The Flatshare - Beth O'Leary Page 0,89

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.’

October

52

Leon

So. I’m standing in between two suits of armour, wearing a woolly jumper, staring into the middle distance.

My life has got stranger with Tiffy in it. Have never been afraid of a strange life, but lately have grown rather . . . comfortable. Set in my ways, as Kay used to say.

Can’t stay that way for long with Tiffy around.

She’s helping Katherin style us models. The other two are waif-like teens; Martin is staring at them as if they’re edible. They’re nice, but conversation dried up after we caught up on this year’s Bake Off, and I’m now just counting down the minutes until Tiffy next gets to come over and adjust my woolly jumper in indiscernible ways that (I’m pretty sure) are just excuses to touch me.

Lordy Lord Illustrator flits around set. He is a pleasant posh ­gentle­man; his castle is a little ramshackle, but it has rooms and suitably epic views, so everyone seems happy.

Except Martin. I joked with Tiffy about plotting his downfall, but when he’s not salivating over the other models, he looks as if he’s trying to work out the easiest way to push me off the battlements. Can’t figure it out. Nobody here knows about Tiffy and me – we thought that was simplest. But am wondering if he’s worked it out. If he does know, though, why would he care enough to glare at me so much?

Ah, well. I do as I’m told and stare in slightly different direction. Am just grateful to get away from the flat this weekend; had a bad feeling Justin would appear. He will eventually. Clearly wasn’t finished when he left last Saturday. And yet he’s been quiet since. No flowers, no texts, no turning up wherever Tiffy is despite having no way of knowing where she might happen to be. Suspicious. I’m worried he is biding his time for something. Men like that don’t go away after a little scare.

Try not to yawn (have been awake for many, many hours, with only small naps). I let my gaze drift in Tiffy’s direction. She’s in wellies and blue tie-dyed jeans, lounging sideways on an enormous Game of Thrones-style chair that stands in the corner of the armoury and probably isn’t intended for sitting on. Catch a glimpse of smooth skin as she shifts, her cardigan falling open. Swallow. Return gaze to particular bit of middle distance insisted upon by photographer.

Martin: All right, let’s take a twenty-minute break!

I make a run for it before he can commandeer me into doing something other than talking to Tiffy (so far, have had to spend my breaks moving ancient weaponry, hoovering up errant straw, and checking tiny graze on finger of one of the waif-like models).

Me, on approaching Tiffy’s throne chair: What is that man’s problem with me?

Tiffy shakes her head and swings her legs around to get up.

Tiffy: Really, I have no idea. He’s even more of a dick to you than the rest of us, though, isn’t he?

Rachel, in a hiss, from behind me: Run! Flee! Incoming!

Tiffy doesn’t need telling twice. She grabs my hand and drags me away in the direction of the front hall (gigantic stone cavern with three staircases).

Katherin, shouting after us: Are you leaving me to deal with him on my own?

Tiffy: Bloody hell, woman! Just imagine he’s a Tory MP in the seventies, all right?

I don’t turn around to see Katherin’s reaction, but can hear Rachel’s snort of laughter. Tiffy pulls me into ornate nook that looks as if it might once have housed a statue, and kisses me hard on the mouth.

Tiffy: All this staring at you all day. It’s unbearable. And I am viciously jealous of everyone else getting to do it too.

Feels like sipping something warm – spreads downwards from my chest, pulls my lips into a smile. Don’t