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.’
6
Leon
Kay: She’s ideal.
Am doing some slow blinking on the bus. Delicious slow blinks which are really just short naps.
Me: Really? Not annoying?
Kay, sounding irritated: Does that matter? She’ll be clean and tidy and she can move in immediately. If you’re really determined to do this then you can’t expect much better than that.
Me: She wasn’t bothered by the weird man living in Flat 5? Or the fox family?
Slight pause.
Kay: She didn’t mention either being a problem.
Delicious slow blink. Really long one. Got to be careful – can’t face waking up at the end of the bus route and having to come all the way back in again. Always a danger after a long week.
Me: What’s she like, then?
Kay: She’s . . . quirky. Larger than life. She was wearing these big horn-rimmed sunglasses even though it’s basically still winter, and had painted flowers all over her boots. But the point is that she’s skint and happy to find a room this cheap!
‘Larger than life’ is Kay-speak for overweight. Wish she wouldn’t say things like that.
Kay: Look, you’re on your way, aren’t you? We can talk about it when you get here.
My plan for arrival was to greet Kay with customary kiss, remove work clothes, drink water, fall into Kay’s bed, sleep for all eternity.
Me: Maybe tonight? When I’ve slept?
Silence. Deeply irritated silence. (I’m an expert at Kay silences.)
Kay: So you’re just going straight to bed when you get in.
Bite tongue. Resist urge to give blow-by-blow account of my week.
Me: I can stay up if you want to talk.
Kay: No, no, you need your sleep.
I’m clearly staying up. Best make the most of these blink-naps until bus gets to Islington.
*
Frosty welcome from Kay. Make mistake of mentioning Richie, which turns temperature dial down even further. My fault, probably. Just can’t talk to her about him without hearing The Argument, like she hits replay every time she says Richie’s name. As she busies herself cooking brinner (combination of breakfast and dinner, suitable for both night and day dwellers), tell myself on repeat that I should remember how The Argument ended. That she said sorry.