by Louisa Line
“I can’t tell you all my secrets Jessica. But you are never far from my thoughts.”
It takes me a minute to process what he is referring to and then I remember the note I left him asking him what thoughts he had about me. Again, I’m grinning as I think about how to reply. It’s then I remember the note in my hand.
“It’s a good distraction. I was hoping you would be my delivery driver today,” I reply anxiously waiting for his response.
“I do this area every day except Thursdays, that’s my day off. Just so you know.”
“And why might I want to know that?” In my head, I sound like I’m flirting. I just hope it comes across in my actual voice.
“So you get a good service,” he responds in a slightly flirtatious way, emphasising ‘Good Service.’ My head fills with many images at this, as I imagine what services I would like Steve to perform for me and my whole body starts warming up ending right between my legs, where an excited pulse waits to be satisfied.
“I’ve got my shopping!” I blurt out, feeling totally out of my depth having not done this whole flirting thing for well over a year and even then, I wasn’t that good at it.
“I’ll come up then,” is his response. I push the buzzer to let him in and then feeling brave, scribble on a piece of paper, ‘You make a great distraction.’ Quickly throwing it through the letter box I dash back from the door as I hear the elevator doors open. I don’t realise I’ve been holding my breath until I hear a faint knock on my door. I let it all out in a quick breath as my breathing goes into overdrive. I want to move and open the door, but my legs won’t cooperate. Panic sets in as I realise I can’t open the door and then the doubts start screaming in my head.
“I can’t do this, I’m sorry,” I shout, “I can’t open the door.” I hear the panic in my voice and know I have blown it and possibly my one chance of happiness. I collapse on the floor, tears spilling down my face.
“It’s OK, Jessica. I understand. Don’t answer the door, just talk to me.” I want to. I really want to, but even breathing is a struggle now as a full-on panic attack starts to take over me.
“I’m sorry,” is all I can blurt out before I am overcome with fear and emotions as loud sobs start to escape.
“Jessica, it’s OK. I’m not going to push you into anything you’re not ready for.” With that, I hear the letterbox rattle and then footsteps retreating down the hall until finally the elevator arrives and I know the best thing that could have happened to me in a very long time has just walked away. Possibly forever.
I’m not sure how long I have been sat crumpled on the floor, but I know it’s been long enough for my tears to have dried and my legs to have cramped. I just feel empty and once again wish I could just be normal, to be able to step outside the flat and do what normal people do. Leaving the shopping by the front door, disgusted with myself for my weaknesses, I kick the bag for good measure and the contents spill out onto the floor leaving an array of goods, now including several broken eggs. I don’t really care but figure I had better clean it up if I don’t want to be known as the hermit with the stinking house. So I go and collect my cleaning products and make a start on mopping up what remains of six large eggs. It’s during this clean up that I spot a piece of paper on the mat and remember the letterbox making a noise before Steve left. I look at the note but hesitate to pick it up. Do I really want to know what it says? I’m definitely not in the right place for a rejection right now, so leave it sat on the mat. I decide to have a bath as I now have copious amounts of egg shell and whites over me.
After my bath, I’m feeling a little better, but still not up to reading my note as I have now convinced myself that it is bad news. I pick it up but leave it sat on the side and decide what I really need is an early night. While I’m in bed I can pretend that today worked out totally differently to how it actually did.
Waking up some time later in a cold sweat, the dream still vivid in my mind, only this time it’s a little different. This time, instead of me trying to get to the person on the other side, the person is trying to get to me, but no matter how many doors they open they never seem to get any closer to reaching me. I know sleep won’t come back to me for a while, so I wander into the kitchen to make myself some Camomile tea. As I go past the folded paper still sitting on the side, a sudden jolt of anger hits. ‘Why me?’ replays in my head over and over again.
Once the kettle has boiled, I pour my drink and make my way into the lounge. Looking at the clock I realise it’s nearly four in the morning and I know for certain that I won’t be getting back to sleep. For some reason, my body clock won’t allow it. I’ve been like this ever since I was younger. I go over to the sofa and put the television on quietly, but as I flick through the channels I realise that there really is nothing worth watching. As always, I don’t know why I bothered since I’m not really a sit and watch telly kind of person. I never have been. Even the music channels have nothing but clubbing tunes or love songs and to be honest I’m not really in the mood for either. I switch off the telly and throw the controller down on the sofa, picking up my Kindle, that was discarded earlier, and try to read for a bit, but the romance just doesn’t have the same flare it had this afternoon so I shut it down and sit in silence.
Moving my head so I can see the note, I start to drum my fingers on my cup. I already know what it’s going to say, so why don’t I just get it over and done with. Rip off the plaster as they say. I toy with the idea, nibbling on my lip as I always do when I have to think about something. Sod it! I get up and make my way over to the note.
I’m in reaching distance when I change my mind and walk back to the sofa. I do this several more times before I finally have the courage to pick it up and move back to the sofa placing the note on its arm.
I mentally kick myself for being so silly. It is only a note after all. How bad can it be? A sudden flash back to this afternoon creeps into my head and I push the paper off the arm and onto the floor.
Half an hour later I finally have the note in my hand. I have convinced myself that it is better just to get it over and done with so I can get on with what little life I have. Oh, and maybe change my delivery day to Thursdays when Steve doesn’t work.
I carefully unfold the paper and start to read.
Some things are worth waiting for
and when you know, you know.
I’ll be waiting for a piece of your baking when I come on Friday.
That’s if you don’t need my services before then?
Steve
I read the note twice more convinced that, since I am tired, I must be reading it wrong. What’s worth waiting for? My cooking? I really don’t think so and surely he’s not talking about me, as I know I’m not. I know one thing though; I had better get in the kitchen and start baking!
I’d been in the kitchen for over three hours and I still wasn’t happy with what I had produced. If I am going to impress anyone with my cooking I know I am going to have to do a lot better than the sticky mess I currently have in my bowl. I chose biscuits as I thought they were easy when I looked at the recipe, but now I’m not so sure. I am down to my last few eggs, thanks to my earlier tantrum and now it is all or nothing. I throw away the gooey mess and started again. Once I finally have a mix of the consistency I need for rolling I roll it out and then go to my drawer to see what cutters I have, if any. I root around and finally find a Christmas tree cutter that I must have got from some housekeeping magazine or something and decide it’s the best I’m going to get. So, I cut out my shapes, place them in the oven and set my timers for twelve minutes. I decide now would be a good time to grab a quick shower so I head for the bathroom. Just as I reach the door the phone starts to ring. Wondering who it could be this early in the morning and thinking it’s probably work I decide I had better answer.
“Hello,” rushes out of my mouth since I want this call to end quickly since I’m still waiting on my biscuits. I was also looking forward to my shower to wash the stickin
ess off my body from the cooking.
“Oh Jess, I’m so glad to hear your voice.” I recognise Claire’s voice, even though something about it sounds a bit off.
“Claire? Are you OK?”
“Sorry to call so early. I’ve just been so sick the last few days and really needed to hear from someone who cares.”
“Really, but you’re never sick,” I reply, concerned as I wonder what could possibly be wrong. Claire doesn’t even get colds!
“There has been a stomach bug going around work. I guess I had to run out of luck one day.”
“Oh, poor you,” I say and really mean it. For someone who is never physically ill, it really can’t be nice, “Do you need anything?”
“Just someone to chat to,” she replies weakly and I begin to worry about keeping her on the phone too long so we just start to chat about fairly mundane, boring stuff.
“So, what’s happening with your delivery man?” she queries. Well, she did ask, so I launch into telling her everything that’s happened over the last few days. As I finish up explaining about the note he left yesterday, I hear the timer going off in the kitchen.
“I’ll be right back,” I say as I leap up and go into the kitchen to remove my biscuits from the oven. They look OK so I don’t think much more about them as I leave them on the side and go back to my call. “Sorry about that,” I say when I return.
“Where did you go?”
“I had to remove the biscuits from the oven,” I respond, not really thinking about it.
“Since when did you bake?” I could hear the shock in her voice and realised I had forgotten to mention that part of my story. I was far more excited about the notes and any hidden meaning that might be behind them.
“Since Steve wrote that he wants to try my baked goods,” I reply and then hear a small chuckle down the line.
“I’m not sure he meant your cooking, Jess!” With that, we both burst out laughing and the rest of the conversation consists of us making silly innuendoes to each other out of everything we say. By the time we hang up Claire tells me she is feeling much better. Before I get on with my day though, I take out my laptop, look up the local florist and order a bouquet to be delivered to Claire’s house in the hope that it will cheer her up even more. It’s nice to know that even as far away as we are from each other, a phone call can still make all the difference.
Friday 2nd June
It has taken forever for Friday to get here, but I find myself waking up early through a mixture of excitement and nervousness. As the time for the delivery approaches I pace around the flat glancing at my clock on the wall roughly every five minutes. At around ten minutes before he is due I make my way into the kitchen and place three of the evergreen tree biscuits on a plate (I refuse to call them Christmas trees in June), and then cover them with cling film. I look through my peep hole to check that there is no one in the corridor and place my biscuits on the floor next to my door with a small note.
You’re right. Some things are totally worth waiting for,
like a special delivery
I hope you enjoy my baking.
I want to write so much more like ‘As much as I like you’ but I decide to leave it at that. Then I go over to the window and wait.
I have been waiting for only a few minutes when, from around the corner, comes the familiar sound of the van with my delivery in. My excitement rises even though I am far more excited about the man delivering it than the actual food I will be getting. As the van approaches I find myself becoming anxious once again. What if he has changed his mind? I already know I’m damaged goods, but what if he has had time to think and thinks I’m not worth waiting for any more. How long would he be prepared to wait? Will he even wait? It’s not like I can give him a time frame. I can’t even open the door to him. With these thoughts racing through my head I jump off my window seat and make a dash to the sofa, what’s the point in seeing what you can’t have.
The intercom buzzes and I find myself panicking about what to do. I so want to answer it and for everything to be OK, but I also don’t want to risk my entire life changing. I slowly walk over to the door and pick up the intercom.
“Hello,” I say softly. My nerves are torturing me.
“Hi Jessica. I have your order.” OK, that sounded normal. So, what now? Do I try to flirt or play it cool? Do I even remember how to flirt? It went so well last time. I am so out of my depth right now! Then I remember the small plate sat outside my door and wonder what he will make of it.
“OK, come on up!” I reply. All nerves are now gone as I can’t hide the excitement I’m feeling and I’m sure it can be heard through the intercom. I buzz Steve up and move towards the door listening for when he comes.
I hear the elevator doors open and suddenly feel extremely nervous. What have I done? Can I really go through with this, whatever ‘this’ is? I hear footsteps making their way down the corridor and stop just outside my door. Then I hear a soft chuckle that has far more of an effect on me than it should. I hold my breath and wonder what is happening on the other side. I just about pick up the courage to move closer to the door, when I suddenly hear coughing and spluttering coming from the other side. I race to the door without thinking and place my hand on the handle until my senses return and I quickly withdraw it.
“Are you OK?” I ask through the door.
Still coughing I get my reply “How did you make these biscuits, Jessica?”
“The same way anyone makes biscuits.” I reply “Butter, flour, sugar…”
I try to cast my mind back to the other day when I was half asleep and cooking in the kitchen. Then it dawns on me. I’d tasted everything I’d made except the last batch as I was distracted by the call from Claire.
“Did you try them?”
“Well no, but the others all tasted fine.” I’m now starting to feel a little annoyed, I know I’m not the best cook in the world, but my baking is definitely not that bad!
“Here, try one!” As it’s said the letter box opens and the plate is passed through. I take the plate and sit down next to the door.
I place a biscuit in my mouth and instantly spit it out onto the plate and start to laugh.
“I am so sorry,” I say as large laughter tears are rolling down my face, “I promise all the other batches tasted OK.”
“The other batches? How many did you make?” I can hear Steve chuckling on the other side of the door and it suddenly hits me how very close to each other we are and I can feel the panic from the day before start to bubble up again.
I move away from the door quickly and as I fight to get on my feet I drop the plate and it smashes onto the floor.
“Jessica, you OK?” All hints of laughter have gone from Steve’s voice and been replaced with what sounds like concern.
“I can’t,” I shake my head, despite the fact no one can see me, “It’s just so hard. I can’t.” Tears start again but gone are the laughter tears replaced with fear. I start to move further away from the door as my back hits the back of the sofa
“I’m sorry,” I whisper even though I know he cannot hear me.
“It’s OK. I’ll leave the shopping. I’ll be back in a bit for the machine.” I hear footsteps moving away from the door and the elevator sound.
It takes me a few minutes to compose myself, involving several rounds of breathing exercises. I go over to the door on extremely shaky legs and peek through the peep hole. There is no one there. I open the door, grab my boxes, and bring them into the flat, slamming the door as quickly as I can. I sign the machine, shove all the shopping onto the floor and quickly put the boxes and machine back in the corridor. I close the door a final time ensuring it is locked and breathe a sigh of relief knowing I am safely locked in my box once more.
I move to the intercom, buzz and say I am done and move as far away from the thing as I can.
I wait to hear the familiar sound of the elevator and the footsteps and it is not long till they echo through the empty hall. As
the footsteps approach I hear a thud just outside the door. Curiosity gets the better of me as I cautiously move towards the door. As I approach, the letter box opens and a small note floats down onto the floor. I pick it up and read it.
So, baking isn’t a talent!
What about writing?
We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to
But you are my last delivery and I would love to get to know you better.
No pressure, just drop me a note.
Could this guy get any sweeter? I read the note twice more to check that I haven’t imagined it. I rush over to my table where I had left the pen and paper from earlier and go back to the door.
I’m sorry, I can’t talk to you. It’s just so hard with my anxiety.
I scribble the note and quickly drop it back through the letter box. This is actually a lot harder than you think, but I manage to do it. I hear shuffling coming from outside the door and find myself wondering who would be willing to invest this much work in me. As I’m pondering this, I hear the letter box go and see a note land by my side. I grab it, eager to read what has been written from my mystery man on the other side of the door.
Who said we are not talking?
We are just not speaking out loud.
So, about your baking!
I can feel my face heating up and a small chuckle escape. I quickly write my reply.
Don’t remind me! I am so sorry!
I promise you I can cook!
I hear a laugh from the other side of the door and the heat has moved from my face to my entire body, not in a bad way, but in a way it hasn’t done for a very, very long time.
Is that a date?
I read the note that has just come through the door and my whole body tenses up, my breathing quickens and I feel the familiar fear and panic start to set in.
“I’m sorry,” I say out loud as I start to scoot away from the door. Tears spill down my face as the realisation sets in that I will never have a normal life, that I will never be able to date. I place my head down on my knees and close my eyes, waiting for my thoughts to clear and the panic to subside. Then I hear the letter box and look up to see another note on the floor. I move back to the door and pick it up, turning it over in my hand before I open it.
