Doorbell rings again. And again. Five-second intervals. Tiffy throws herself back to her side of the bed with a growl.

Tiffy: Who the fuck is it?

Me: We should answer.

She reaches out and runs a finger from my bellybutton to my boxers. Mind goes entirely blank. Want her. Want her. Want her. Want—

Doorbell doorbell doorbell doorbell.

Tiffy: Fuck! I’ll go.

Me: No, I’ll go. I can wear a towel and pretend I was in the shower.

Tiffy looks at me.

Tiffy: How the hell can you think of something like that right now? My brain has stopped functioning. You are clearly much more distracting than I am.

She’s lying there, topless, just a scrap of silk underwear between now and naked. It’s taking enormous inner strength and an insistent loud buzzing sound to hold me back.

Me: Trust me. You are very distracting.

Tiffy kisses me. Doorbell now buzzing non-stop – is not even pausing. Person has their finger held against buzzer.

Whoever they are, I hate them.

Pull myself away from Tiffy, swear again, and reach for towel on radiator as I stumble through from bedroom to hall. Need to pull self together. Will just answer door, punch person who has interrupted us, then head back to bed. A good, solid plan.

I press the button to let them up, then throw open the front door and wait. It occurs to me, belatedly, that as my hair is dry it will not actually look like I’ve just got out of shower.

The man who appears in the doorway is nobody I’ve met before. He’s also not the sort of man I would back myself to punch. He’s tall, built in the way that suggests he spends a lot of time in the gym. Brown hair, perfectly trimmed beard, expensive shirt. Angry eyes.

Suddenly have a bad feeling about this. Wish I was wearing more than towel.

Me: Can I help you?

He looks confused.

Angry-eyed man: Isn’t this Tiffy’s place?

Me: Yes. I’m her flatmate.

Angry-eyed man does not look at all happy at this information.

Angry-eyed man: Well, is she in?

Me: Sorry, I didn’t catch your name?

Gives me long, angry stare.

Angry-eyed man: I’m Justin.

Ah.

Me: No, she’s not in.

Justin: I thought she had this place at weekends.

Me: Did she tell you that?

Justin looks shifty for a moment. Covers well, though.

Justin: Yeah, she mentioned it when I saw her last. Your arrangement. The whole bed-sharing thing.

She definitely wouldn’t have told Justin about that. Pretty clear she’d know he wouldn’t like it. Extremely hostile body language suggests that he does indeed not like it.

Me: Room sharing. But yes. She normally has the place on weekends, but she’s away.

Justin: Where?

Shrug. Look bored. Simultaneously stand that little bit taller, just so he clocks we’re the same height. It’s a bit caveman-ish of me, but feels good all the same.

Me: How should I know?

Justin, suddenly: Can I see the flat?

Me: What?

Justin: Can I see the place? Just have a look around.

He’s already moving towards me like he’s coming in. Suppose this is how he always gets his way: asking unreasonable things and then going ahead and taking them.

I don’t move. Eventually he has to stop walking, because I am directly in his way.

Me: No. Sorry. You can’t.

He senses my hostility now. He’s riled. He was already angry when he got here; he’s like dog on leash, snapping for a fight.

Justin: Why not?

Me: Because it’s my flat.

Justin: And Tiffy’s. She’s my . . .

Me: Your what?

Justin doesn’t finish the lie. He knows, perhaps, that I will at least know whether Tiffy is single or in relationship.

Justin: It’s complicated. But we’re very close. I can promise you she wouldn’t mind me looking around the place, checking it’s up to standard for her. I presume you have a sub-letting agreement, the two of you? All signed off by the property owner?

Do not want to get into this with this man. Also, do not have sub-letting agreement. Landlord hasn’t spoken to me in years, so just haven’t . . . brought Tiffy up.

Me: You can’t come in.

Justin squares up to me. I’m wearing nothing but a towel around waist; we’re eye to eye. Really don’t think Tiffy would enjoy it coming to a fight.

Me: I’ve got a girl in there, man.

Justin jerks his head back. He wasn’t expecting that.

Justin: You have?

Me: Yeah. So I’d appreciate it if you . . .

His eyes narrow.

Justin: Who is it?

Oh, for fuck’s sake.

Me: What does it matter to you?

Justin: It’s not Tiffy, then?

Me: Why would you think it was Tiffy? I just told you—

Justin: Yeah. She’s away this weekend. Except I know she’s not with her parents, and Tiffy doesn’t leave London on her own for anything except a visit home. So—

He tries to push past me, but I’m ready for it. I put my weight into him, knocking him off balance.

Me: Get out of here. Now. I don’t know what your problem is, but as soon as you entered my flat you broke the law, so if you don’t want me to call the police – if the woman in my bedroom hasn’t done it already – then get the fuck out of here.

I can see his nostrils flaring. He wants to fight; it’s taking all his energy not to. Not a pleasant sort of man. Though I notice that I’m ready for a fight too. I’m almost hoping he’ll punch me.

He doesn’t, though. His eyes flick to bedroom door, and then take in the sight of my jeans spread out on the floor. My shirt, hanging off Tiffy’s ridiculous monkey lamp. Thank God Tiffy’s clothes aren’t visible – he’d recognise them, I imagine. What an unpleasant thought.

Justin: I’ll be back to see Tiffy.

He backs out.

Me: Maybe call ahead next time to check she’s in. And wants to see you.

Slam the door behind him.

49

   Tiffy

I mean, nobody would say it’s nice, having your ex-boyfriend turn up as you’re getting with the new guy. Nobody would wish for something like that to happen, except perhaps for weird sexual reasons.