I consider wearing sunglasses, but decide that would make me look like a bit of a diva, given that it’s February. Nobody wants a diva as a flatmate.
The question, of course, is whether they want a diva more or less than they want an emotional wreck of a woman who has clearly spent the last two days weeping.
I remind myself that this is not a flatmate situation. Leon and I don’t need to get on – we’re not going to be living together, not really, we’re just going to be occupying the same space at different times. It’s no bother to him if I happen to spend all my free time weeping, is it?
‘Jacket,’ Rachel commands, handing it over.
I have not yet reached the depths of needing someone else to dress me, but Rachel stayed over last night, and if Rachel’s here she’s probably going to take charge of the situation. Even if ‘the situation’ is me getting my clothes on in the morning.
Too broken to protest, I take the jacket and slip it on. I do love this jacket. I made it out of a giant ball dress I found in a charity shop – I just picked the whole thing apart and used the fabric from scratch, but left the beading wherever it fell, so now there’s purple sequins and embroidery across the right shoulder, down the back and under my boobs. It looks a bit like a circus master’s jacket, but fits perfectly, and oddly the under-boob beading is really flattering to the waistline.
‘Didn’t I give this to you?’ I say, frowning. ‘Last year sometime?’
‘You, part with that jacket?’ Rachel makes a face. ‘I know you love me, but I’m pretty sure you don’t love anyone that much.’
Right, of course. I’m such a mess I can hardly think straight. At least I actually care about what I’m wearing this morning, though. You know things are bad when I’ll throw on whatever’s top in the drawer. And it’s not like other people won’t notice it – my wardrobe is such that an insufficiently planned outfit will really show. Thursday’s mustard yellow cords, cream frilled blouse and long green cardigan caused a bit of a stir at work – Hana in Marketing had a full-blown coughing fit when I walked into the kitchen as she was mid gulp of coffee. On top of that, nobody gets why I’m suddenly so upset. I can see them all thinking, What’s she crying about now? Didn’t Justin leave months ago?
They’re right. I have no idea why this particular stage of Justin’s new relationship bothers me so much. I’d already decided I was going to move out properly this time. And it’s not like I wanted him to marry me or anything. I just thought . . . he’d come back. That’s what’s always happened before – he goes off, doors slam, he freezes me out, ignores my calls, but then he realises his mistake, and just when I think I’m ready to start getting over him, there he is again, holding out his hand and telling me to come with him on some kind of amazing adventure.
But this is it, isn’t it? He’s getting married. This is . . . This is . . .
Rachel wordlessly passes me the tissues.
‘I’ll have to redo my make-up again,’ I say, once the worst of it is over.
‘Reaaally not got time,’ Rachel says, flashing me her phone screen.
Shit. Half past eight. I need to leave now or I’m going to be late, and that will look bad – if we’re going to observe strict who’s-in-the-flat-when rules, Leon’s going to want me to be able to tell the time.
‘Sunglasses?’ I ask.
‘Sunglasses.’ Rachel hands them over.
I grab my bag and head for the door.
As the train rattles its way through the tunnels of the Northern Line I catch sight of my reflection in the window and straighten up a little. I look good. The blurry, scratched glass helps – sort of like an Instagram filter. But this is one of my favourite outfits, my hair is newly washed and coppery red, and though I may have cried away all my eyeliner, my lipstick is still intact.
Here I am. I can do this. I can manage just fine on my own.
It sticks for about as long as it takes to get to the entrance to Stockwell station. Then a guy in a car screams ‘get your fanny out!’ at me, and the shock is enough to set me spiralling back into shit-at-life post-break-up Tiffy again. I’m too upset even to point out the anatomical issues I’d have if I tried to comply with his request.
I reach the right block of flats in five minutes or so – it’s a good distance to the station. At the prospect of actually finding my future home, I wipe my cheeks dry and take a proper look at the place. It’s one of those squat, brick blocks, and out the front there’s a small courtyard with a bit of sad-looking London-style grass that’s more like well-mown hay. There are parking spaces for each flat’s tenants, one of whom seems to be using their space to store a bewildering number of empty banana crates.
As I buzz for Flat 3, a movement catches my eye – it’s a fox, strolling out from around where the bins seem to live. It gives me an insolent stare, pausing with one paw in the air. I’ve never actually been this close to a fox before – it’s a lot mangier than they look in picture books. Foxes are nice, though, aren’t they? They’re so nice you’re not allowed to shoot them for fun any more, even if you’re an aristocrat with a horse.
The door buzzes and clicks out of the lock; I make my way inside. It’s very . . . brown. Brown carpet, biscuit-coloured walls. But that doesn’t really matter – it’s inside the flat that matters.
When I knock on the door of Flat 3 I find myself feeling genuinely nervous. No – borderline panicked. I’m really doing this, aren’t I? Considering sleeping in some random stranger’s bed? Actually leaving Justin’s flat?
Oh, God. Maybe Gerty was right and this is all just a bit too much. For a vertiginous moment I imagine going back to Justin’s, back to the comfort of that chrome-and-white flat, to the possibility of having him back. But the thought doesn’t feel quite as good as I imagined it would. Somehow – perhaps around 11 p.m. the Thursday before last – that flat started to look a little different, and so did I.
I know, in a vague, don’t-look-straight-at-it sort of way, that this is a good thing. I’ve got this far – I can’t let myself go back now.
I need to like this place. It’s my only option. So when someone answers the door who clearly isn’t Leon, I’m so in the mood to be accommodating that I just go with it. I don’t even act surprised.
‘Hi!’
‘Hello,’ says the woman at the door. She’s petite, with olive skin and one of those pixie haircuts that makes you look French if you’ve got a small enough head. I immediately feel enormous.
She does nothing to dispel this feeling. As I step into the flat, I can feel her looking me up and down. I try to take in the décor – ooh, dark-green wallpaper, looks genuine 1970s – but after a while the feel of her eyes on me starts to nag. I turn to meet her gaze head-on.
Oh. It’s the girlfriend. And her expression could not be more obvious: it says, I was worried you might be hot and try to steal my boyfriend from me while you make yourself at home in his bed, but now I’ve seen you and he’d never be attracted to you so yes! Come in!
She’s all smiles now. Fine, whatever – if this is what it takes to get this flat, no problem. She’s not going to belittle me out of this one. She has no idea how desperate I am.
‘I’m Kay,’ she says, holding out a hand. Her grip is firm. ‘Leon’s girlfriend.’
‘I figured.’ I smile to take the edge off it. ‘So nice to meet you. Is Leon in the . . .’
I lean my head into the bedroom. It’s that or the living room, which has the kitchen in the corner – there’s not really much more to the flat than this.
‘. . . bathroom?’ I try, on seeing the empty bedroom.
‘Leon’s stuck at work,’ says Kay, ushering me through to the living area.
It’s pretty minimalist and a little worn around the edges, but it’s clean, and I do love that 1970s wallpaper everywhere. I bet someone would pay £80 a roll for that if Farrow & Ball started selling it. There’s a low-hanging pendant light in the kitchen area that doesn’t quite match the décor but is sort of fabulous; the sofa is battered leather, the TV isn’t actually plugged in but looks relatively decent, and the carpet has been recently hoovered. This all looks promising.
Maybe this is going to be good. Maybe it’s going to be great. I flip through a quick montage of myself here, lazing about on the sofa, rustling something up in the kitchen, and suddenly the idea of having all this space to myself makes me want to bounce on the spot. I rein myself in just in time. Kay does not strike me as the spontaneous dancing sort.
‘So will I not . . . meet Leon?’ I ask, remembering Mo’s first rule of flatsharing with a wince.
‘Well, I suppose you might do eventually,’ Kay says. ‘But it’ll be me you speak to. I’m handling renting the place out for him. You’ll never be in at the same time – the flat will be yours from six in the evening until eight in the morning in the week, and over the whole weekend. It’s a six-month agreement for now. Is that OK with you?’
‘Yeah, that’s just what I need.’ I pause. ‘And . . . Leon won’t ever pop in unexpectedly? Out of his hours, or anything?’
‘Absolutely not,’ Kay says, with the air of a woman who plans to make sure of it. ‘From six p.m. until eight a.m., the flat is yours and yours alone.’
‘Great.’ I breathe out slowly, quieting the flutter of excitement in my stomach, and check the bathroom – you can always tell a place by its bathroom. All the appliances are a clean, bright white; there’s a dark-blue shower curtain, a few tidy bottles of mysterious manly-looking creams and liquids, and a scuffed but serviceable mirror. Excellent. ‘I’ll take it. If you’ll have me.’
I feel certain that she’ll say yes, if it really is her decision to make. I knew it as soon as she gave me that look in the hallway: whatever Leon’s criteria for a flatmate, Kay just has the one, and I’ve clearly ticked the ‘suitably unattractive’ box.
‘Wonderful,’ says Kay. ‘I’ll call Leon and let him know.’
