When my flatmate Laura first came over for a viewing, I told her in no uncertain terms how our relationship would be:
“You seem really lovely. But if you’re looking to be friends with your flatmate, don’t live with me.”
I explained I lived a busy life and that when I came home, I wanted my own space. Sure, I wanted her to feel comfortable and at home, but I had enough friends. The last thing I wanted was to end up like my female friends in their flat shares – where they’d leave their doors open so they could wander into each another’s rooms.
I wanted boundaries and no mundane chat like “how was your day?”. Laura seemed agreeable to this plan – though thinking about it, this might be because she’d just moved to London from Canada, and didn’t have another option.
But when she moved in in September last year, it became apparent she wasn’t going to stick to my rules.
Immediately, she started to ask me questions about my life. “What did you get up to this evening?” she’d ask, and I’d mutter something about going on a date, trying to keep my guard up. “Did you like him? Where did you go?” Her sunny curiosity was relentless. Even when I tried to shut down the conversation: “I’m sorry, I’m so tired, I have to go to bed”, she wouldn’t let me. “Sorry, I just really want to know – will you see him again?”
I felt irritated. Did she have no respect for emotional distance? I wanted a strict delineation between my home and social life. How could I do that with a one-woman Canadian welcome committee greeting me whenever I came in the front door? But Laura refused to be fazed by my evasiveness and continued to reel me in.
She’d whip up a delicious-smelling lentil curry or creamy pasta bake and push me to take half. I tried to refuse, but I am a) weak and b) the worst combination – always hungry and a terrible cook. And then, one evening in late November, I rejected her offers of help as I struggled to put up the Christmas lights, and she barked: “CAN YOU JUST LET PEOPLE HELP YOU?” It occurred to me that I might not be great at letting people in.
And so I surrendered the lights – and my determination to keep Laura at arm’s length. I started to tell her everything she wanted to know. And rather than draining me, becoming friends with my flatmate filled my empty home life.
After work, I came back to a permanent sleepover. We threw a Christmas party themed around the Love Actually nativity – so people could dress as a shepherd, an octopus or Hugh Grant. Like after a school disco, I got to dissect it after with my mate – this time with absurd sentences I never thought I’d say: “Do you think there was something going on between Second Lobster and Martine McCutcheon?”
Since then, we’ve learnt so much from each other’s backgrounds, like we’re on a cultural exchange. I have learned not to respond to compliments with self-deprecation, and to punch my hand in the air and say “woohoo” like a North American frat girl when I’m excited. Laura, for her part, has immersed herself in British culture in a different way. I feel a rush of affection when I return home to find her sitting, watching British documentaries on Netflix.
I thought being close with my flatmate would make conversations around cleaning or bills more fraught. But it’s made them easier, because we have a pre-existing relationship and trust. When Laura tells me I’m being messy, it doesn’t feel awkward or accusatory. Similarly, if I ask her to remember to turn off the heating, I don’t worry she’ll think I’m annoyed.
I don’t think I like to admit it, but Laura brings me a lot of what I’ve been yearning for in a romantic partner. People talk about the human need for a witness to your life events. Of course, I had friends and family I’d speak to about the big stuff. But now I have someone who wants to know about the shape of my day – the passing frustrations and small victories. And the constant physical presence of someone who embodies a feeling of home, in my home. I didn’t realise I was lonely until my flatmate moved in.