Love in Lockdown

by Chloe James

  ‘I just wondered if you were all right?’ The voice comes again, definitely from outside. I look down into the courtyard. It’s deserted.

  ‘Hello?’ I say tentatively, my voice husky after the crying.

  ‘I’m up here,’ says the voice.

  ‘You’re the voice from above?’ I say. I mean, it could be comic if it weren’t for the fact I’m so stressed about everything.

  ‘Yes, I live in the flat above.’

  ‘Oh.’ That’s a relief; there’s a perfectly normal explanation. ‘I thought I was hearing things,’ I admit. Good grief, now he’s going to think I’m really weird, whoever he is.

  ‘You probably thought I was the voice of doom?’ He laughs; it’s a nice sound actually.

  ‘Maybe. I’m sorry, did I disturb you? That’s really embarrassing.’ How awful, my blubbing must have been super loud for some random person to feel they had to ask if I’m all right.

  ‘Not at all, the clapping was really moving – made me want to cry too,’ he says.

  ‘Well you were a lot quieter than me,’ I say wryly.

  ‘Not difficult,’ he jests. ‘Was it just all too emotional or is there something wrong?’

  It’s strange talking to someone I’ve never met, outside on a balcony when I can’t even see him.

  ‘It was emotional, but I guess I’m also scared,’ I confess, sniffing and trying not to. In a way it’s easier to be honest when you can’t see the person you’re talking to.

  ‘We all are I suppose. I mean, it is sort of scary being told to stay in and that people are getting really sick,’ the voice says matter-of-factly.

  ‘I know, but I’m so frightened something’s going to happen to my mum – she’s a doctor – and my flatmate’s a midwife. I guess the whole emotion of clapping for them brought home to me how much danger they’re in. I can’t bear the thought of losing them.’ I wipe my nose with one of the new tissues; good job I bought so many as I have a feeling we’re going to need them.

  ‘I’m sure they’ll be okay; they’re doing their best to keep things safe as they can in hospitals and surgeries. Surely your mum’s doing most of her appointments online?’

  ‘Yes,’ I call back up into space, ‘she is, and Erica is pretty sensible. They give them masks and stuff.’

  ‘Then you need to try to stop worrying about them as much as you can. Sometimes it’s worse for the people at home, as they have more time to fret than if they were actually doing the job.’

  ‘Thanks, I guess you’re right. I never thought of it like that.’ I sniff.

  ‘What do you do anyway?’ he asks.

  ‘I’m a teacher – I’m looking after some of the key workers’ kids who still have to come into school,’ I say.

  ‘Bet that keeps you busy then?’ he asks.

  ‘Very, though I’ve only got six from the whole school. I love it, but I’m sorry for them. They worry about their parents too. You’d think they wouldn’t as they’re little, but sometimes children surprise you – they understand more than you would think. Freya asked me today if her mum was going to come home and what would happen if she got sick. She’s a single parent, all Freya’s got.’

  ‘That’s tough, but all you can do is stay strong for these kids, I guess. But you have to let it out sometime, so I’ll let you off having a noisy blub on your balcony and disturbing my quiet beer and packet of crisps.’

  ‘Rude!’ I chuckle.

  ‘That’s better,’ he says. ‘At least you can still laugh, which is a good sign. I bet the kids are entertaining too.’

  ‘Yes they’re so funny,’ I reply. ‘Milo, who is five by the way, asked me today why we can’t just call up Spider-Man to come and entangle the Cornyvirus in his web and tow it into space!’

  ‘Interesting idea.’ He laughs.

  ‘We should recommend renaming it to the government for the next update meeting. Talking about the Cornyvirus would seem much less sinister.’

  ‘I’ll tell Boris next time he calls.’

  ‘Yeah right,’ I reply with a smile. ‘I could do with setting you on my sister Jess too; she’s also a complete stress-head at the moment.’

  ‘About the virus?’ he asks.

  ‘No, about her wedding. She’s talked of nothing else for the last year and although I love her dearly, she’s making me wish that the government would ban all weddings until at least 2025!’

  ‘Not a Bridezilla?’ he asks.

  ‘Maybe a bit,’ I admit.

  ‘But when’s the wedding? Surely it can’t go ahead at the minute?’

  ‘No, she’s had to cancel the physical wedding reception. As you can imagine, she was totally devastated, and I was gutted for her. Although she can be really annoying, she put an incredible amount of work in. So the service will be on Zoom.’

  The guy above really laughs now – I like it, a deep chuckle. ‘My God, I’ve never heard of such a thing. There really is no stopping her then!’

  ‘Absolutely not.’ The whole Hinge conversation reverberates disturbingly in my mind. ‘She is a real human dynamo, Jess.’

  ‘Well, good for her – although it sounds as though she might leave everyone steamrollered in her wake.’

  I’m silent for a moment, as I’ve tried talking to Mum and Erica about Jess but it’s difficult. In spite of her pushiness, she does really care and I adore her. When the chips have been down, Jess has always been there for me yet she doesn’t always get where I’m coming from, especially not since my illness. It’s odd because no one really understands the love-hate relationship you can have with your own family – yet this random man, who is just a voice (for all I know he doesn’t even have a body) has hit the nail on the head.

  ‘I haven’t offended you have I?’ comes the voice.

  ‘No of course not, it’s just that right now a little of Jess seems to go a long way!’

  ‘Always does where weddings are concerned, but I’m intrigued anyway … How is she going to manage the service?’

  ‘Good question, but she’s got it all sorted.’

  ‘Naturally. Is there a huge wall planner and a bumper executive Filofax?’

  ‘No, but she has three huge lever arch files, two apps and a Countdown to your Wedding Plan she has distributed to all of us.’

  ‘Oh wow, this woman means business. What does the groom say about it all?’

  ‘He just said he’s going to turn up.’

  ‘That’s a good start.’

  ‘It seems pretty unavoidable, considering he already lives with her and they’re in lockdown.’

  We both laugh.

  ‘To be fair though, he would need to hire security, if he let Jess down – we’re really close,’ I say, feeling disloyal.

  ‘I get it,’ he replies. ‘I have an older brother who is great, but he thinks it gives him a free ticket to tell me what to do all the time.’

  ‘Siblings, huh?’

  ‘Yep … I’m guessing Jess and her fiancé don’t live with you then. That might be a bit crowded?’

  ‘No, you’re right, it would be a nightmare!’ I reply.

  ‘At least you get a break from it then,’ he says and I can hear the amusement in his voice.

  ‘True, but then I miss her too.’

  There’s a silence and after a while I wonder if he’s still there. ‘There’s only one thing for it,’ he says eventually. He’s obviously been thinking.

  ‘What?’

  ‘You’re going to have to exercise your human rights.’

  ‘Human rights?’ I reply, puzzled.

  ‘Yeah, your basic human right to not answer your phone or respond to texts.’

  ‘But what reason can I give? I can’t exactly say I’m out, when I’m always either at school or at home.’

  ‘Hmmm good point. The lockdown has taken away the excuse of being unavailable when you are generally pretty available,’ he says contemplatively. ‘You’ll have to say you were in the loo or cooking dinner or something.’

  ‘
That’s only going to work for half an hour at the most.’

  ‘Fair comment. You could just not get back to her and pretend you’ve left the country.’

  I laugh. ‘During a lockdown? You have not met Jess; she’d get a SWAT team scouring the entire planet, social distancing or not.’

  He chuckles. ‘You’ve got me there. I’m going to have to give it some thought. I too have several large files and a planner, so I’ll get back to you.’

  ‘Okay sounds good,’ I reply. Although the sun has been staying out a little longer now the clocks have gone forward, it has finally vanished for the night. ‘It was nice to meet you and thanks for putting up with my emotional outburst. I’m going to go in now as it’s getting cold and dark.’

  ‘Yeah and these flats aren’t posh enough for outside lighting.’

  ‘Or for anything else,’ I say. ‘Bye then and thanks for the chat.’

  ‘That’s okay, I enjoyed it.’

  There’s silence and I wait momentarily to see if he’s going to say anything else, but he doesn’t. I shiver again as it really is cold and I get quickly back in the warm.

  I hear the balcony door above shut a split second before mine and wonder if he hesitated too; maybe he too was waiting to see if I said anything else. Strange I never knew he lived there. I suddenly realise I don’t know anything about him. I was so busy talking about my own troubles I didn’t ask him about himself. I don’t even know his name!

  Perhaps Jess is right: Hinge is the only answer. This lockdown and social distancing malarkey is making me incapable of having even the simplest conversation with a guy.

  Chapter 2

  Jack

  I wake with a start, my heart pounding, with an unaccountable feeling of impending doom, as though I should be somewhere or doing something. Groggily I peer round the pillow at my silent alarm clock and the slow realisation dawns on me that I haven’t got to be anywhere and in fact I can’t go anywhere even if I wanted to. Just like yesterday and the day before and the day before that. I lie there gazing disinterestedly at the ceiling. I don’t feel like doing anything at all.

  Perhaps this is what happens to people when they get old and retire, unless they are one of those active individuals who take up golf or petanque or something, they just end up staying in bed longer and longer until one day they simply can’t get up. Like the four old grandmas and grandads in Charlie and the Chocolate Factory. That’s it – it’s all over. I think I’ve been on my own too long. In rebellion against my thumping head and in active defiance of the hideous future I have predicted for myself, I leap out of bed and wish I hadn’t. How many Old-Fashioneds did I drink last night? Too many, judging by the fact my feet no longer feel as though they belong to the rest of my body. Yet it can only have been a couple; it’s not as though I can get away with much these days.

  For the next ten minutes I blunder about randomly, trying to find a shirt and manage to slip up on my iPad, which I’d left on the floor by my bed. Not a bright idea in view of the fact I’ve only narrowly managed to avoid smashing it to smithereens. I should really take more care of it. There’s no way I could get another if I break this one. I pick it up gingerly and place it on charge, upended and propped against a table leg. For some unaccountable reason, this is the only way it will charge now. The wire seems to have broken and it will bing incessantly otherwise. The first time it did it, the other day, I spent at least ten minutes wandering round the flat, trying to work out what was making the noise. Well at least it gives me something to do today; I’ll get online and order a new charger.

  I wander into the kitchen, flick on the kettle and rummage about for some coffee. Great, there’s only decaf left; this is getting desperate. I add a double quantity hoping it will somehow help the situation and stare dispiritedly at the now-stale loaf I have available for breakfast. It’s not very appealing to be honest. Maybe I’ll make eggy dip to moisten it, unless … I search hopefully about in the fridge … nope, I’m out of eggs. It reminds me of that stupid advert where the woman gets in late from work, looks casually in the fridge and conveniently finds a courgette, a couple of eggs and some old cheese and whips up a meal out of almost nothing. It’s all very well unless you don’t have any eggs. In fact, I think it was an advert for eggs.

  Okay, this is really sad. A couple of weeks ago I was living my best, well nearly my best life, laughing with customers, whipping up cocktails in one of the coolest bars in the district and now here I am obsessing about whether or not I have an egg in the fridge, with just a scrap of bread and a scraping of Marmite all that stands between me and starvation. I put the bread in the toaster and examine the couple of bags of crisps I have left. I could eat one now, but then there won’t be any for the long evening ahead and what about tomorrow?

  I haven’t been able to get a food delivery from the supermarket until two weeks’ time. Until then I’ve got a problem. I’m just going to have to keep getting online and trying for slots. Perhaps if I try first thing in the morning? If I wanted to take this really seriously, I could set my alarm. But that’s a bit too keen, and the day will stretch even longer ahead of me. At this rate, I’ll be forced to turn my entire sock drawer into a puppet show cast of Hamilton and perform a one-man version of the hit musical on YouTube.

  I wander back to the bedroom to grab my iPad so I can at least try to check for delivery slots again, but it’s still on one per cent. I plug it back in and attempt to prop the lead up with a book. It bings several times defiantly at me and then seems to be charging.

  Back in the kitchen smoke is coming out of the toaster. I sprint towards it and desperately press the emergency eject button – this is the last slice; I can’t waste it even if it has completely turned to charcoal. It pops up and looks vaguely edible. I’ll scrape some of the burnt bits off with a knife. Whilst I am trying to do this, the bread, which in any kind of normal life would have been relegated firmly to the bin several days ago, gives up and collapses into several pieces.

  I stand and munch at the Marmite-coated remnants, which are okay actually, when swigged down with large gulps of coffee, whilst peering out onto the courtyard. There’s no one out there; it’s unnaturally quiet. It’s been like this for the last couple of weeks: weirdly silent, no sirens even, as though people have stopped calling ambulances, the world has ceased to turn, waiting for some invisible storm to hit, but we are none of us sure what.

  I wonder what the girl downstairs is up to. I haven’t heard a sound, so I assume she’s probably gone to work. I glance at the clock: 8.59 – ten minutes after the last time I looked. It’s as though time is going in slow motion since I’ve been stuck in this flat. I guess she would have to be in school now. I picture her standing in front of a small group of children, all sitting obediently two metres apart in different parts of the classroom. I wonder what she looks like. I picture her as fairly tall, with dark hair and maybe a smattering of freckles, to match her smiley voice. What am I thinking? I have no reason to have any idea what she looks like. Maybe I drank too much and imagined all of it; perhaps she doesn’t even exist. Somehow the thought upsets me and I feel bereft.

  My phone rings out and I hurry to pick it up, excited at the thought of speaking to someone, then hastily put it back down again. It’s Laura, and she phoned last night too. It’s no good, I can’t face speaking to her. It’s only going to be more of the same harassment and somehow I feel even more trapped locked down here in this flat, unable to go out or get away from her constant haranguing.

  As a distraction, I start to tidy the kitchen, not that there’s much to clear: a pan from last night’s stir-fry and the chargrilled corners of toast. There’s a sound from outside and excited by the prospect of something interesting actually happening for once, I hurry to the balcony. It’s a woman pushing a bike across the courtyard and heading back out towards the main road. She’s middle-aged with vibrant red hair. I don’t think that could be her – she sounded young. I finally understand what makes dogs sit with their paw
s up on the sofa, staring out the window of their houses – it really is the most social interaction you get when you’re stuck in. I often wave to a dog in one of the ground-floor flats, or rather I did when I was allowed out. Back in the day. I laugh at myself, at the thought of telling potential future grandchildren what it was like to have to stay inside like a prisoner for months on end.

  ‘Keep busy,’ Sam said when I spoke to him the other day, so I’m going to clean up the flat. Since there’s nothing else to do. It’s pretty disgusting. I don’t think I’ve cleaned it for weeks, but then I hate cleaning at the best of times. I get out the hoover, rummage about in the cupboard for polish. There isn’t any, just some pink rubber gloves. What are they doing there? Then I remember, my mum insisted on giving them to me when I moved in. Probably a joke. I unpack them from the wrapper and put them on. They feel really bizarre.

  I take hold of the hoover and start to move it round the floor. It’s quite fun actually, but I need something to make it more interesting. I flick on Freddie Mercury. The iPad is cooperating even though it’s only just made it to ten per cent.

  I shout ‘I Want to Break Free’ while whizzing the hoover under the sofa. I make myself a wig out of a tea towel, catching sight of myself in the mirror – I look brilliant. And if I don’t, no one is here to tell me otherwise. Whoever knew housework could be such a laugh.

  I hear something strange interfering with the music – my phone is buzzing and vibrating round the table. I check it isn’t Laura again. Thank goodness it isn’t. It’s Sam on FaceTime.

  ‘How’s tricks?’ I say cheerfully, answering it.

  ‘What the heck have you got on your head?’ Sam asks.

  Oh no – he can see me. ‘Nothing mate, just doing some clearing up.’

  ‘With a pair of pants on your head?’ he asks.

  ‘Yeah, erm well my hair’s getting in my eyes so I popped it back with whatever’s nearest. It’s actually a tea towel,’ I say, as if that makes anything better.