The Flatshare: A Novel

The weekend comes and goes in a blur of guilty pleasure. Tiffy barely leaves my arms, except to go for coffee with Gerty and Mo. Was right that we’d have a few triggers to work around; briefly lost her to a bad memory on Saturday morning, but am already learning how to help bring her back again. Is rather satisfying.

She’s definitely more nervous about Justin than she’s letting on – came up with elaborate heavy-milk-buying ruse to get me to come and meet her at the coffee place and walk her back here. The sooner we can get that restraining order sorted the better. I fixed a chain on the door while she was out, and mended the balcony door, just to be doing something.

Got Monday off, so walk Tiffy to the tube and then cook myself an elaborate fry-up involving black pudding and spinach.

Sitting still alone is not good. Odd – normally I’m all for lonesome sitting. But when Tiffy is out, I feel her absence like a missing tooth.

Eventually, after much pacing and not looking in the direction of my phone, I call my mother.

Mam: Leon? Sweetie? Are you OK?

Me: Hi, Mam. I’m fine. Sorry for walking out like that on Friday.

Mam: It’s OK. We were all upset, and what with your new girlfriend marrying that other guy . . . Oh, Lee, you must be heartbroken!

Ah, of course – who would have filled Mam in?

Me: It was a misunderstanding. Tiffy has a, uh, bad-news sort of ex-boyfriend. That was him. She didn’t actually say yes to marrying him, he just tried to force her into it.

Dramatic, soap-opera style gasp down the phone. I try very hard not to find it annoying.

Mam: Poor little thing!

Me: Yes, well, she’s doing fine.

Mam: Have you gone after him?

Me: After him?

Mam: The ex! After what he’s done to your Tiffy!

Me: . . . what are you suggesting, Mam?

I decide not to give her time to answer.

Me: We’re looking into getting a restraining order.

Mam: Oh, sure, those are great.

Awkward pause. Why do I find these conversations so difficult?

Mam: Leon.

Wait. Fidget. Look at the floor.

Mam: Leon, I’m sure your Tiffy’s nothing like me.

Me: What?

Mam: You were always a sweetheart about it, not like Richie with all his screaming and running off and all, but I know you hated the men I dated. I mean, I hated them too, but you hated them right from the start. I know I set a . . . I know I set a terrible example.

I feel deeply, profoundly uncomfortable.

Me: Mam, it’s fine.

Mam: I really am getting sorted now, Lee.

Me: I know. And it wasn’t your fault.

Mam: You know, I think I nearly believe that?

Pause. Think.

I nearly believe that too. Who’d have thought – you say something true enough times, you try hard enough, and maybe it sinks in.

Me: Love you, Mam.

Mam: Oh, sweetheart. I love you too. And we’ll get our Richie back, and we’ll look after him, won’t we, like we always have?

Me: Exactly. Like always.

*

It’s still Monday. Monday is interminable. I hate days off – what do people do on days off? I just keep thinking trial, hospice, Justin, trial, hospice, Justin. Even warm fuzzy Tiffy thoughts are struggling to keep me afloat now.

Me: Hi, Gerty, it’s Leon.

Gerty: Leon, there is no news. The judges have not called us back for a verdict. If the judges call us back for a verdict, I will call you, and then you will know about it. You do not need to call me to check in.

Me: Right. Sure. Sorry.

Gerty, relenting: I suspect it will be tomorrow.

Me: Tomorrow.

Gerty: It’s like today, but plus one.

Me: Today plus one. Yes.

Gerty: Don’t you have a hobby or something?

Me: Not really. Sort of just work all the time, generally.

Gerty: Well, you live with Tiffy. There will be no shortage of hobby-related reading material. Go read a book about crochet or building things out of cardboard or whatever.

Me: Thanks, Gerty.

Gerty: You’re welcome. And stop calling me, I am very busy.

She hangs up. It’s still a little unnerving when she does that, no matter how many times you’ve endured it.