I only realise Leon is in the shower when I see him there. Our shower curtain is mostly opaque, but you can definitely see a bit. I mean, outlines.

He does the natural thing: panics and throws the curtain back to see who’s there. We stare at each other. The shower keeps running.

He comes to his senses faster than I do and pulls the curtain again.

‘Ahhh,’ he says. It’s more of a gargled noise than a word.

I am in my extremely small, lacy going-out underwear. I haven’t even wrapped my towel around myself – it’s thrown over my arm. Somehow that feels a lot worse than not having any means of covering myself up at all – I was so close to not exposing myself, and yet so far.

‘Oh, God,’ I squeak. ‘I’m so – I’m so sorry.’

He flips the shower off. He probably can’t hear me over the noise. He turns his back on me; the fact that I notice this makes me realise that I should really stop looking at the outline behind the shower curtain. I turn my back on him too.

‘Ahhh,’ he says again.

‘I know,’ I say. ‘Oh, God. This is not . . . how I imagined meeting you.’

I wince. That sounded a bit keen.

‘Did you . . .’ he begins.

‘I didn’t see anything,’ I lie quickly.

‘Good. OK. Me neither,’ he says.

‘I should . . . I’m so late for work.’

‘Oh, you need the shower?’

‘Well, I . . .’

‘I’m finished,’ he says. We still have our backs to one another. I slip the towel off my arm and now – about five minutes too late – wrap it around myself.

‘Well, if you’re sure,’ I say.

‘Umm. Need my towel,’ he says.

‘Oh, of course,’ I say, grabbing it off the rail and turning.

‘Eyes closed,’ he yells.

I freeze and close my eyes. ‘They’re closed! They’re closed!’

I feel him take the towel from my hand.

‘OK. You can open them again.’

He steps out of the shower. I mean, he’s decent now, but he’s still not wearing a lot. I can see all of his chest, for instance. And quite a lot of his stomach.

He’s a couple of inches taller than me. Wet, his thick curly hair still doesn’t sit flat; it’s smoothed back behind his ears and dripping on to his shoulders. His face is fine-boned and his eyes are deep brown, a few tones darker than his skin; he has laughter lines, and his ears stick out a little, as if they’ve learnt the habit from always keeping his hair back from his face.

He turns to sidestep past me. He’s doing his best, but there’s really not room for two of us, and as he slides by me the warm skin of his back brushes against my chest. I inhale, hangover forgotten. Despite the lace bra and the towel between us, my skin has gone prickly and something has started fizzing hotly at the base of my stomach, where all the best feelings tend to sit.

He glances over his shoulder at me, an intense, half-nervous, half-curious look that only makes me feel warmer. I can’t help it. As he turns towards the door I glance down.

Is he . . . That looks like . . .

It can’t have been. It must have been some bunched-up towel.

He closes the door behind him and I collapse backwards against the basin for a moment. The reality of the last two minutes is so painfully embarrassing that I find myself saying ‘oh, God’ out loud and pressing the heels of my hands into my eyes. This does not help with my hangover, which has come rushing back now that the naked man has left the bathroom.

God. I’m flushed with heat, all flustered and skin-prickly and breathless – no, I’m turned on. I didn’t see that coming. Surely this situation was far too awkward for that to even be possible? I’m a grown woman! Can’t I handle seeing a man naked? It’s probably just because I haven’t had sex for so long. It’s some sort of biological thing, like how the smell of bacon gets you salivating, or how holding other people’s babies makes you want to end your career and immediately start procreating.

In a sudden panic I swivel to look at myself in the mirror, wiping the condensation from its surface to reveal my pale, gaunt face. My lipstick has ingrained itself into the dry skin of my lips, and my eyeshadow and eyeliner have blurred into a black mess around each eye. I look like a toddler who’s attempted to use its mother’s make-up.

I groan. This is a disaster. This could not have gone worse. I look terrible, and he looked really quite astonishingly good. I think back to the day when I checked him out on Facebook – I don’t remember him being attractive. How did I not notice? Oh, God, why does it even matter? It’s Leon. Flatmate Leon. Leon-with-a-girlfriend Leon.

Right, I’ve got to shower and go to work. I’ll deal with my hormones and incredibly awkward living situation tomorrow.

Oh, God. I am so late.

28

   Leon

Ahhh.

Ahhh.

Lie on back in bed, immobilised by pounding shame. Cannot think in words. Ahhh is only sound adequate to express sufficient horror.

Didn’t Kay say Tiffy was unattractive? I’d just assumed! Or . . . or . . . I’d not even thought about it, actually. But, Jesus. She’s like . . . Ahhh.

Can’t spring a scantily clad lady on a man in the shower. Can’t do that. It’s not fair.

Can’t connect that woman in the bathroom in the red underwear with the woman I write notes to and clean up after. Had just never . . .

Landline rings. Freeze. Landline is in kitchen. Chance of bumping into Tiffy again: high.

Unfreeze and shake self. Obviously have to answer phone – will be Richie. Dart out of bedroom, clutching towel at waist, and locate phone under pile of Mr Prior’s hats on kitchen sideboard; answer while dashing back to bedroom.

Me: Hey.

Richie: Are you all right?

Make groaning noise.

Richie, alert: What is it? What’s happened?

Me: No, no, nothing bad. Just . . . met Tiffy.

Richie, cheered: Oh! Is she hot?

Repeat groaning noise.

Richie: She is! I knew it.

Me: She wasn’t meant to be. I assumed Kay made sure she wasn’t!

Richie: Did she look anything like Kay?

Me: Eh?

Richie: Kay wouldn’t think anyone’s hot unless they look like Kay.

Wince, but sort of know what he means. Can’t get image of Tiffy out of head. Ruffled red hair all over the place, like she’s just got out of bed. Light-brown freckles across pale skin, dusting her arms and dappled across her chest. Red lace bra. Ridiculously perfect breasts.