a dip.

He gestures towards the beach.

Me: I didn’t bring trunks.

But, at the same time, Tiffy is saying . . .

Tiffy: I will if you will, Mr White!

I stare at her. Tiffy is full of surprises. It’s rather disorientating. Not sure I like this idea.

JW the Sixth, on the other hand, seems delighted at Tiffy’s proposal. She is already helping him back over the railings. I rush to help her, what with this being a very elderly man, very near a sudden drop.

Walking down pier past rides and packed arcades gives me plenty of time to bottle it.

Me: One of us had better look after our stuff.

JW the Sixth: Don’t you worry about that. We’ll leave them with Radley.

Radley turns out to be man with multi-coloured turban running old-school Punch and Judy stand. Tiffy shoots me a delighted look as we introduce ourselves and dump our bags. Isn’t this brilliant? she mouths at me. Can’t help smiling. This Johnny White is fast becoming my favourite, I have to admit.

I follow Tiffy and Johnny as they weave their way between sunbathers and deckchairs on their way to the shoreline. Stop for a moment to kick off my shoes, the pebbles cool beneath my feet. Sun blazes low across the water and wet shingle shines silver. Tiffy’s hair burns red. Johnny White is wrestling off his shirt as he goes.

And now . . . Ahhh. Tiffy is too.

39 Tiffy

I haven’t felt like this in way too long. In fact, if you’d asked me a few months ago, I’d have told you I could only feel this way with Justin. This rush of doing something ridiculously spontaneous — the total aliveness of whirling yourself off-plan and shutting up all the bits of your brain that tell you why this isn’t a sensible idea . . . God, I’ve missed this. Laughing, tripping, my hair in my face, I wriggle out of my jeans and duck as Mr White chucks his shorts in the direction of our impromptu clothing pile.

Leon is behind us; I glance back and he’s grinning too, so that’s good enough for me. Mr White is down to his briefs.

‘Ready?’ I yell at him. It’s breezy out here; my hair whips my cheeks and the wind tickles the bare skin of my stomach.

Mr White doesn’t need telling twice. He’s wading into the sea already — he can move very quickly for a man who must be at least ninety. I look back at Leon, who is still dressed, and looking at me in an unreadably muddled sort of way.

‘Come on!’ I shout at him, running backwards into the water. I feel giddy, almost drunk.

‘This is ridiculous!’ he calls.

I hold my arms out wide. ‘What’s stopping you?’

It might be my imagination, and he’s pretty far away to tell, but his eyes don’t seem to be spending all their time on my face. I supress a smile.

‘Come on!’ Johnny White shouts from the sea, where he’s already doing breaststroke. ‘It’s lovely!’

‘I don’t have swimming trunks!’ Leon says, hovering in the shallows.

‘What’s the difference?’ I yell, gesturing to my underwear, which — plain black, no lace this time — is pretty indistinguishable from the bikinis other people out here are wearing. I’m in up to my hips now, and I bite my lip against the cold of the water.

‘Maybe nothing if you’re a woman, but it’s a little different if—’

Presumably Leon finishes his sentence, but I don’t hear the rest of it. Suddenly I’m underwater, and all I can think about is a searing pain in my ankle.

I shriek and swallow a gulp of seawater so salty it burns the back of my throat; my hands flail, and for a moment my good foot connects with the ground, but then my other foot tries to find purchase too, and the pain sends me falling again. I’m twisted, spinning; everything is flashes of water and sky. I must have twisted my ankle, some distant corner of my brain registers. Don’t panic, it tries to tell me, but it’s too late, I’m coughing up water and my eyes and throat are burning, I can’t turn, I can’t find my footing, my ankle roars with pain every time I move it as I try to swim—

Someone’s trying to grab me. I can feel strong hands scrabbling to get a grip on my body; something knocks my bad ankle and I try to cry out, but it’s as if my throat’s closed up. It’s Leon, and he’s hauling me up out of the water, pulling me close; I reach for him and he stumbles, almost tumbling in with me, but he kicks out until he’s swimming, arms tight around my waist, and drags me closer to shore until he can find his footing.

I’m so dizzy everything is sliding back and forth. I can’t breathe. I grip his sodden T-shirt, retching and coughing as he lays me down on the pebbles of the beach. I’m so tired — the kind of tired you get when you’ve been up all night because you’re sick, where your eyes just can’t bear to stay open.

‘Tiffy,’ Leon is saying.

I can’t stop coughing. There’s so much water lodged in my throat — I vomit great spurts of it on to the wet shingle, my vision still spinning, my head so heavy I can hardly keep it lifted. Distant, almost forgotten, my ankle throbs.

I’m gasping. There can’t possibly be any more water inside me. Leon has smoothed my hair away from my face and is pressing his fingers gently into the skin of my neck as though checking for something, and now he’s wrapping me in my jacket, rubbing my arms with the fabric; it hurts my skin and I try to roll away from him, but he holds me tightly.

‘You’re OK,’ he says. Above me, his face slides back and forth. ‘Think you’ve sprained your ankle, Tiffy, and you swallowed a lot of water, but you’re going to be OK. Try to breathe more slowly if you can.’

I do my best. Behind him appears the worried face of Johnny White the Sixth. He is struggling back into his jumper, trousers already back on.

‘Is there somewhere warm nearby where we can take her?’ Leon asks him.

‘The Bunny Hop Inn, just up there,’ Mr White says. I vomit again and rest my forehead on the pebbles. ‘I know the manager. She’ll give us a room, no problem.’

‘Grand.’ Leon sounds perfectly calm. ‘I’m going to lift you, Tiffy. Is that OK?’

Slowly, my head pounding, I nod. Leon picks me up and carries me in both arms. My breathing slowing, I let my head fall against his chest. The beach passes in a blur around me; faces are turned our way, shocked pink and brown splodges against the multi-coloured backdrop of towels and sunshades. I close my eyes — keeping them open makes me feel sicker.

Leon swears under his breath. ‘Where are the steps?’

‘This way,’ Johnny White says, somewhere off to my left.

I hear the screech of brakes and the rush of traffic as we cross the road. Leon is breathing hard, his chest rising and falling against my cheek. In contrast, my breathing is getting easier — that tightness in my throat and the weird heaviness in my lungs has lifted a little.

‘Babs! Babs!’ Johnny White the Sixth is shouting. We’re inside, and the sudden warmth makes me realise how much I’m shivering.

‘Thank you,’ Leon says. There’s commotion all around me. For a moment I’m embarrassed, and try to shift out of Leon’s arms to walk, but then my head lurches and I cling back on to his T-shirt again as he stumbles. ‘Easy there,’ he says.

I cry out. He’s knocked my ankle into the bannister. He swears, pulling me closer so my head lolls back against his chest.

‘Sorry, sorry,’ he says, backing up the stairs. I can see pale pink walls covered with paintings in ostentatious frames, all gilt and swirly bits, then a door, then Leon’s laying me down on a gloriously soft bed. Unfamiliar faces shift in and out of view. There’s someone dressed in a lifeguard’s kit; I blearily wonder if she’s been here this whole time.

Leon is pulling the pillows up behind me, supporting my weight with one forearm.

‘Can you sit up?’ he asks quietly.

‘I . . .’ I try to talk, and start coughing, rolling on to my side.

‘Careful.’ He shifts my sodden hair back behind my shoulders. ‘Are there any extra blankets in here?’

Someone is spreading thick, scratchy blankets over me. Leon is still tugging me up, trying to get me into a sitting position.

‘I’ll feel better if you’re upright,’ he says. His face is close to mine; I can see the start of stubble on his cheeks. He looks me right in the eyes. His are a soft dark brown that makes me think of Lindt chocolate. ‘Can you do that for me?’

I shift myself higher against the pillows and grab ineffectually at the blankets with freezing fingers.

‘How about a tea to warm you up?’ he says, already looking around for someone to fetch one. One of the strangers slips out of the door. There’s no sign of Johnny White any more — I hope he’s gone to get himself some warm clothes — but there are still about a million people here. I cough again and turn my face away from all the staring faces.

‘Let’s give her some space. Can we have everyone out, please? Yes, don’t worry,’ Leon says, getting up to usher people from the room. ‘Just let me do an examination with a bit of peace and quiet.’

A lot of people say things about what to do if we need anything. They file out one by one.

‘I’m so sorry,’ I say, as the door closes behind everyone. I cough; it’s still hard to talk.

‘None of that,’ Leon says. ‘How are you feeling now?’

‘Cold and a bit achy.’

‘I didn’t see you go down. Do you remember if you banged your head on a rock or anything?’

He kicks off his shoes and pulls his feet up to sit cross-legged on the end of the bed. I notice, finally, that he’s soaking wet and shivering too.

‘Shit, you’re drenched!’

‘Just reassure me you’ve not got brain fluid seeping out from anywhere. Then I’ll go get changed, OK?’

I smile a little. ‘Sorry. No, I don’t think I banged my head. Just twisted my ankle.’

‘That’s good. And can you tell me where we are?’

‘Brighton.’ I look around. ‘Hey, and the only place I’ve ever been with nearly as much floral wallpaper as my mother’s house.’ The full sentence makes me cough, but it’s worth it to see Leon’s frown loosen a little, and his lopsided grin return.

‘I’ll take that as a correct answer. Can you tell me your full name?’

‘Tiffany Rose Moore.’

‘Didn’t know the middle name. Rose — it suits you.’

‘Shouldn’t you be asking me questions you know the answers to?’

‘I think I liked you better when you were all drowned and dopey.’ Leon leans forward, one hand raised, and lifts his palm to my cheek. It’s very intense and a little out of nowhere. I blink as he stares into my eyes, checking for something, I guess. ‘Are you feeling at all sleepy?’ he asks.

‘Umm. Not really. I’m tired, but not in a sleepy way.’

He nods and then, a little belatedly, drops his hand from my cheek. ‘I’m going to give my colleague a ring. She’s a doctor, and she’s just come off her rotation in Accident and Emergency, so she’ll know the drill with an ankle exam. Is that OK? Pretty sure it’s just a sprain from your history and what I’ve seen of how you’re moving, but we’d better check.’

‘Umm. Sure.’

It’s strange being in the room for a conversation between Leon and one of the doctors he works with. He’s no different — just as quiet and measured as when he speaks to me, with just the same lilting touch of an Irish accent — but he seems more . . . grown up.

‘OK, it’s a pretty simple exam,’ Leon says, turning back to me once he’s hung up. His forehead is furrowed in a frown, and he perches on the bed again, shifting the blankets so he can reach my ankle. ‘Are you happy for me to give it a go? See if you need to go to A&E?’

I swallow, suddenly a little nervous. ‘OK.’

He pauses, looking at me for a moment as if he’s wondering whether I’ll change my mind, and my cheeks get hot. Then he slowly presses his fingers to the skin of my ankle, gently feeling for different points until I wince with pain.

‘Sorry,’ he says, laying a cool hand on my leg. My skin goes goosepimply almost instantaneously, and I pull the blanket up, a little embarrassed. Leon twists my foot very gently from side to side, eyes moving from my ankle to my face as he tries to gauge my reaction.

‘How painful is that, out of ten?’ he asks.

‘I don’t know, like, six?’ I’m really thinking eight eight eight but I don’t want to seem pathetic.

The corner of Leon’s mouth lifts a little and I get the impression he knows exactly what I’m doing. As he continues examining me, I watch his hands move over my skin, and I wonder why I’ve never realised how peculiarly intimate medical stuff like this is, how much of it’s about touch. I guess generally you’re in a GP’s surgery, not scantily clad and in a big double bed.

‘Right.’ Leon sets my foot down gently. ‘I’d say you have officially sprained your ankle. You probably don’t need to bother with five hours in A&E, to be honest. But we can go if you’d like?’

I shake my head. I feel like I’m in safe hands right here.

Someone knocks at the door, and then a middle-aged lady appears with two steaming mugs and a pile of clothes.

‘Oh, perfect. Thank you.’ Leon grabs the mugs from her and passes one to me. It’s hot chocolate, and it smells amazing.

‘I took the liberty of making yours an Irish one,’ the woman says, giving me a wink. ‘I’m Babs. How’re you holding up?’

I take a deep, shuddering breath. ‘A lot better now I’m here. Thank you so much.’

‘Could you just stay with her while I change?’ Leon asks Babs.

‘I don’t need . . .’ I start coughing again.

‘Watch her like a hawk,’ Leon says warningly, and then he’s slipped off to the bathroom.

40 Leon

Lean back on bathroom door, eyes closed. No concussion and a sprained ankle. Could have been much, much worse.

Got time to think about how cold I am now; shrug off my wet clothes and turn the shower on to hot. I tap out a quick thank you text to Socha. Phone is thankfully still functional, if a little damp — it was in my trouser pocket.

I get in the shower and make myself stand until I stop shivering. Remind myself that Babs is with her. Still, dress faster than I have ever dressed before, and don’t even bother with belt to keep up ridiculously oversized trousers that Babs has found for me; will just wear them low, 90s-style.

When I head back into the bedroom, Tiffy has scraped her hair up into a bun. There’s a touch of pink in her lips and cheeks again. She smiles up at me and I feel something shift in my chest. Hard to describe. Maybe like a lock clicking into place.

Me: How’s that hot chocolate going down?

Tiffy pushes the other mug along the bedside table towards me.

Tiffy: Try yours and see.

Someone knocks at the door; I take the hot chocolate with me as I go to answer it. It’s Johnny White the Sixth, looking very worried and also wearing comically large trousers.

JW the Sixth: How’s our girl?

I have a feeling Tiffy becomes ‘our girl’ easily — she’s the sort of person distant relatives and absent neighbours still like to claim some credit for.

Tiffy: I’m fine, Mr White! Don’t you worry about me.

She lapses into an ill-timed fit of wet coughing. JW the Sixth fidgets in the doorway, looking miserable.

JW the Sixth: I’m so sorry. I feel responsible — it was my idea to go swimming. I should have checked you could both swim!

Tiffy, once recovered: I can swim, Mr White. I just lost my footing and got a little panicked, that’s all. Blame the rock that knackered my ankle if you feel the need to blame something.

JW the Sixth looks a little less anxious now.

Babs: Well, you two are staying here tonight. No arguments. It’s on the house.

Both Tiffy and I try to protest, but again Tiffy descends into spluttery half coughing, half retching, taking some of the sting out of our argument that she doesn’t need to stay in bed.

Me: I should at least go — you don’t need me now that—

Babs: Nonsense. It’s no extra bother to me, is it? Besides, Tiffy needs looking after, and my medical knowledge doesn’t extend much further than what a glass of whisky can do. John, do you want a lift home?

JW the Sixth tries to argue his way out of this favour also, but Babs is one of those formidably nice people who will not take no for an answer. It’s a good five minutes before they agree and head out the door. When they’re gone the click of the door makes me breathe out in relief. Hadn’t realised how much I want quiet.

Tiffy: Are you all right?

Me: Fine. Just not a fan of . . .

Tiffy: Commotion?

I nod.

Tiffy smiles, pulling her blankets up closer.

Tiffy: You’re a nurse — how can you avoid it?

Me: Work is different. But it still drains me. I need quiet afterwards.

Tiffy: You’re an introvert.

Make a face. I’m not a fan of those Myers–Briggs type things that tell you your personality type, like horoscopes for businesspeople.

Me: Guess so.

Tiffy: I’m the opposite. I can’t process anything without calling Gerty, or Mo, or Rachel.

Me: You want to call someone now?

Tiffy: Oh, shit, my phone was in my . . .

She spots the pile of her clothes, brought up from the shoreline by one of the hundred helpful strangers who followed us up the beach in procession. Tiffy claps hands in glee.

Tiffy: Would you pass my trousers?

I hand them over and watch as she rummages in the pockets for her phone.

Me: I’ll go get us some lunch. How long do you need?

Tiffy pushes a few stray strands of hair back from her face, looking up at me, phone in hand. That clicked-in lock hums in my chest again.

Tiffy: Half an hour?

Me: Got it.

41 Tiffy

‘Are you all right?’ is Mo’s first question. ‘Have you been to A&E?’

Gerty, on the other hand, is focused on the real issue. ‘Why didn’t you tell us about the bathroom incident before? Are you in love with this man you’re sharing a bed with, and hiding it because you’re going to end up sleeping with him and I explicitly told you that the first rule of flatsharing is that you don’t sleep with your flatmate?’

‘Yes, I’m fine, and no, but Leon examined my ankle with some help from a friend of his who’s a doctor. I just need lots of rest, apparently. And whisky, depending on whose medical opinion you’re asking.’

‘My question now,’ Gerty says.

‘No, I’m not in love with him,’ I tell her, shifting my weight on the bed and wincing as my ankle throbs. ‘And I’m not going to sleep with him. He’s my friend.’

‘Is he single?’

‘Well, yes, actually. But—’

‘Sorry, but just to check, Tiffy, has anyone examined you for—’

‘Oh shut up, Mo,’ Gerty interrupts. ‘She’s with a trained nurse. The woman is fine. Tiffy, are you sure you’re not suffering from Stockholm Syndrome?’

‘Pardon?’

‘An A&E nurse is very different from a palliative care nurse—’

‘Stockholm Syndrome?’

‘Yes,’ Gerty says. ‘This man gave you a home when you were homeless. You are forced to sleep in his bed, and now you think you are in love with him.’

‘I don’t think I’m in love with him,’ I remind her patiently. ‘I told you, he’s my friend.’

‘But this was a date,’ Gerty says.

‘Tiffy, you do seem fine, but I just want to double-check — I’m on NHS Choices now — can you weight-bear on that ankle?’

‘You with Google is not better than a nurse with a doctor on the phone,’ Gerty tells Mo.

‘It wasn’t a date,’ I say, even though I’m pretty sure it was. I wish Mo and Gerty hadn’t got into this new habit of answering the phone together whenever they’re both home. I called Mo because I wanted to talk to Mo. It’s not that I don’t like talking to Gerty, it’s just that that is a very different experience, and not necessarily one you want after nearly drowning.

‘You’re going to need to explain this whole Johnny White thing to me again,’ Gerty says.

I check the time on my phone screen. Only five minutes until Leon gets back with lunch.

‘Listen, I have to go,’ I say. ‘But Mo, I’m fine. And Gerty, calm your protective instincts, please. He’s not trying to sleep with me or entrap me or lock me away in his basement, OK? In fact, I have very little reason to think that he’s at all interested in me.’

‘But you are interested in him?’ Gerty insists.

‘Goodbye, Gerty!’

‘Look after yourself, Tiffy,’ Mo manages to say before Gerty hangs up (she’s not big on goodbyes).

I dial Rachel’s number without pause.

‘So the key point here,’ Rachel says, ‘is that you are yet to have an interaction with Leon that doesn’t involve you stripping down to your underwear.’

‘Umm.’ I’m grinning.

‘You better keep your clothes on from now on. He’ll think you’re a — what’s it called when you’re one of those men who likes exposing themselves in the park?’

‘Hey!’ I protest. ‘I do not—’

‘I’m just saying what everybody’s thinking, my friend. You’re definitely not about to kick the bucket?’

‘I feel fine really. Just achy and exhausted.’

‘All right then. In that case, make the most of your free hotel stay, and call me if you find yourself accidentally whipping your bra off during dinner.’

There’s a knock at the door.

‘Shit. Got to go, bye!’ I hiss into the phone. ‘Come in,’ I call. I managed to put on the jumper Babs left me while Leon was out, so I’m now decent from the waist up, at least.

Leon smiles at me and holds up a very full bag of what smells like fish and chips. I gasp in delight.

‘Proper seaside food!’

‘And . . .’ He reaches into the bag and pulls out another one, handing it to me. I look inside: red velvet cupcakes with cream-cheese icing.

‘Cake! The best kind of cake!’

‘Doctor’s orders.’ He pauses. ‘Well, Socha said, “get her some food”. The fried fish and cupcakes were a bit of artistic licence.’

His hair is nearly dry; the salt has turned it even curlier, and it keeps springing from behind his ears. He catches me watching him try and smooth it back and grins ruefully.

‘You’re not meant to see me looking like this,’ he says.

‘Oh, and this is exactly how you’re meant to see me,’ I say, gesturing in the vague direction of my enormous baggy jumper, pale face and crazy matted hair. ‘“Drowned rat” is a favourite look of mine.’

‘Mermaid-like?’ Leon suggests.

‘Funny you should mention that. I do actually have a fin under here,’ I say, patting the blanket over my legs.

Leon smiles at that, spreading out the fish and chips on the bed between us. He kicks off his shoes and sits, careful to avoid my swollen ankle.

The food is amazing. It’s just what I need, though I wouldn’t have known it until I smelled it. Leon got pretty much every add-on to fish and chips you can imagine — mushy peas, onion rings, curry sauce, pickled onions, even one of those plastic-looking sausages they always have behind the glass — and we eat our way through it all. When it comes to the cupcake, finishing the last mouthfuls requires serious mental effort.

‘Nearly dying is exhausting,’ I declare, suddenly overcome by sleepiness.

‘Nap,’ Leon tells me.

‘You’re not worried about me falling asleep and never waking up again?’ I ask, eyelids already drooping. Being warm and full is amazing. I’ll never take being warm and full for granted ever again.

‘I’ll just wake you every five minutes to check you’re not suffering from brain trauma,’ he says.

My eyes fly open. ‘Every five minutes?’

He chuckles, already gathering up his stuff and heading for the door. ‘See you in a few hours.’

‘Oh. Nurses shouldn’t make jokes,’ I call after him, but I don’t think he hears me. Maybe I only think of saying it. I’m slipping off to sleep even as I hear the door close behind him.

I wake with a jolt that sends a shock of pain through my ankle. Crying out, I look around me. Floral wallpaper. Am I at home? Who’s that man in the chair by the door, reading . . .

‘Twilight?’

Leon blinks at me, putting the book down in his lap. ‘You went from unconscious to judgemental very quickly there.’

‘I did think this was a weird dream for a second,’ I say. ‘But my dream version of you would have much better book taste.’

‘It’s all Babs had to offer. How’re you feeling?’

I give the question some thought. My ankle is throbbing and my throat feels horribly sore and salty, but the ache in my head has disappeared. I can feel that my stomach muscles are going to be painful from all the coughing, though.

‘Much better, actually.’

He smiles at that. He is very cute when he smiles. When he’s serious his face is a little severe — fine-boned brow, cheekbones, jaw — but when he’s smiling, it’s all soft lips and dark eyes and white teeth.

I check the time on my phone, more to break eye contact than anything — I’m suddenly very aware that I’m lying in bed, hair mussed and bare legs only half hidden under the blankets.

‘Half six?’

‘You were sleepy.’

‘What have you been doing this whole time?’ I ask him. He shows me his bookmark — he’s nearly read the whole of Twilight.

‘This Bella Swan is a very popular lady, for one who declares herself to be so unattractive,’ he tells me. ‘Seems every single man in the book who isn’t her father is in love with her.’

I nod solemnly. ‘It’s very hard being Bella.’

‘Sparkly boyfriends can’t be easy,’ Leon agrees. ‘You want to try walking on that ankle of yours?’

‘Can’t I just stay in bed for ever?’

‘Dinner and more whisky if you can get downstairs.’

I shoot him a look. He looks back, perfectly placid, and I realise what an excellent nurse he must be.

‘Fine. But you need to look away first, so I can put my trousers on.’

He doesn’t say anything about the fact that he’s already seen way too much for turning around to be necessary; he just swivels in the armchair and reopens Twilight.

42 Leon

Definitely don’t get drunk. Am telling myself this on repeat, but still can’t stop sipping my drink. It’s a whisky on the rocks. Horrible. Or it would be if Babs hadn’t said it was on the house, which instantly made it much more appetising.

We’re at a rickety wooden table with a sea view and a teapot with a big fat candle stuck in it. Tiffy is delighted with teapot candle holder. Cue animated conversation with waiting staff about interior design (or ‘interiors’, as they call it).

Tiffy has her foot up and resting on a cushion, as per Socha’s orders. The other foot is now up too — she’s basically horizontal at the table, hair thrown back and blazing against the sunset over the sea. She’s like a Renaissance painting. Whisky has painted the colour back in her cheeks and brought a slight flush to the skin of her chest, which I can’t stop looking at whenever her attention is elsewhere.

Have barely thought about anything but her all day, even before all the drowning started. Mr Prior’s search for Johnny White has shifted into the background — last week that project was what Kay would call my ‘fixation’. Now it feels like something I want because I’ve shared it with Tiffy.

She’s telling me about her parents. Every so often she tips her head back, throws her hair further over the back of her chair, half closes her eyes.

Tiffy: Aromatherapy is the only one that’s stuck. Mum did candle-making for a while, but there’s no money in that, and after a while she just sort of snapped and declared that she was buying the ones from Poundland again and nobody was allowed to tell her they told her so. Then she went through a really weird phase where she got into seances.

That snaps me out of staring at her.

Me: Seances?

Tiffy: Yeah, you know, when you sit around a table and try to talk to dead people?

Waiter appears at Tiffy’s foot’s chair. Looks at it, mildly puzzled, but doesn’t comment. You get the impression they’re used to all sorts here, including bedraggled people with their feet up as they eat.

Waiter: Would you like a pudding?

Tiffy: Oh, no, I’m stuffed, thanks.

Waiter: Babs says it’s on the house.

Tiffy, without pause: Sticky toffee pudding, please.

Me: Same here.

Tiffy: All this free stuff. It’s like a dream come true. I should drown more often.

Me: Please don’t.

She lifts her head to look at me properly, her eyes a little sleepy, and holds my gaze for a few seconds longer than is strictly necessary.

Clear throat. Swallow. Flounder for subject.

Me: Your mum did seances?

Tiffy: Oh, yeah. So for a couple of years while I was at secondary school I’d come home to find all the curtains drawn and a bunch of people saying, ‘Please make yourself known’, and ‘Knock once for yes, twice for no’. I reckon at least sixty per cent of the visitations were actually just me getting home and chucking my bag in the cupboard under the stairs.

Me: So what was after seances?

Tiffy thinks about it. Sticky toffee pudding arrives; it’s enormous and drenched in toffee sauce. Tiffy makes an excited noise which makes my stomach clench. Ridiculous. Can’t be getting turned on by a woman moaning about pudding. Must pull self together. Sip more whisky.

Tiffy, mouth full of pudding: She made curtains for a bit. But the upfront costs were massive, so that turned into making doilies. And then it was aromatherapy.

Me: Is that why we have so many scented candles?

Tiffy smiles.

Tiffy: Yeah — the ones in the bathroom are all carefully chosen with scents that help you relax.

Me: They have the opposite effect on me. Have to move them every time I want to shower.

Tiffy gives me a cheeky look over her spoon.

Tiffy: Some people are beyond aromatherapeutic help. You know, my mum chose my perfume too. It ‘reflects and enhances my personality’, apparently.

I think of that first day when I walked into the flat and smelled her perfume — cut flowers and spice markets — and how odd it felt, having someone else’s scent in my flat. It’s never strange now. Would be odd to come home to anything else.

Me: What’s that then?

Tiffy, promptly: Top note rose, then musk, then clove. Which means, according to my mum . . .

Crinkles her nose a little in thought.

Tiffy: ‘Hope, fire, strength.’

Looks amused.

Tiffy: That’s me, apparently.

Me: Sounds about right.

She rolls her eyes at that, having none of it.

Tiffy: ‘Skint, mouthy, stubborn’ would be better — probably what she meant anyway.

Me, definitely tipsy now: What would I be, then?

Tiffy tilts her head. She looks right at me again, with an intensity that makes me half want to look away, half want to lean across the table and kiss her over the candle teapot.

Tiffy: Well there’s hope in there, definitely. Your brother’s relying on it.

That catches me by surprise. There are so few people who really know about Richie; even fewer who’ll bring him up unprompted. She’s watching me, testing for my reaction, like she’ll pull away if it hurts. I smile. Feels good to talk about him like this. Like it’s normal.

Me: So I get rose smell in my aftershave?

Tiffy makes a face.

Tiffy: There’s probably a whole different set of smells if you’re a man. I am only versed in the art of perfumery for women, I’m afraid.

I want to push her for the other words — want to hear what she thinks of me — but it’s conceited to ask. So we sit in silence instead, candle flame darting back and forth between us in its teapot, and I sip more whisky.

43 Tiffy

I’m not drunk, but I’m not exactly sober, either. People always say swimming in the sea makes you hungry — well, nearly drowning in it makes you a lightweight.

Plus, whisky on the rocks is really very strong.

I can’t stop giggling. Leon is definitely tipsy too; he’s loosened up at the shoulders, and that lopsided smile is almost a permanent fixture now. Plus he’s stopped trying to smooth his hair down, so every so often a new curl breaks free and bobs up to stick out sideways.

He’s telling me about when he was a kid, living in Cork, and the elaborate man-traps he and Richie would come up with to piss off their mum’s boyfriend (which is why I’m giggling).

‘So, hang on, you’d string wire across the hall? Didn’t everyone else trip up too?’

Leon shakes his head. ‘We’d sneak out and set up after Mam had put us to bed. Whizz always stayed late at the pub. It was a real education in swearwords, hearing him trip over.’

I laugh. ‘His name was Whizz?’

‘Mmhmm. Though, I would guess, not by birth.’ His expression sobers. ‘He was one of the worst for Mam, actually. Awful to her, always telling her how stupid she was. And yet she always stuck with him. Always let him back in every time she kicked him out. She was doing this adult learning course when they got together, but he soon had her dropping out.’

I scowl. The man-trap story suddenly isn’t so funny any more. ‘Seriously? What an absolute fucking prick!’

Leon looks a little startled.

‘Did I say the wrong thing?’ I ask.

‘No.’ He smiles. ‘No, just surprising. Again. You’d give Whizz a run for his money in a swearing contest.’

I incline my head. ‘Why, thank you,’ I say. ‘What about your and Richie’s dad? Was he not in the picture?’

Leon is almost as horizontal as I am now — he’s sharing my foot chair, his feet crossed at the ankles — and he’s dangling his whisky glass between his fingers, spinning it back and forth in the candle­light. There’s hardly anyone else left here; the waiting staff are discreetly clearing tables over on the other side of the room.

‘He left when Richie was born, moved to the US. I was two. I don’t remember him, or . . . just the odd shape and sort of . . .’ He waves a hand. ‘The odd feeling. Mam almost never talks about him — all I know is he was a plumber from Dublin.’

I widen my eyes. I can’t imagine not knowing any more than that about my father, but Leon says it like it’s nothing. He clocks my expression and shrugs.

‘It’s just never been a thing for me. Finding out more about him. It bothered Richie in his teens, but don’t know where he got with it — we don’t talk about it.’

It feels like there’s more to be said there, but I don’t want to push him and ruin the evening. I reach across and lay my hand on his wrist for a moment; he shoots me another surprised, curious look. The waiter drifts closer, perhaps sensing that our aimless conversation is unlikely to move anywhere else if he doesn’t do something to nudge things along. He starts clearing the last bits and pieces from our table; I belatedly take my hand from Leon’s wrist.

‘We should go to bed, shouldn’t we?’ I say.

‘Probably,’ Leon says. ‘Is Babs still about?’ he asks the waiter.

He shakes his head. ‘She went home.’

‘Ah. Did she say which room was mine? She said Tiffy and I could stay over.’

The waiter looks at me, then Leon, then me again.

‘Err,’ he says. ‘I think . . . she assumed . . . you were . . .’

It takes Leon a while to clock the issue. When he realises, he groans and facepalms.

‘It’s all right,’ I say, getting the giggles again, ‘we’re used to sharing a bed.’

‘Right,’ says the waiter, looking between us again, more puzzled than ever. ‘Well. That’s good then?’

‘Not at the same time,’ Leon tells him. ‘We share a bed at different times.’

‘Right,’ the waiter repeats. ‘Well, err, shall I . . .? Do you need me to do something?’

Leon waves a hand good-naturedly. ‘No, you go home,’ he says. ‘I’ll just sleep on the floor.’

‘It’s a big bed,’ I tell him. ‘It’s fine — we can just share.’

I let out a yelp — I’d been way too ambitious with trying to put weight on my sprained ankle as I get up from the table. Leon is at my side in an instant. He has very fast reactions for a man who has consumed quite a lot of whisky.

‘I’m OK,’ I tell him, but I let him put his arm around me to help support me as I hop-walk. After a certain amount of that, when we get to the stairs, he says, ‘Feck it,’ and picks me up again to carry me.

I shriek in surprise and then burst out laughing. I don’t tell him to put me down — I don’t want him to. Again I see the polished bannister and quirky pictures in their curly gilt frames sliding by as he jogs me up the stairs; again he opens the door to my room — our room — with his elbow and carries me through the doorway, kicking the door shut again behind him.

He lays me on the bed. The room is almost dark, the light from the streetlamp outside the window casting soft yellow triangles across the duvet and running gold through Leon’s hair. His big, brown eyes stare down at me, his face only inches from mine as he gently takes his arm from underneath me to settle my head on the pillows.

He doesn’t move. We stare at one another, our gazes locked, just a breath or two between us. The moment hangs taut, charged with possibility. A little flicker of panic sparks somewhere in the back of my mind — what if I can’t do this without freaking out? — but I’m aching for him to kiss me, and the panic flickers out again, blissfully forgotten. I can feel Leon’s breath on my lips, see his eyelashes in the half-light.

Then he closes his eyes and pulls back, turning his head aside with a quick sigh as if he was holding his breath.

Oof. I pull back too, suddenly uncertain, and that taut silence between us breaks. Did I . . . misread that whole gazes-locked, staring-at-each-other, lips-almost-touching thing?

My skin’s hot, my pulse fluttering. He glances back at me; there’s still heat in his eyes and a little frown between his eyebrows. I’m sure he was thinking about kissing me. Maybe I did something wrong — I’m a little out of practice with all this, after all. Or maybe the Justin curse has stretched to ruining kisses before they even begin.

Leon lies back on the bed; he’s looking miserably awkward, and as he fidgets with his shirt I wonder if I should take the lead and kiss him, just press myself up beside him and turn his face towards mine. But what if I’ve misunderstood the situation and this is one of those times when I should just let things drop?

I lie down carefully beside him. ‘We should probably go to sleep?’ I say.

‘Yeah.’ His voice is low and quiet.

I clear my throat. Well, I guess that’s that then.

He shifts a little. His arm brushes mine; my skin turns goosebumpy. I hear him breathe in as we touch, just a quiet huff of startlement, and then he’s up, heading for the bathroom, and I’m left here with my goosebumps and my heart fluttering, staring at the ceiling.

44 Leon

Her breathing slows. Risk a sideways glance at her; can just make out the soft fluttering of her eyelids as she dreams. She’s asleep, then. I breathe out slowly, trying to relax.

Really, really hope I have not messed this up.

It was very out of character for me, picking her up like that, lying her down on the bed. It just seemed like . . . I don’t know. Tiffy is so impulsive it’s contagious. But then, of course, am still me, so impulsiveness ran out at potentially crucial moment, to be replaced by familiar, panicked indecision. She’s drunk and injured — you don’t kiss drunk injured women. Do you? Maybe you do. Maybe she wanted that?

Richie gets the reputation for being the romantic, but it’s always been me. He used to call me a pussy when we were teenagers, him chasing anything that’d give him so much as a look, me pining after the girl I’d fancied since primary school and been too scared to talk to. I’ve always been the one who thinks before they fall — though both of us fall just as hard.

I swallow. Think of the feeling of Tiffy’s arm pressed against mine, how the hairs on my forearm stood on end at the merest brush of her skin. Stare at the ceiling. Realise belatedly that curtains are still open, streetlight streaming in to light our room in ribbons.

As I lie there, thinking, watching the light move across the floor, it comes to me slowly that I haven’t been in love with Kay for a very long time. Loved her, felt close to her, liked her being part of my life. That was safe and easy. But I had forgotten the blazing can’t-think-of-anything-else madness of these early days of meeting someone. There wasn’t even a spark of that left with Kay for the last . . . year, maybe, even?

I look across at Tiffy again, her eyelashes casting shadows on her cheeks, and think back to what she’s told me about Justin. Notes made me feel he wasn’t especially good to her — why did she have to pay back that money all of a sudden? But nothing as alarming as what she’d said on the train. But then, as much as they were significant to me, they were just notes. Easier to lie to yourself in writing and for nobody to spot it.

Head is too full of panic, regret and whisky buzz for me to sleep. Stare up at the ceiling. Listen to Tiffy’s breath. Play out all the ways it could have gone: if we’d kissed and she’d stopped me, if we’d kissed and she hadn’t . . .

Best not to pursue that one. Thoughts becoming inappropriate.

Tiffy turns over, dragging the duvet with her. Half of my body is now exposed to night-time air. Can’t really begrudge her, though. Important that she gets warm after near-drowning.

She turns over again. More duvet. Now only my right arm has coverage. Absolutely cannot sleep like this.

I’ll have to just pull it back. Try it gently at first, but it’s like playing tug-of-war. The woman has the duvet in a vice-like grip. How can she be this strong when unconscious?

Going to have to opt for an assertive yank. Maybe she won’t wake up. Maybe she’ll just—

Tiffy: Oww!

She came with the duvet, rolling over, and I seem to have migrated towards the middle too, and now we’re face to face in the darkness, tantalisingly close.

My breath quickens. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes heavy with sleep.

I belatedly clock that she just said oww. The movement must have jerked her ankle.

Me: Sorry! Sorry!

Tiffy, confused: Did you try and pull the duvet off me?

Me: No! I was trying to get it back.

Tiffy blinks. I really want to kiss her. Could I kiss her now? She’s probably sobered up? But then she winces at the pain in her ankle and I feel like the world’s worst human being.

Tiffy: Get it back from where?

Me: Well, you sort of . . . stole it all.

Tiffy: Oh! Sorry. Next time, just wake me up and tell me. I’ll go right back to sleep.

Me: Oh, OK. Sure. Sorry.

Tiffy shoots me a half-amused, half-asleep look as she rolls back over, pulling the duvet up to her chin. I turn my head into the pillow. Don’t want her to see that I’m smiling like a love-struck teenager because she just said ‘next time’.

45 Tiffy

I wake to the daylight, which is much less pleasant than people make it sound. We didn’t close the curtains last night. I turn my face away from the window instinctively, rolling over and realising the right-hand side of the bed is empty.

At first it feels totally normal: I wake up every day in Leon’s bed without him there, after all. My sleepy brain goes, oh, of course — no, hang on, wait . . .

There’s a note on his pillow.

Gone out in search of breakfast. Back soon, bearing pastries x

I smile, and roll back the other way to check the time on my phone on the bedside table.

Shit. Twenty-seven missed calls, all from an unknown number.

What the—

I scramble out of bed, heart thumping, then yelp with pain as I knock my ankle. Fuck. I dial voicemail, a bad feeling blooming in the base of my stomach. It’s like . . . yesterday was too good to be true. Something terrible has happened — I knew I shouldn’t have—

‘Tiffy, are you all right? I saw Rachel’s status on Facebook. Did you nearly drown?’

It’s Justin. I go very still as the message rolls on.

‘Look, I know you’re in a mood with me at the moment. But I need to know you’re OK. Call me back.’

There are more like this. Twelve more, to be precise. I’d deleted his number after a particularly girl-power-inducing counselling session, so that’d be why the calls came from an unknown number. I think I knew who it was going to be, though. Nobody else has ever called me that many times before, but Justin has — usually after a fight, or a break-up.

‘Tiffy. This is ridiculous. If I knew where you were I’d come out there. Call me, all right?’

I shiver. This feels . . . I feel awful. Like yesterday with Leon should never have happened. Imagine if Justin knew where I’d been, and what I’d been doing?

I shake myself. I can feel that that doesn’t make sense even as I think it. I’m scaring myself again.

I tap out a text.

I’m fine, I lightly sprained my ankle. Please don’t call me any more.

Within moments, he replies.

Oh, thank God! What are you like without me there to look after you, hey? You made me so worried. I’ll be good and stick to your rules, no contact until October. Just know I’ll be thinking of you xx

I stare at the message for a while. What are you like. As if I’m such a klutz. Yesterday Leon pulled me out of the sea, and yet this is the first time all weekend I’ve felt like the girl who needs rescuing.

Fuck this. I hit block and delete all the voicemails from my phone.

I hop to the bathroom. It’s not the most dignified method of travel — the chintzy lamps on the walls are vibrating a little as I go — but something about the general stompiness is quite therapeutic. Stomp, stomp, stomp. Stupid, bloody, Justin. I slam the bathroom door with satisfying force.

Thank God Leon went out for breakfast, both because he avoided witnessing this mess of a morning and because he will hopefully return with something highly calorific to make me feel better.

Once I’ve showered and redressed in yesterday’s clothes — which, because they’re covered in grainy, shingly grit, also ticks exfoliating off my to-do list — I hop back to the bed and launch myself on to it with a thud, burying my face in the pillow. Ugh. Yesterday was so lovely, and now I feel all horrible and mucky, like the voicemails left a taint on me. Still, I blocked him, something I would never have been able to bring myself to do a few months ago. Maybe I should be glad of all those voicemails for pushing me to do it.

I sit up on my elbows and reach for the note Leon wrote me. It’s on hotel stationery; The Bunny Hop Inn is traced in jaunty letters across the bottom of the paper. The handwriting is just the same as ever, though — Leon’s neat, tiny, rounded letters. In a moment of embarrassing sentimentality, I fold the paper in half and reach to slip it into my handbag.

There’s a quiet knock on the door.

‘Come in,’ I call.

He’s dressed in a giant T-shirt with a picture of three sticks of rock on the front, and BRIGHTON ROCKS in big letters underneath. My mood immediately improves about tenfold. There’s nothing like a man in a novelty T-shirt to brighten up your morning — especially when he’s holding a very promising paper bag with Patisserie Valerie written on the side.

‘One of Babs’s finest?’ I say, pointing at the T-shirt.

‘My new personal stylist,’ Leon says.

He passes me the bag of pastries and sits down on the end of the bed, smoothing his hair back. He’s nervous again. Why do I find his nervous fidgeting so adorable?

‘You made it to the shower OK?’ he asks eventually, nodding towards my wet hair. ‘With your foot, I mean?’

‘I showered flamingo style.’ I curl one knee up. He smiles. Getting one of those lopsided grins from him feels like winning at a game I wasn’t aware I was playing. ‘The door doesn’t lock, though. I thought you might walk in on me, but it seems Karma was busy elsewhere this morning.’

He makes a strangled sort of mmhmm sound and busies himself eating his croissant. I suppress a smile. An unfortunate side effect of finding his nervous fidgeting adorable is that I seem unable to resist saying things I know will make him fidget.

‘But anyway, you’ve basically seen me naked,’ I go on. ‘Twice. Already. So you wouldn’t have been in for any huge surprises.’

He looks up at me this time. ‘Basically,’ he says emphatically, ‘is not the same as actually. Some key differences, in fact.’

My stomach flips. Whatever that awkwardness was last night, I definitely wasn’t imagining the sexual tension. The air is heavy with it.

‘It should be me worrying about the lack of surprises,’ he says. ‘You’ve actually seen me naked.’

‘I did wonder . . . when I walked in on you in the shower, did you . . .’

He disappears in the direction of the bathroom so fast I barely hear the excuse he makes as he goes. As he closes the door behind him and turns the shower on, I smile. I guess there’s my answer. Rachel will be delighted.

46 Leon

Have never thought this hard about the notes before. Was much easier when I was just scribbling random thoughts to friend who I had not met. Now am carefully crafting messages to woman who has taken up residence in most of my waking thoughts.

It’s terrible. Sit down with pen and Post-it and suddenly forget all the words. Her messages are cheeky, flirty, noisily her. This was the first after the weekend in Brighton, fixed to the bedroom door with Blu-Tack:

Mine are stilted and overthought. Write them when I get in from work, then rewrite them before I walk out the door, then regret them all night in the hospice. Until I get home to a reply and feel instantly better again. Thus the cycle repeats.

Eventually, on Wednesday, I muster the courage to leave this one on the kitchen counter:

Was paralysed by self-doubt as soon as I’d left the building and got far enough away for going back to be inconceivable. In retrospect, was a very short note. Perhaps too short for meaning to be clear? Perhaps insultingly short? Why is this so difficult?

Now, though, I’m feeling better.

I reach for a Post-it and scribble my reply.

Richie: You’re nervous, aren’t you?

Me: No! No, no.

Richie snorts. He’s in good mood — he’s generally in a good mood now. He calls Gerty at least every other day to catch up on appeal case progress. So much to talk about, calls every other day are apparently essential. Evidence re-examined. Witnesses coming forward. And, at last, CCTV obtained.

Me: OK. A bit nervous.

Richie: You’ll be great, man. You know she’s into you. What’s the plan? Is tonight the night?

Me: Of course not. Far too soon.

Richie: Have you shaved your legs just in case?

Don’t deign to respond to this. Richie chuckles.

Richie: I like her, man. You’ve got a good one.

Me: Not sure I’ve ‘got’ her yet.

Richie: What? You think — the ex?

Me: She doesn’t love him any more. But it’s complicated. I’m a bit worried about her.

Richie: Was he a prick?

Me: Mm.

Richie: He hurt her?

Gut twists at the thought.

Me: To some degree, I think. She doesn’t really talk about it with me but . . . got a bad feeling about him.

Richie: Shit, man. Are we dealing with some kind of post-trauma situation here?

Me: You think so?

Richie: You’re speaking to the king of the night sweats. I dunno, I haven’t met her, but if she is still processing some shit she had to deal with, all you can do is be there and let her decide when she’s ready for whatever.

The trauma of the trial and first month in prison hit Richie about six weeks into his sentence. Shaking hands, sudden terrors, intrusive flashbacks, jumping at the slightest noises. The last part always annoyed him the most — he seemed to think that particular brand of PTSD should be reserved for people whose trauma had actually involved loud noises, like soldiers.

Richie: And don’t try and make the decision for her. Don’t assume she can’t be feeling better yet. That’s her call.

Me: You’re a good man, Richard Twomey.

Richie: Hold that thought and tell it to the judges in three weeks’ time, bro.

Arrive at the flat at five-ish; Tiffy’s with Mo and Gerty for the day. Weird, being here at a weekend. It’s her flat now.

Stop short of shaving legs, but do spend inordinately long time getting ready. Can’t stop thinking about where we’re each going to sleep tonight. Will I go back to Mam’s, or sleep here? We’ve already shared a bed in Brighton . . .

I consider messaging to say I’ll stay at Mam’s tonight, to show goodwill. But decide that’s putting nail in coffin earlier than necessary, and is an example of making decisions for her, as advised against by Richie, so I leave it be.

Key in door. I try to spring up from the beanbag, but that would be impossible even for a person with thighs of steel, so Tiffy walks in to find me in a half squat, attempting to extricate myself.

Tiffy, laughing: It’s like quicksand, isn’t it?

She looks beautiful. Tight blue top and a long floaty grey skirt with bright pink shoes that she proceeds to balance on her good leg to remove.

I move to give her a hand but she waves me off, hiking herself up to sit on kitchen counter and make the job easier. Her ankle looks more mobile, though — good sign. Seems to be healing well.

She raises her eyebrows at me.

Tiffy: Checking out my ankles?

Me: Purely medical interest.

Tiffy grins at me, sliding down from the counter and limping over to examine the pot on the hob.

Tiffy: Smells amazing.

Me: Something told me you’d like mushroom stroganoff.

She smiles over her shoulder, and I want to move behind her, put my arms around her waist and kiss her neck. Resist the urge, on account of it being very presumptuous and inappropriate.

Tiffy: That was in your cubby hole downstairs, by the way.

She points to small white envelope on the kitchen counter, addressed to me. I open it. It’s an invite, handwritten in careful, slightly wobbly joined-up letters.

Smile and show it to Tiffy.

Me: Maybe not what you had planned for tomorrow?

Tiffy, looking delighted: She remembers me!

Me: She was obsessed with you. We don’t have to go, though.

Tiffy: Are you joking? We’re totally going. Please. You only turn eight once, Leon.

47 Tiffy

I really didn’t think chocolate-tiffin eating could be so sexually charged. We’re sitting on the sofa in front of our television (which is basically just a novelty ornament shelf) with wine glasses in our hands and our legs touching. I’m not far off sitting in his lap, really. That’s definitely where I want to be sitting.

‘Go on,’ I say, nudging him with my knee. ‘Tell me the truth.’

He looks shifty. I narrow my eyes at him, sliding nearer, my gaze flicking to his lips. He’s doing the same — that eyes-lips-eyes thing that seems to tug you closer, and we hover in the moment as if we’re at the top of a rope swing, waiting for gravity to kick in, feeling the tug but not quite going. No doubts this time: I know he’s thinking about kissing me.

‘Tell me,’ I say.

He tilts his head, but at the last moment I pull back just a little, and he lets out a quiet huff, half amused, half frustrated at the teasing.

‘Much shorter,’ he says reluctantly, pulling back too and reaching for another square of tiffin. I watch him lick chocolate from his fingers. Amazing, really — I’ve always found it weird how in films people think licking things like that is sexy, but here Leon is, proving me wrong.

‘Shorter? That’s it? You told me that already.’

‘And . . . dumpier.’

‘Dumpier!’ I crow. This was the stuff I was after. ‘You thought I’d be dumpy?’

‘I just — assumed!’ Leon says, shifting in and pulling me closer again so I’m almost bundled up against his chest.

I lean into him, relishing the feeling. ‘Short and dumpy. And what else?’

‘I thought you would dress weirdly.’

‘Well, I do,’ I point out, gesturing to the laundry drying in the corner, which includes my bright red pantaloons and the rainbow knitted jumper Mo got me for my birthday last year (though even I would draw the line at wearing those two items simultaneously).

‘You make it look good, though,’ he says. ‘Like you do it on purpose. It makes you look like you.’

I laugh. ‘Well, thanks.’

‘And you?’ he asks, shifting his hold on me to take another sip of his wine.

‘And me what?’

‘What did you think I’d look like?’

‘I cheated and looked you up on Facebook,’ I admit.

Leon looks shocked, wine halfway to his mouth. ‘I didn’t even think of that!’

‘Of course you didn’t. I mean, I would want to know what someone looked like if they were moving in and sleeping in my bed, but you don’t care about appearances much, do you?’

He pauses to think about it. ‘I cared about yours once I’d seen it. But otherwise, why would it make a difference? The first rule of the flatshare was that we wouldn’t meet.’

I laugh despite myself. ‘We broke that one, then.’

‘That one?’

‘Don’t worry.’ I wave him off. I don’t fancy explaining Gerty’s ‘first rule’, or quite how much time I’ve spent thinking about breaking it.

‘Ahhh,’ Leon says suddenly, catching sight of the time on my Peter Pan clock on top of the fridge. Half midnight. ‘It’s late.’ He looks at me worriedly. ‘Lost track of time.’

I shrug. ‘That’s OK?’

‘Can’t get back to Mam’s now — last train was at ten past twelve.’ He looks pained. ‘I’ll just . . . sleep on the sofa? If that’s all right?’

‘On the sofa? Why?’

‘So you can have the bed?’

‘This sofa is tiny. You’d have to curl up in the foetal position.’ My heart’s thumping. ‘You have your side, I have mine. We’ve stuck to the left and right rule all year so far. Why should we change it now?’

He watches me, his eyes flicking back and forth across my face as if he’s trying to read me.

‘It’s just a bed,’ I say, moving closer again. ‘We’ve shared a bed before.’

‘Not sure . . . this will be quite as straightforward,’ Leon says, in a slightly strangled voice.

On impulse, I lean forwards and press my lips lightly to his cheek, then again, and again, until I’ve kissed a path from his cheekbone to the very edge of his lips.

I sit back and meet his eyes. My skin is already buzzing, but the look he gives me sends a jolt through me, and now it’s as if eighty per cent of my body has suddenly become heartbeat. I swallow. We’re as close as two humans can possibly be without kissing. There’s no flicker of panic this time, just blissful, fiery wanting.

So, at last, I kiss him.

When I kissed him on the cheek I’d planned to make our first proper kiss soft and slow, the kind of kiss you feel in your toes, but when I actually get there it’s clear there’s been way too much waiting and sexy tiffin-eating for that. This is a proper kiss, the kind that promises very imminent undressing, the kind that generally happens while in the process of stumbling towards a bed. I’m not surprised, then, to find that when we surface for air, I’m straddling him, my hair hanging down on either side of us, my long skirt ruched to my thighs, his hands on my back pulling me as close as I can possibly be.

We don’t pause for long. I twist to dump my wine glass uncere­moniously on the coffee table and shift a little to ease the angle on my ankle, and then we’re kissing again, hungry, and my body is responding with a heat I genuinely don’t think I’ve felt before. One of his hands shifts to the back of my neck, grazing the side of my breast en route, and I pretty much yelp as the sensation hits. Everywhere and everything seems to be in overdrive.

I have no idea what will happen next. I actually can’t even consider the question. I’m incredibly grateful for that — all thought of flashbacks and exes has evaporated altogether. Leon’s body is hard and warm and all I can think about is getting all of these clothes out of the way so I can be as close to it as possible. This time when I move to unbutton his shirt, he drops his grip on my waist to help me, shrugging it off and chucking it over the back of the sofa, where it hangs like a flag from the lamp. I run my hands over Leon’s chest, marvelling at the strangeness of being able to touch him like this. I break away from him for just long enough to wriggle out of my top.

He breathes in sharply, and as I lean back in to kiss him again, he stops me, hands on my upper arms, eyes on my body. I’m wearing a thin chemise under the top, its neckline following the line of my bra, dipping to a low V.

‘God,’ he says, his voice hoarse. ‘Look at you.’

‘Nothing you’ve not seen before,’ I remind him, already ducking in impatiently to get another kiss. He holds me back again, still staring. I let out a little frustrated noise, but then he moves to press his lips against my collarbone, then lower, kissing across the top of my breasts, and I stop objecting.

It’s becoming impossible to form thoughts for longer than about two seconds. They just evaporate. I can feel great sections of my brain rededicating themselves to thinking about sex. The part of my brain that deals with pain, for instance, has entirely forgotten about my ankle and is now much more interested in what exactly Leon’s lips are doing as his kisses dip lower and lower to the edge of my bra. The section that usually busies itself wondering if I look fat in things seems to have died off altogether. I’ve resorted to moaning because my brain’s speech centre is clearly out of action too.

Leon’s hands dip under the waistline of my skirt, touching the silk of my underwear. I wore nice underwear, obviously. I may not have planned for this, but I hadn’t not planned for it.

I pull away and yank off the chemise — it’s only getting in the way now. I’m going to have to stop straddling him in order for either of us to remove any more clothes, but I really don’t want to. My brain makes a real effort at some long-term thinking, but that’s no use, obviously, so I abandon the problem and hope Leon has some sort of solution.

‘Bed?’ Leon says, his lips back up on my neck.

I nod, but when he shifts underneath me I mumble an objection, dipping my head to kiss him again. I can feel his smile against my lips.

‘Can’t get to bed without you moving,’ he reminds me, trying to shift again.

I make another incoherent objection. He chuckles, lips still pressed against mine.

‘Sofa?’ he suggests instead.

Better. I knew Leon would have a solution. Reluctant, I slide off his lap so he can move. His hands tug at the fabric of my skirt, fingers searching for a zip or button.

‘It’s got a hidden zip,’ I say, twisting to find the zip tucked in the seam along my hip.

‘Devilish women clothes,’ Leon declares, helping me pull the skirt off once it’s undone. Like before, I move to press myself against him again, but he stops me so he can look at me properly. The look in his eyes makes my cheeks glow. I undo his belt and he breathes in sharply, his gaze back on my face as I unbutton his jeans.

‘A little help?’ I say, eyebrow raised, as I fumble around with the buttons.

‘Leaving that part to you,’ he says. ‘Take as long as you need.’

I grin, and he tugs off his jeans, then pulls me to lie down beside him on the sofa. We’re a mess of limbs and cushions and skin. We completely don’t fit. There’s no space. We’re laughing now, but only in between kisses, and wherever his body touches mine it’s like someone’s reprogrammed my nerves to feel five times as much as usual.

‘Whose idea was the sofa?’ Leon asks. His head is level with my chest; he kisses his way along the bottom of my bra now, and I moan. I’m incredibly uncomfortable, but discomfort is a small price to pay, as far as I’m concerned.

It’s only when he elbows me in the stomach in an effort to sit up enough to kiss me that I call time. ‘Bed,’ I say firmly.

‘Sensible woman.’

It takes us another ten minutes or so actually to get moving. He gets up first, then, as I shift to stand, bends to pick me up again and carry me.

‘I can walk fine,’ I protest.

‘It’s our thing. Plus, it’s faster.’ He’s right — he’s laid me out on the bed in seconds, and then he’s on top of me, his lips hot on mine, his hand on my breast. No laughing now. I can hardly breathe, I’m so turned on. It’s absurd. I can’t possibly wait any longer.

And then the doorbell rings.

48 Leon

We both freeze. I lift my head to look at her. Her cheeks are flushed red, her lips swollen from kissing, and her hair lies in a tangle of orange against the white pillows. Impossibly sexy.

Me: For you?

Tiffy: What? No!

Me: But nobody I know thinks I’m here at weekends!

Tiffy groans.

Tiffy: Don’t ask me complicated questions. I can’t . . . do thinking right now.

I press my lips against hers again, but the doorbell rings for a second time. Curse. Roll to side; try to calm down.

Tiffy rolls with me so she’s on top of me.

Tiffy: They’ll go away.

This suddenly seems like by far the best suggestion. Her body is incredible. Can’t stop myself from touching — I know I’m being way too scattergun, hands all over her, but don’t want to miss anything. I should have at least ten more hands, ideally.

Doorbell rings again. And again. Five-second intervals. Tiffy throws herself back to her side of the bed with a growl.

Tiffy: Who the fuck is it?

Me: We should answer.

She reaches out and runs a finger from my bellybutton to my boxers. Mind goes entirely blank. Want her. Want her. Want her. Want—

Doorbell doorbell doorbell doorbell.

Tiffy: Fuck! I’ll go.

Me: No, I’ll go. I can wear a towel and pretend I was in the shower.

Tiffy looks at me.

Tiffy: How the hell can you think of something like that right now? My brain has stopped functioning. You are clearly much more distracting than I am.

She’s lying there, topless, just a scrap of silk underwear between now and naked. It’s taking enormous inner strength and an insistent loud buzzing sound to hold me back.

Me: Trust me. You are very distracting.

Tiffy kisses me. Doorbell now buzzing non-stop — is not even pausing. Person has their finger held against buzzer.

Whoever they are, I hate them.

Pull myself away from Tiffy, swear again, and reach for towel on radiator as I stumble through from bedroom to hall. Need to pull self together. Will just answer door, punch person who has interrupted us, then head back to bed. A good, solid plan.

I press the button to let them up, then throw open the front door and wait. It occurs to me, belatedly, that as my hair is dry it will not actually look like I’ve just got out of shower.

The man who appears in the doorway is nobody I’ve met before. He’s also not the sort of man I would back myself to punch. He’s tall, built in the way that suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym. Brown hair, perfectly trimmed beard, expensive shirt. Angry eyes.

Suddenly have a bad feeling about this. Wish I was wearing more than towel.

Me: Can I help you?

He looks confused.

Angry-eyed man: Isn’t this Tiffy’s place?

Me: Yes. I’m her flatmate.

Angry-eyed man does not look at all happy at this information.

Angry-eyed man: Well, is she in?

Me: Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?

Gives me long, angry stare.

Angry-eyed man: I’m Justin.

Ah.

Me: No, she’s not in.

Justin: I thought she had this place at weekends.

Me: Did she tell you that?

Justin looks shifty for a moment. Covers well, though.

Justin: Yeah, she mentioned it when I saw her last. Your arrangement. The whole bed-sharing thing.

She definitely wouldn’t have told Justin about that. Pretty clear she’d know he wouldn’t like it. Extremely hostile body language suggests that he does indeed not like it.

Me: Room sharing. But yes. She normally has the place on weekends, but she’s away.

Justin: Where?

Shrug. Look bored. Simultaneously stand that little bit taller, just so he clocks we’re the same height. It’s a bit caveman-ish of me, but feels good all the same.

Me: How should I know?

Justin, suddenly: Can I see the flat?

Me: What?

Justin: Can I see the place? Just have a look around.

He’s already moving towards me like he’s coming in. Suppose this is how he always gets his way: asking unreasonable things and then going ahead and taking them.

I don’t move. Eventually he has to stop walking, because I am directly in his way.

Me: No. Sorry. You can’t.

He senses my hostility now. He’s riled. He was already angry when he got here; he’s like dog on leash, snapping for a fight.

Justin: Why not?

Me: Because it’s my flat.

Justin: And Tiffy’s. She’s my . . .

Me: Your what?

Justin doesn’t finish the lie. He knows, perhaps, that I will at least know whether Tiffy is single or in relationship.

Justin: It’s complicated. But we’re very close. I can promise you she wouldn’t mind me looking around the place, checking it’s up to standard for her. I presume you have a sub-letting agreement, the two of you? All signed off by the property owner?

Do not want to get into this with this man. Also, do not have sub-letting agreement. Landlord hasn’t spoken to me in years, so just haven’t . . . brought Tiffy up.

Me: You can’t come in.

Justin squares up to me. I’m wearing nothing but a towel around waist; we’re eye to eye. Really don’t think Tiffy would enjoy it coming to a fight.

Me: I’ve got a girl in there, man.

Justin jerks his head back. He wasn’t expecting that.

Justin: You have?

Me: Yeah. So I’d appreciate it if you . . .

His eyes narrow.

Justin: Who is it?

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Me: What does it matter to you?

Justin: It’s not Tiffy, then?

Me: Why would you think it was Tiffy? I just told you—

Justin: Yeah. She’s away this weekend. Except I know she’s not with her parents, and Tiffy doesn’t leave London on her own for anything except a visit home. So—

He tries to push past me, but I’m ready for it. I put my weight into him, knocking him off balance.

Me: Get out of here. Now. I don’t know what your problem is, but as soon as you entered my flat you broke the law, so if you don’t want me to call the police — if the woman in my bedroom hasn’t done it already — then get the fuck out of here.

I can see his nostrils flaring. He wants to fight; it’s taking all his energy not to. Not a pleasant sort of man. Though I notice that I’m ready for a fight too. I’m almost hoping he’ll punch me.

He doesn’t, though. His eyes flick to bedroom door, and then take in the sight of my jeans spread out on the floor. My shirt, hanging off Tiffy’s ridiculous monkey lamp. Thank God Tiffy’s clothes aren’t visible — he’d recognise them, I imagine. What an unpleasant thought.

Justin: I’ll be back to see Tiffy.

He backs out.

Me: Maybe call ahead next time to check she’s in. And wants to see you.

Slam the door behind him.

49 Tiffy

I mean, nobody would say it’s nice, having your ex-boyfriend turn up as you’re getting with the new guy. Nobody would wish for something like that to happen, except perhaps for weird sexual reasons.

But surely nobody else would be quite this upset.

I am shaking — not just my hands, but my legs too, all the way up past my knees. I try to dress as quietly as I can, paralysed with the thought of Justin coming in here and seeing me in just my knickers, but I only get halfway before the fear of being heard overrules that impulse, and I sink back on to the bed in just my underwear and a giant jumper with Santa on it (it was the closest thing in the wardrobe).

When the door to the flat slams, I jump as though someone’s pulled a trigger. It’s ridiculous. My face is wet with tears and I am really, truly scared.

Leon knocks gently on the bedroom door.

‘It’s just me,’ he calls. ‘Can I come in?’

I take a deep, wobbly breath and wipe the tears from my cheeks. ‘Yeah, come in.’

He takes one look at me and does what I did — heads for the wardrobe and pulls out the nearest thing. Once he’s dressed, he comes and sits on the far end of the bed. I’m grateful. Suddenly I don’t want to be near anybody naked.

‘Is he definitely gone?’ I ask him.

‘I waited until I heard the building door close too,’ Leon tells me. ‘He’s gone.’

‘He’ll be back, though. And I cannot face the idea of ever seeing him again. I can’t . . . I hate him.’ I take another deep, juddering breath, feeling tears leaking out again. ‘Why was he so angry? Was he always like that, and I’ve just forgotten?’

I stretch out a hand towards Leon; I want to be held. He shifts across the bed and pulls me in against him, laying me down so he’s behind me, my body tucked into his.

‘He can feel he’s losing his grip on you,’ Leon says quietly. ‘He’s scared.’

‘Well, I’m not going back this time.’

Leon kisses my shoulder. ‘You want me to call Mo? Or Gerty?’

‘Will you just stay with me?’

‘Of course.’

‘I just want to go to sleep.’

‘Then sleep it is.’ He reaches around for the Brixton blanket, pulling it over the two of us, and then leans to flick off the lamp. ‘Wake me if you need me.’

I don’t know how, but I sleep all the way through, only waking to the sound of the guy upstairs doing whatever it is he always does at 7 a.m. (it sounds like some kind of energetic aerobics involving lots of hopping; I’d be angry, but it is much better than my alarm for waking me up for work).

Leon is gone. I sit up, bleary-eyed from falling asleep after crying, and try to get a handle on reality again. Just as I’m working my way through yesterday — sadly finishing up with the good sofa bit, and remembering Justin’s arrival — Leon pokes his head in.

‘Tea?’

‘Did you make it?’

‘No, I got the house elf to do it.’

I smile at that.

‘Don’t worry. I told him to make yours especially strong,’ he says. ‘Can I come in?’

‘Of course you can. It’s your bedroom too.’

‘Not when you’re here.’ He hands me a suitably strong cup of tea. This is the first cup of tea he’s ever made me, but — just like I know how milky he likes his — he must’ve figured out how I drink mine. It’s weird how easily you can get to know someone from the traces they leave behind.

‘I’m so sorry about last night,’ I begin.

Leon shakes his head. ‘Please don’t. It’s not your fault, is it?’

‘Well. I did date him. Voluntarily.’

My tone’s light, but Leon frowns. ‘Relationships like that stop being about “voluntarily” very quickly. There’s lots of ways someone can make you stay with them, or think you want to.’

I tilt my head, looking at him as he sits on the edge of the bed, forearms on his knees, both hands around his mug of tea. He’s talking to me half over his shoulder, and every time he meets my eyes I want to smile. He’s redone his hair — it’s the neatest I’ve ever seen it, smoothed behind his ears and flicking into curls at the base of his neck.

‘You seem very well informed,’ I say carefully.

He’s not looking at me now. ‘Mam,’ he says by way of explanation. ‘She spent a lot of her time with men who abused her.’

The word makes me flinch. Leon clocks it.

‘Sorry,’ he says.

‘Justin never hit me or anything,’ I say quickly, my cheeks flushing. Here’s me, making a fuss about a boyfriend who bosses me about a bit, when Leon’s mum has been through—

‘That’s not the sort of abuse I meant,’ Leon says. ‘I meant emotional.’

‘Oh.’ Was that what it was, with Justin?

Yes, I think immediately, before I have time to second guess myself. Of course it bloody was. Lucie and Mo and Gerty have all been saying as much without saying it for months, haven’t they? I swallow a gulp of tea, hiding behind my mug.

‘It was hard to watch,’ Leon says, staring down at his tea. ‘She’s on the mend now. Lots of counselling. Good friends. Getting to the root of the problem.’

‘Mmm. I’m trying that . . . counselling thing, too.’

He nods. ‘That’s good. That’ll help.’

‘It is already, I think. It was Mo’s idea, and he’s literally always right about things.’

I could do with one of Mo’s audio hugs right now, actually. As I look around for my phone, Leon points to where it lies on the bedside table.

‘I’ll give you a minute. And don’t worry about Holly’s birthday. Bet it’s probably the last thing you . . .’

He trails off at my outraged expression.

‘You think I’m missing Holly’s birthday because of last night?’

‘Well, I just thought it must’ve taken it out of you, and . . .’

I’m shaking my head. ‘Absolutely not. The last thing I want to do is let this . . . Justin stuff get in the way of the important things.’

He smiles, his eyes lingering on my face. ‘Well, OK. Thanks.’

‘We need to leave early enough to buy a present!’ I call after him as he leaves.

‘I gave her the gift of good health!’ he calls back through the door.

‘That won’t cut it — it needs to be something from Claire’s Accessories!’

50 Leon

Holly’s mum’s home is a poky, crumbling town house in Southwark. Paint peels everywhere and pictures lean on walls, unhung, but it feels friendly. Just a little tired.

Streams of children are darting in and out of the front door when we arrive. Feel slightly overwhelmed. I’m still processing last night, still buzzing with adrenaline from the altercation with Justin. We reported the incident to the police, but I want to do more. She should get a restraining order. Can’t suggest it, though. Her choice. I’m helpless.

We step inside the house. There are many party hats and a few crying babies, possibly baited into tears by boisterous eight-year-olds.

Me: Can you see Holly?

Tiffy stands on one tiptoe (her good foot).

Tiffy: Is that her? In the Star Wars outfit?

Me: Star Trek. And no. Maybe over there by the kitchen?

Tiffy: Pretty sure that’s a boy. Did you tell me this was fancy dress?

Me: You read the invite too!

Tiffy ignores this, picks up abandoned cowboy hat and plants it on my head.

I turn to the hall mirror to admire the effect. The hat perches on top of my hair precariously. Pull it off and put it on Tiffy instead. Much better. A sort of sexy cowgirl thing. Very clichéd, of course, but sexy nonetheless.

Tiffy checks her reflection and yanks the hat down further.

Tiffy: Fine. You’re a wizard then.

She pulls a moon-covered cape off the back of a chair and reaches up to drape it over my shoulders, fixing it with a bow at my throat. Just the feel of her fingers makes me think of last night. It’s a highly inappropriate location for these sorts of thoughts, so I try to ward them off, but she is not helping. She trails her hands down my chest in a gesture familiar from time on sofa.

Grab her hand.

Me: Can’t be doing that.

Tiffy quirks an eyebrow, mischievous.

Tiffy: Doing what?

At least if she’s planning on torturing me in this fashion it must mean she’s feeling a little better.

Eventually locate Holly sitting on stairs and realise why she was so hard to spot. She looks completely transformed. Bright eyes. Hair thicker and healthier, falling forward to be blown back impatiently as she talks. She’s actually looking a little chubby.

Holly: LEON!

She skids downstairs then stops short at bottom. She’s dressed as Elsa from Frozen, much like every girl hosting a birthday party in the Western hemisphere since 2013. She’s a little old for it, but then, she missed out on most of her time being little, so.

Holly: Where’s Tiffy?

Me: She’s here too. She’s just gone to the bathroom.

Holly looks placated. Links her arm through mine and drags me off to the living room to try and feed me small sausage rolls that have been fingered by many unclean children.

Holly: Are you dating Tiffy yet?

I stare down at her, plastic cup of tropical juice halfway to mouth.

Holly does her classic eye roll, thus convincing me that she is still the same person, not chubbier lookalike.

Holly: Come on. You two are Meant to Be!

I look around nervously, hoping Tiffy is not within hearing. But I’m smiling too, it seems. Think fleetingly of my reaction to simi­lar comments made about me and Kay — generally was the sort of response that made Kay call me a commitment-phobe. Admittedly those comments rarely came from the mouth of a small, precocious child wearing a fake plait around her neck (guess it fell off her head a while ago).

Me: As it happens . . .

Holly: Yes! I knew it! Have you told her you love her?

Me: It’s a bit soon for that.

Holly: Not if you’ve been in love with her for ages.

Pause.

Holly: Which you have. By the way.

Me, gently: I’m not sure about that, Holly. We’ve been friends.

Holly: Friends who love each other.

Me: Holly—

Holly: Well, have you told her you like her?

Me: She definitely knows.

Holly narrows eyes.

Holly: Does she, Leon?

I feel slightly discomposed. Yes? She does? The kissing is a clear clue, no?

Holly: You’re terrible at telling people how you really feel about them. You hardly ever told me how you liked me better than all the other patients. But I know you did.

She stretches out her hands, like case in point. I try not to grin.

Me: Well, I’ll make sure she knows.

Holly: It doesn’t matter. I’ll tell her anyway.

And she’s off, darting through the crowd. Shit.

Me: Holly! Holly! Don’t say any—

I eventually find them together in the kitchen. Burst in at the end of what is clearly an intervention on Holly’s part. Tiffy is leaning down to hear her, smiling, hair shining red-gold under the over-bright kitchen lights.

Holly: I just want you to know he’s nice, and you’re nice.

She stands on tiptoe, and adds, in a stage whisper:

Holly: So that means there isn’t a doormat.

Tiffy looks up at me, enquiring.

Press lips together as something warm and melting settles in my chest. I step in and pull Tiffy towards me, reaching over to ruffle Holly’s hair. Weird, clairvoyant child.

51 Tiffy

Mo and Gerty come around in the afternoon, once Leon’s headed off to his mum’s place, and I fill them in on the night’s dramas over a much-needed bottle of wine. Mo does his best empathetic nod; Gerty, on the other hand, just keeps swearing. She has some really inventively nasty names for Justin. I think she’s been saving them up for some time.

‘Do you want to stay at ours tonight?’ Mo says. ‘You can have my bed.’

‘Thanks, but no, I’m fine,’ I say. ‘I don’t want to run away. I know he doesn’t want to hurt me or anything.’

Mo doesn’t look too sure about that. ‘If you’re certain,’ he says.

‘Call us anytime and we’ll order a taxi to collect you,’ Gerty tells me, finishing off her wine. ‘And give me a ring in the morning. You need to tell me about having sex with Leon.’

I stare at her. ‘What!’

‘I knew it! I could just tell,’ she says, looking pleased with herself.

‘Well, actually, we haven’t,’ I tell her, sticking my tongue out. ‘So your radar is off — again.’

She narrows her eyes. ‘There was nudity though. And . . . touching.’

‘On that very sofa.’

She jumps up as if she’s been stung. Mo and I snigger.

‘Well,’ Gerty says to me, brushing down her skinny jeans with distaste, ‘we’re seeing Leon on Tuesday. So we will make sure to grill him and check his intentions with you are all as they should be.’

‘Hang on, you’re what?’

‘I’m talking him through where we’re at with the case.’

‘And Mo is going along because . . .’ I look at Mo.

‘Because I want to meet Leon,’ he says, unabashed. ‘What? Everyone else has met him.’

‘Yes, but . . . but . . .’ I narrow my eyes. ‘He’s my flatmate.’

‘And my client,’ Gerty points out, grabbing her handbag off the counter. ‘Look, meeting Leon may have been a huge rigmarole for you, but we can just drop him a text and meet for brunch like normal people.’

Annoyingly, there’s not much I can say to that. And I can’t exactly fault them for being overprotective friends in the circumstances — without that, without them, I’d still probably be crying myself to sleep in Justin’s flat. Still, I’m not sure I’m ready to be at meeting-the-friends stage with Leon, and the meddling is irritating.

All’s forgiven when I get home from work on Tuesday, though, and find this note on the coffee table.

‘You are going to love me,’ Rachel says, standing on tiptoes to talk to me over my wall of pot plants.

I rub my eyes. I’ve just got off the phone to Martin, who has taken to calling me rather than walking down the corridor. I suspect he thinks it makes him seem like he’s busy and important — far too busy and important for getting up off his bum and coming to talk to me. Still, I now have the power to screen his calls, and if I really do have to talk to him then I can make faces at Rachel at the same time, so there are upsides.

‘Why? What have you done? Have you bought me a castle?’

She stares at me. ‘It is so weird you just said that.’

I stare back at her. ‘Why? Have you actually bought me a castle?’

‘Obviously not,’ she says, recovering, ‘because if I could afford a castle I’d buy one for myself first, no offence — but this does involve a castle.’

I reach for my mug and swing my legs out from under the desk. This conversation requires tea. We take our usual route to the kitchen: doubling back past the colour room to avoid the head of Editorial and MD’s desks, ducking behind the pillar by the photocopier so Hana won’t spot us, hitting the kitchen from an angle that ensures we can see if any senior members of staff are lurking in there.

‘Go! Go! Talk!’ I tell Rachel as we step into the safety of the kitchen.

‘Well. You know that illustrator I commissioned for our bricklayer-turned-designer’s second book, who’s a Lord Somebody?’

‘Sure. Lordy Lord Illustrator,’ I say. This is how Rachel and I refer to him.

‘Well, Lordy Lord has come up with literally the perfect solution for Katherin’s photoshoot.’

Marketing now want to showcase the products from Katherin’s book. The mainstream media have been reluctant to come on board — they still don’t quite get how YouTubers like Tasha Chai-Latte’s words translate into sales — so we’re going to fund the shoot and ‘seed it across social’. Tasha has promised to share on her blog, and, with just over one week to go until pub date, Marketing and PR are having periodic meltdowns about getting the shoot organised.

‘He owns a Welsh castle,’ Rachel finishes. ‘In Wales. That we can use.’

‘You’re serious? For free?’

‘Absolutely. This weekend. And, because it’s so far to drive, he’s said he’ll put us up for Saturday night! In the castle! And the best part is, Martin can’t drop me because I’m just the designer . . . because Lordy Lord Illustrator is insisting that I bring Katherin!’ She claps her hands with glee. ‘And you’ll be coming, obviously, because Katherin won’t do anything unless you’re there to shield her from the horrors that are Martin and Hana. Welsh castle weekend! Welsh castle weekend!’

I shush her. She has started singing really quite loudly and doing some sort of castle dance (which is quite hip-shaky), and though we have ascertained that there are no senior members of staff in the kitchen, you never know when they’ll show up. It’s like that thing people say about rats — there’s always one six feet away from you at all times.

‘Now we just need to find models willing to work for free in two days’ time,’ Rachel says. ‘I almost don’t want to tell Martin. I don’t want him to start liking me or something. It’ll throw off the whole balance of the office.’

‘Tell him!’ I say. ‘This is a great idea.’

And it is. But Rachel’s right. Katherin won’t go without me, and that means a whole weekend away from home. I’d really hoped that I could spend some of the weekend with Leon. You know. Naked.

Rachel quirks an eyebrow, clocking my expression. ‘Ah,’ she says.

‘No, no, this is great.’ I try to rally. ‘A weekend away with you and Katherin is going to be hilarious. Plus — it’s a free castle visit! I’m going to pretend I’m scouting out my future home.’

Rachel leans back against the fridge, waiting for our teas to brew and watching me carefully. ‘You really like this boy, don’t you?’

I busy myself removing teabags. I do really like him, actually. It’s kind of scary. Nice-scary, on the whole, but also a bit scary-scary.

‘Well, bring him, then, so you don’t miss out on seeing him.’

I look up. ‘Bring him? How am I swinging that one with the Powers That Be in Charge of Transport Costs?’

‘Remind me what this stud looks like?’ Rachel says, shifting so I can get the milk from the fridge. ‘Tall, dark, handsome, with mysterious sexy smile?’

Only Rachel could say ‘stud’ without irony.

‘Reckon he’d model for free?’

I nearly spit out my first mouthful of tea. Rachel grins and passes me a paper towel to help with lipstick damage.

‘Leon? Model?’

‘Why not?’

‘Well . . . Because . . .’ He’d hate it, surely. Or . . . maybe not actually — he cares so little about what other people think, someone taking photos of him and putting them on the Internet probably wouldn’t bother him.

But if he did agree to it that would mean inviting him for a proper weekend away together — if a slightly unconventional one. And that definitely seems . . . serious. Relationship-ish. That thought makes my throat feel tight and starts a little flutter of panic in my stomach. I swallow the feeling away, irritated with myself.

‘Go on. Ask,’ Rachel insists. ‘I’m betting he’ll say yes if it means more time with you. And I’ll sort it with Martin. Once I give him this castle, he’ll be kissing my arse for days.’

It’s very tricky to know exactly how to broach this conversation. I initially thought it would come up naturally on the call, but oddly enough castles and/or modelling don’t come up at all, and now it’s seven forty and I’ve only got five minutes before I know Leon has to head in to work.

I’m not copping out of asking, though. Since the night when Justin turned up things with Leon have shifted; this is more than sexual tension and flirty Post-it notes now, and for some reason I’m finding that slightly terrifying. When I think about him I get this rush of unstoppable smiley joy chased with a sort of claustrophobic panic. But I suspect that’s probably a Justin hang-up, and frankly I’m done letting those hold me back.

‘So,’ I begin, pulling my cardigan closer around me. I’m on the balcony; it’s become my favourite spot for evening phone calls. ‘You’re free this weekend, right?’

‘Mmhmm,’ he says. He’s eating his brinner at the hospice while talking to me, so is even less chatty than usual, but I feel that will actually work to my advantage here. I think this proposal needs to be heard in full before it can be discussed.

‘So, I have to go to a Welsh castle for the weekend to take photos of knitwear with Katherin, because I am her personal carer and despite the fact that I am paid a pittance, it is assumed that I will work weekends when told to, and that’s just how it is.’

A moment’s silence. ‘Mmkay?’ Leon says. He doesn’t sound annoyed. Which, now I think about it, he wouldn’t be — it’s not like I’m blowing him off, I have to work. And if anyone understands that, Leon does.

I relax a bit. ‘But I really want to see you,’ I say, before I can ­second-guess myself. ‘And Rachel has come up with a potentially terrible idea which could actually be really fun.’

‘Mm?’ Leon says, sounding a little nervous. He’s heard enough about Rachel to know that her ideas often involve large amounts of alcohol and indiscretion.

‘How would you feel about a free weekend in a Welsh castle with me . . . in exchange for modelling some knitwear while you’re there, to go on the Butterfingers’ social media?’

There is a loud choking noise at the other end of the phone.

‘You hate the idea,’ I say, feeling my cheeks go pink. There’s a long silence. I should never have suggested this — Leon is all about quiet nights in with wine and good conversation, not parading himself around in front of cameras.

‘I don’t hate the idea,’ Leon says. ‘Just . . . absorbing it.’

I wait, giving him some time. The pause is excruciating, and then, just when I think I know exactly how this whole embarrassing conversation is going to end:

‘All right then,’ Leon says.

I blink. Beneath the balcony, Fabio Fox roams by, and then a police car goes screaming past, sirens shrieking.

‘All right then?’ I say, when it’s quiet enough for him to hear me. ‘You’ll do it?’

‘Sounds like a relatively small price to pay for a weekend away with you. Plus, the only person who’d likely mock me for it would be Richie, and he doesn’t have Internet access.’

‘You’re serious?’

‘Are you modelling too?’

‘Oh, Martin probably thinks I’m too big,’ I say, waving an arm. ‘I’ll just be there to Kathperone.’

‘Will I meet this Martin we like so much? And you’ll be there to what?’

‘Kathperone. Sorry, that’s Rachel’s word for all the Katherin-chaperoning I have to do. And yeah, Martin will be coordinating the whole thing. He’ll be especially insufferable, because he’ll be in charge.’

‘Excellent,’ Leon says. ‘I can spend my posing time plotting his downfall.’