LOVE IN LOCKDOWN
Chloe James

Published by AVON

A Division of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

www.harpercollins.co.uk

First published in Great Britain by HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Copyright © HarperCollinsPublishers 2020

Cover design by Holly Macdonald © HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd 2020

Cover illustrations © Shutterstock.com

Chloe James asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue copy of this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008430573

Ebook Edition © November 2020 ISBN: 9780008430566

Version: 2020-10-29

To Marianne, Grace, Madeleine and Francesca with love

Author’s Note

In writing Love in Lockdown I hope I have done justice to what has been a really tough time. I’m aware that reading about lockdown will bring up a lot of difficult emotions for many. Love in Lockdown is at its heart a love story, and a love letter to community – not a story about the virus itself, and it does not go into specifics around the medical or political side of the story. This is not to diminish these aspects of lockdown, but because I wanted to tell a story that reflected the courage, hope and love that can come out of darkness. So many of us have pulled together during lockdown, and this is the experience I hope you’ll find reflected in this book.

‘I like being alone, but I want someone to be alone with, if that makes sense …’

Table of Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Author’s Note

Epigraph

Prologue

Chapter 1: Sophia

Chapter 2: Jack

Chapter 3: Sophia

Chapter 4: Jack

Chapter 5: Sophia

Chapter 6: Jack

Chapter 7: Sophia

Chapter 8: Jack

Chapter 9: Sophia

Chapter 10: Jack

Chapter 11: Sophia

Chapter 12: Jack

Chapter 13: Sophia

Chapter 14: Jack

Chapter 15: Sophia

Chapter 16: Jack

Chapter 17: Sophia

Chapter 18: Jack

Chapter 19: Sophia

Chapter 20: Jack

Chapter 21: Sophia

Chapter 22: Jack

Chapter 23: Sophia

Chapter 24: Jack

Chapter 25: Sophia

Chapter 26: Jack

Chapter 27: Sophia

Chapter 28: Jack

Chapter 29: Sophia

Chapter 30: Jack

Chapter 31: Sophia

Chapter 32: Jack

Chapter 33: Sophia

Chapter 34: Jack

Chapter 35: Sophia

Chapter 36: Jack

Chapter 37: Sophia

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

About the Author

About the Publisher

Prologue

It’s funny how in this world we all rush about like hordes of teeming worker ants, focused on our individual errands, together but not together, our paths coming close. They may sometimes cross, yet so often we aren’t even aware of it.

Jack is intent on his own troubles, his dark head bent low into the torrential wind and rain driving relentlessly into his face. The fateful papers are clutched to his chest in a simple plastic wallet. Not very classy, but he can’t afford leather after all the solicitor’s fees.

Besides, ‘there’s nothing more we can do at this point,’ the incredibly serious, smartly suited man had said with a sigh. Honestly, did he really have to be so dismal?

‘You’ll soon bounce back, mate – you’re like a rubber band,’ he could hear his brother Sam saying. Sam is four years older than him and therefore supposedly more mature, but can usually be relied upon to create comedy even in the most hideous of situations. ‘When life gives you lemons, just make a darn good gin and tonic,’ is one of his favourite sayings.

Everything is a bit of a mess now, though, just when Jack thought he’d got his life all worked out. It had all been going so well. Finally he had been having some fun, being normal, right up until he blew it. Maybe he should have stayed in Greece; he’d been happy there – not settled with a family like Sam of course, but at least he’d had a good time. He remembers his first day in Agios Nikolaos, learning how to make Ouzotini. The Greek people treated him like family. The endless blue skies, the brilliant white of the ancient buildings glistening in the sun, the banter in the taverna had all been exhilarating. He wished it could have gone on forever.

Especially on days like this, though to be fair the weather seems to match his mood. He pulls his hood further over his head and huddles deeper inside his coat against the onslaught of rain, as a car races past and splashes water up his leg.

Greece had been wonderful, but he’d missed Sam. And now Sam is going to be a dad, and ‘Uncle Jack’ has a certain ring to it. He wouldn’t want to miss out on that. Not that it had been an easy decision. After years of medical tests, sheets of rules, special diets and regulations, Greece had been the sanctuary he needed. But it was an escape, running away from reality. Sam knew that and unlike their parents, he had vaguely understood. ‘Main thing is you got it out of your system, mate,’ he had said. But on the upside, Jack loves his job at Soho. It’s a laugh and there’s a terrific crowd of regulars, especially on a Saturday night. His daiquiri is legendary, so deceptively simple to make but incredibly difficult to get the balance right. He’d learned that on his course and it was well worth all the practising.

Jack hurries across the street. It’s not long until his hospital appointment – nothing serious, just his regular blood test. He hopes they are more accurate than usual when they jab the needle in. His veins are all too prone to playing hard to get and afterwards he often looks as though they have been using him for target practice.

His phone blasts out.

‘Where are you, mate?’ Sam asks. ‘I’m driving into the car park.’

‘I’ll meet you inside,’ says Jack. ‘The solicitor took longer than I thought, boring old sod.’

‘You’re always bloody late. Any news?’

‘No of course not.’

‘What a surprise! See you in ten.’

Jack is half-running towards the multi-storey – he’s going to be far longer than ten minutes. No one minds lateness if you’ve achieved what you needed to, but it had been such a waste of time. He cuts through the street and round the corner, slap bang into two women who are hurrying the other way.

One is carrying a pile of magazines and papers, most of which spill onto the rain-soaked pavement.

‘Oh, for goodness’ sake!’ she shouts.

‘I’m so sorry,’ Jack says, attempting to scrape sodden pages off the unforgiving cobbles.

‘It’s fine,’ the woman, who has a choppy blonde bob, says tightly. It obviously is not at all fine, thinks Jack. The wet magazines in his hand are covered with images of brides resplendent in various white frothy dresses, now looking splodgy, the colour of the print running into the white.

Next to her is another young woman – although it’s difficult to tell really, as she is dressed in a navy mac, hiding most of her features – but she bends instantly to help pick them up.

‘This would never have happened if we had left on time,’ the blonde complains.

Her companion sends an apologetic grin in Jack’s direction. All he can see is her eyes, but he can tell by the way they crinkle at the corners that they’re full of amusement – she is obviously used to this complaint.

‘My brother is always saying the same to me.’ He smiles at her over Brides and Setting Up Home, but she is too busy picking up papers to notice.

‘I can’t apologise enough,’ he continues to the angry woman who by now has managed to retrieve most of her pile of magazines. ‘I feel really bad. Can I help you to get somewhere?’

‘No thanks,’ she comments abruptly, but then appears to reconsider. ‘Thanks anyway. We’re here now.’ She indicates the bridal boutique to the side of them and pulls open the door.

‘Good luck with that!’ Jack mutters under his breath, but oblivious she dashes into the shop.

He is sure he hears the friend respond, ‘You said it,’ as she follows behind, but her words are drowned by the tinkling of the shop bell and the passing traffic. He’s left looking at her retreating back, wondering if he imagined it. He watches them in the shop for a split second, laughing at something, both the picture of excitement in spite of their wet gear. He is struck by their hopeful happiness. He looks at his watch and braces himself for Sam’s usual rant about how he’s always late.

Inside the shop, Jess gingerly deposits her magazines on the ornate desk.

‘What a terrible afternoon.’ Valerie, the assistant, bustles towards them.

‘Awful. I hope we don’t have weather like this on my wedding day,’ says Jess, indicating the sodden and crumpled magazines.

‘They look a bit worse for wear,’ Val remarks, ‘but don’t panic, I’ve plenty more where those came from.’ She goes to the back of the boutique and returns with a veritable mountain of shiny new glossies.

‘Thanks so much.’ Sophia throws her wet mac on a nearby stand.

‘Now make yourselves comfortable, my dears. Would you like a lovely glass of bubbly or a hot cup of tea and we’ll get started on some more designs you like the look of?’

Within minutes they are happily ensconced on the chaise longue, sipping from long elegant flutes of champagne whilst checking out gowns in the magazines.

‘Now I know you had a couple of favourites last time you were here, but I do have a few that are new in only this week,’ Val says, appearing from the back room under a mound of frothy fabric and lace.

‘Ooh I like the look of the one on top there,’ says Jess.

‘You have great taste – that’s a Bella Morilee. Very simple, with a gorgeous circular train.’

‘I love the simple styles,’ states Sophia, ‘rather than too much decoration. Makes a bit of a statement, don’t you think?’

‘Maybe,’ Jess muses, contemplating the satin dress on its fabric-covered hanger. ‘I’ll try it on.’

Soon there’s a lot of muffled grumbling and expostulating coming from the changing room. ‘I’ve got the strap stuck round my arm and I can’t move,’ calls Jess. Val deftly rearranges the thin strips of fabric so Jess can actually move, then she wafts out of the fitting area, the simple dress curving effortlessly out from her waist. ‘What do you think?’

‘I don’t know,’ says Sophia, her head on one side. ‘What do you think?’

They both look at each other for a second; words aren’t really necessary. ‘I’m not sure,’ they both say at the same time.

‘Maybe it’s a bit too plain,’ Sophia says. ‘Even though I like the diamante belt.’

‘I agree.’ Jess swoops off to try another new style, kindly handed to her by the ever-patient Val.

‘Your wedding dress has to be absolutely right,’ she tells Jess. ‘You’ll know when it’s the one.’

Jess returns in a sheathed robe with a plunging neckline.

‘Wow,’ Sophia says. ‘That’s pretty spectacular.’

‘I don’t know,’ says Jess, turning this way and that and peering at her reflection in the mirror. ‘It feels a bit too, well … revealing. Don’t you think it is?’

‘Maybe. But you look incredible in it.’

‘I just think I’ll be worrying everything is going to fall out in the middle of the service.’

They both giggle. ‘Maybe not then,’ Sophia admits. ‘We don’t want to upset the older guests.’

Three dresses later and still nothing is quite right. ‘It’s no good, I’m going to have to try on the Madi Lane dress again,’ Jess says disconsolately.

‘Which, the rose or the drape?’ asks Sophia.

‘Both,’ they say at the same time, then laugh.

Of course Jess looks gorgeous in each of the gowns, apart from a puffy dress with far too much ruching. They discard the meringue but they’re left with a huge pile of possible winners. ‘Which one feels like the one?’ asks Sophia.

‘I don’t know,’ ponders Jess. ‘This is such a big decision.’ To many it’s just a dress, but for Jess it means everything. She wants to be the centre of attention, just for once, to look and feel amazing. This is her wedding day and it’s got to be perfect.

‘Why don’t you try each of them again, this time with the shoes and the veil?’ suggests Val, hovering eagerly, refilling their champagne glasses with a generous hand, no doubt with the hope that a little inebriation might soften the sting of the high price tag for this particular collection. Having done so, however, she speedily trots off to replace the bottle in the back room; she doesn’t want them so tipsy they spill sparkling wine on the dresses.

Jess goes back into the changing room before reappearing in the rose dress. She looks beautiful but Sophia can sense she’s not in love with it. ‘Now the next,’ she says, idly flicking through a magazine. Something about one of the brides attracts her notice. She’s laughing, her long brown hair cascading down her back, and her cute husband is holding her hands and smiling into her eyes. The backdrop is of a stunning beach in the Maldives, or somewhere like it. Sophia swallows and quickly turns the page. She can’t get upset here, this is Jess’s time – but she can’t help thinking that this could have been her, if only …

‘Well, what do you think?’ Jess returns in the draped Madi Lane dress, the first one she ever tried on, funnily enough. It is breathtaking; layers of lace cascading down from the bodice showing off Jess’s figure to perfection. The finespun trim on her delicate veil is hovering gently on her shoulders, tiny gems sparkling in the shop lights like dewdrops. She looks stunning and this time she knows it.

‘So, do you have your answer?’ asks Val anxiously, sensing an imminent, highly lucrative sale is finally within tantalising reach.

‘I think we do.’ Jess smiles across at Sophia. ‘This is the one, I can just feel it.’

‘It’s perfect. I love it,’ agrees Sophia. ‘You look amazing and Zach is one incredibly lucky guy.’

‘I’ll make sure he knows it,’ Jess says with a laugh, swishing back into the changing room in a flurry of cream fabric.

Sophia goes back to her magazine, but the print blurs and swirls in front of her eyes.

‘Are you all right there, love?’ asks Val, taking the discarded dresses in her arms.

‘Yes, I’m fine,’ says Sophia with an attempt at a smile. She doesn’t feel fine; she feels a bit weird, a little out of it, even. Just like on that fateful day that changed everything. She had worked so hard; everything was all mapped out perfectly: her successful high-powered job, her future marriage to Ryan. And then in one brief episode, the course of her whole life had changed. Four minutes, that’s all it had taken – well, four minutes and thirty seconds to be precise. Because on that day, Sophia had suffered her first epileptic seizure.

It’s okay not to be okay – that’s what they say. And of course it’s true, but it’s a weird fact that in this world, sometimes you can feel alone even when you’re together.

Chapter 1
Sophia

‘This is totally ridiculous,’ I say, staring disconsolately at the row upon row of empty shelves, where the loo rolls should have been.

This is actually a crisis of epic proportions; shortage of toilet roll is a problem for the two of us in our flat at the best of times. We use it for pretty much everything: clearing up spillages, wiping the door handles with disinfectant (a regular occurrence these days) and for make-up emergencies, so we get through a fair bit.

‘We’re on our last roll,’ Erica says at the other end of the phone, confirming my worries.

‘I knew I should have stocked up, but I thought the reports were exaggerated.’

‘Obviously not – it just takes one national crisis and everyone is reaching for the loo roll,’ comments Erica.

‘Anyone would think it’s a stomach bug.’ I poke about desperately to see if by some miracle a small pack of toilet rolls has hidden itself behind the tins. ‘We’ll have to improvise. What did they use in wartime?’

‘Newspaper I think, but I don’t fancy that much – it would be flipping uncomfortable.’ Erica laughs. ‘And we could hardly flush it down the loo after.’

‘Doesn’t bear thinking about,’ I say with a chuckle.

‘I’ve got to be on shift in a few hours. Have you seen my tunic?’ asks Erica. I can hear her rummaging about for her midwife’s uniform; she’ll be trashing the place.

‘It’s hanging up ready in the wardrobe,’ I say.

‘You’re a star, Soph. Just grab something and get yourself back. I need to be early tonight as we’re short-staffed and last time we ate dinner together, I was late.’

‘No surprise there then,’ I remark but get off the phone hurriedly in any case.

Three-quarters of an hour later, I arrive in the scrubby little car park at the flats. Thank goodness the parking has got a little easier since the lockdown – fewer people coming in and out and at least the idiots who sometimes park in our lot so they can walk to the shop are stuck in their homes. I guess we have to be grateful for any positives we can find in this situation. I unpack the car and trudge past the bin bags, piled against the rusty garage fronts. One of the bags has spilled open and half the rubbish is scattered all over the ground, including some condom wrappers and an empty box of Viagra. How embarrassing, everyone seeing the contents of your bin. I’m relieved it’s not mine – there would be far too much alcohol for one thing.

I carefully balance a beautiful picture of a rainbow one of the children insisted on my bringing home, on top of my shopping, delicately so as not to damage it, and trudge on up to the second floor. I am not risking the lift, which has broken more times than I can remember. I figure they won’t have any repair men free to come and fix it in the current crisis.

I thump on our door and, after a pause, Erica opens it with her elbow, tying her hair high on her head in a neat ponytail.

‘Couldn’t give us a hand could you?’ I pant as I blunder in, spilling packets of salad, veg, crisps and sweets in that order. I always figure a balanced diet means a treat every time you have something healthy.

‘Just let me finish my hair, so I don’t have to wash my hands again. The skin’s beginning to peel off,’ Erica tells me, disappearing back into her room.

I begin the usual procedure of hand scrubbing. I already used the obligatory antibac on leaving the shop, but you can’t be too careful. Then begins the rigmarole of unpacking the shopping on a certain area of the table, which will be carefully wiped once it’s all put away.

Erica reappears, looking smart in her blue uniform, make-up and hair immaculate. ‘Have you got enough tissues here?’ She laughs, unpacking five boxes. ‘Are you getting a cold?’

‘No, they’re to deal with the current loo roll crisis,’ I explain, ‘at least until I get online to order some.’

‘That’s brilliant,’ says Erica. ‘I might take some to work; we’re running short of supplies.’

‘As well as midwives?’ I ask ironically.

‘It is a problem … Jenny has underlying health issues so she’s having to self-isolate and I think there are a couple of others in the team who aren’t going to be able to work at all.’ She pulls open a packet of crisps and starts munching.

‘Hang on a minute, they’ve got to last all week.’ I laugh.

‘Onto wartime rations now, are we?’ asks Erica with a grimace.

‘At the rate we get through snacks, yes.’

‘Okay, well I won’t eat my usual two packets at once then. What’s this rainbow?’ She indicates the painting I’ve carefully propped on the sideboard.

‘This?’ I lift it gently and hold it up against the wall. ‘Isn’t it wonderful? I need to put it up on the balcony.’

‘Excellent idea,’ replies Erica, finishing the crisps in one last enormous mouthful. ‘Did one of your pupils create that or did you do it?’

‘No it’s better than I could do. We’ve been hard at work all day – the kids did an amazing job. This was Freya’s. It’s sweet isn’t it?’

‘Yes I love the bright colours, although I’m not sure about the orange, red and neon green right next to each other. It’s cheery though. How old is she?’

‘Eight,’ I say, carrying the artwork onto the balcony. ‘Have we got any string?’

‘You’ve got to be joking …’ She pauses. ‘Might have some wool or something, in your old sewing basket? Not that you’d know, because you’ve never used it!’

‘I did, years ago. Anyway Mum probably hoped I’d maybe use it for teaching the kids.’

I rummage about and manage to find some wool that isn’t too scrappy and tie the resplendent rainbow on the railings, facing out towards the courtyard below.

‘Don’t you think it might get wet if it rains?’ asks Erica.

‘It hasn’t rained for weeks,’ I say indignantly – and it hasn’t. The sun has shone for days now in some cruel irony of nature, given the hideous situation we all now find ourselves in. The birds have been singing, gathering bits of fluff from the courtyard below ready to make their nests. Spring has well and truly sprung and yet the whole of mankind is battling against a pandemic. I can’t help but think this scenario would give Alanis Morissette inspiration for an entirely new song; the situation is so ironic.

‘Will you do the clap at work?’ I ask Erica, standing back to admire my handiwork, albeit from up above and therefore the wrong way up.

‘You mean clap for ourselves? Bit bizarre.’

‘That’s a bit sad,’ I say. ‘No, I mean for everyone. You’re clapping the NHS workers but also people in the shops and all the key workers.’

‘Of course I will, unless I’m in the middle of delivering a baby – I don’t think the mum would be too chuffed trying to push and yelling for more gas and air if I just stand there clapping.’

‘Yeah, maybe that wouldn’t go down too well.’ I smile. ‘It must be so tough for these mums. I wouldn’t want to be expecting a baby right now.’

‘Me neither,’ says Erica. ‘In fact, after what I’ve seen in the maternity unit, I’m completely rethinking the whole having kids thing. Are we having tuna pasta? I haven’t got long.’

‘It’ll only take ten minutes.’ I pop the kettle on and grab a pan. ‘Can you chop some cucumber for the salad?’

‘I guess …’

Erica is terrific, but she doesn’t really do cooking or washing. In fact, she doesn’t do a lot round the house at all, but she’s lovely to live with all the same. I bet she makes an amazing midwife. She’s totally unflappable and to be fair she also makes a mean cup of tea.

‘Are you still kicking the dads out?’ I ask, opening a tin of tuna.

‘Yep.’

‘Seems a bit 1960s. Mum told me they did that all the time – that and shoving babies on the bottle at the slightest inclination.’

‘No choice; can’t risk infection. It’s for the babies’ sakes as well. I try to make them feel as though they’ve got a friend in the room, though.’

‘I can imagine, and to be fair I’d rather have you there than any man.’

‘Thanks.’ Erica pops a piece of cucumber in her mouth. ‘But I’m not sure that’s much of a compliment considering you hate all men at the moment.’

‘Not all men,’ I protest indignantly, ‘just most of them!’

We down our food as we often do, in front of the TV. We’ve got quite into that drama Quiz about the guy who cheated on Who Wants to Be A Millionaire? by getting someone to cough when the right answers were read out.

‘That wife is a bit scary,’ Erica remarks.

‘Yes, to be honest I think she put him up to it,’ I comment.

‘Must have driven them mad; people coughing wherever they went for the next ten years.’

‘Yes, it’s a good job there wasn’t a virus outbreak then – the studio would have been empty.’

The dulcet tones of Dua Lipa blast out. ‘Can’t you change your ring tone? I’ve heard that so many times,’ Erica complains.

‘I love it,’ I say, grabbing my phone. ‘Besides, it gets me moving better than Joe Wicks. Oh, hi, Jess. How’s it going?’

‘Good thanks. Well, as good as it can be considering,’ Jess replies.

‘Yeah I know what you mean. It is a bit weird isn’t it? I can’t believe it’s been a month since we went shopping at Greenham.’

‘I know. It all felt so normal. Little did we know what was coming. I’ve had the most frustrating day too. The server keeps going down and we’ve had so many calls.’

‘How annoying. I guess it’s because everyone’s on the system. I s’pose at least business is going on?’ Jess works for a marketing company and used to have regular battles with her boss about working from home (it was apparently against company policy) – until the actual lockdown that is, which of course enforced it.

‘I don’t want to talk about work – it’s totally boring. I’ve had an idea.’

This sounds ominous.

‘Mmm,’ I say noncommittally. Jess is fab and I adore her, but I can tell this is her I’m-about-to-start-trying-to-manage-your-life tone.

‘I happened to come across this app the other day that could have been designed for you.’

I know exactly what kind of app she means and it will certainly not have been designed for me. ‘Jess, we’ve been all through this. It’s kind of you but …’ Erica has her jacket on and gives a little wave from across the room. ‘Just a mo, Jess – bye, Erica, take care won’t you?’ She gives me a sympathetic smirk as she vanishes out the door.

‘Erica’s just off for her shift. She’s amazing – I would hate to go and deal with birthing women, especially in the middle of a pandemic,’ I gabble to Jess, hoping it might distract her from the conversation.

‘Yes, but we’re all different aren’t we, Soph? Anyway, Hinge is a dating app that helps you meet someone nice and normal. Even you can’t go wrong. How about it?’

‘Hinge? Sounds like something to do with a door.’ I’m trying my best, but there’s no distracting Jess when she gets like this.

‘Ha-ha, come on, Soph.’ She hears my silence, which is hopefully deafening. ‘Okay so maybe you haven’t heard of it; you are getting on a bit now.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ I roll my eyes. ‘It’s nearly time for the NHS clap. Don’t you think you’d better go and get ready?’

‘It’s only seven-thirty and we only have to go to the window. It’s really not that far.’

‘Yes, but I need to make sure my hands are warmed up ready for my best clapping,’ I say.

‘It’s too late anyway,’ says Jess.

‘What do you mean? It’s not ’til 8 p.m.’

‘No, the dating thing. I’ve done it, I’ve signed you up to Hinge. You’re welcome.’ As always with Jess, it’s a fait accompli. I remember the time we vaguely discussed getting Mum and our stepdad a holiday weekend away as a surprise and before I had confirmed I could pay my share, she had booked it and paid the deposit. Jess has a heart of gold but goes at everything at a hundred miles an hour.

It’s a fact that she doesn’t ever give up. I hate dating apps. I have managed to avoid Tinder so far, having heard too many horror stories. It’s so not my thing. These people could be anyone; how do you know the photo is even them? I’m a bit old-fashioned. For me there’s something so impersonal about meeting online.

‘Jess, it’s very thoughtful, but you know how I feel about apps. I was going to get back into dating slowly; I have this idea of actually meeting someone in person, getting to know them properly. I had it all planned.’

‘Yes, but now we’re in the middle of a lockdown you’re kind of limited for options, hon.’ My sister is ever practical.

‘It’s so frustrating,’ I admit. ‘I was all geared up for a fresh start. Joining some fitness groups, book clubs – you know the sort of thing.’

‘Not going to happen now for ages, so you’re going to have to get creative and Hinge is quite good actually. Danni at work used it. She’s been going out with this guy for six months now and he is really nice and normal.’

‘Well that’s a start,’ I say with a laugh, ‘except you know I am far from normal – it’s way too boring. And I would rather meet someone first. God knows who you find on these apps. They could be a stalker.’

‘You’re going to have a hard job finding a stalker in the current situation. Most people aren’t able to go out,’ Jess tells me. ‘And in any case, Hinge is really cool. It’s not like other apps – it’s not random and you can only contact a certain number of people. Also, you have to have things in common or it won’t let you contact each other.’

‘Why is it called Hinge anyway? If you’re unhinged you’re not allowed to join?’

‘Yeah right. I don’t know but I’ve just pinged across your account details.’ My phone bings at the arrival of a message.

‘Thanks, it’s good of you,’ I say patiently, wanting to throttle her, but I know she’ll never change. ‘Is Mum okay?’

Miraculously, for once my tactics work and Jess is momentarily distracted. ‘Yes, I spoke to her yesterday. She’s been having trouble with Uncle Jim though.’

‘Oh no, is he poorly again?’

‘Well, you know how his stomach is?’ I think the whole world is au fait with my Uncle Jim’s stomach. It seems to have a life all of its own. I’m surprised he doesn’t send out a Christmas letter dedicated solely to the ins and outs of his digestive system. He is about ninety-three and one of the most dapper old gentlemen you have ever met, always in a smartly pressed shirt and tie, whatever time of day you might find him, yet he is also one of the most difficult. He usually has something wrong with him, but as soon as my mum tries to help, he won’t take the medicine. He really needs to go into a nursing home, but staunchly refuses and instead lives in a block of flats for older people, where they seem to have a competition going for who can be the most awkward and cantankerous.

‘I thought Mum sent him some medicine that would build him up a bit?’ I say.

‘Yes she did, but it was rather awkward because I took the stuff round, to save Mum, and left it outside Uncle Jim’s flat, as of course I couldn’t go in. Apparently after I’d gone, one of his neighbours, Geoff – you know, the one who lives in the flat next door and is ninety-eight, the one Uncle Jim looks out for?’

‘I remember.’ How could I forget? He’s always getting into some trouble or other despite my ill, elderly uncle’s expert care.

‘He got hold of the box of sachets prescribed to build up stamina after being ill, and he ate three of them.’

‘Oh no.’ I stifle a laugh. ‘I mean that’s terrible. Was he all right?’

‘He was fine, probably better than he had been in years, but Uncle Jim was furious with him, said he’d stolen his medicine and there was a right old ruckus. Without intervention it would have truly been a case of Zimmer frames at dawn. Mum had to calm him down – apparently she was on the phone for ages!’

‘Poor Mum, as if she hasn’t already got enough to do at work.’

‘She said it’s really busy at the surgery although they’re trying to do most of the appointments online to minimise contact.’

‘It’s a worry isn’t it? I wish now that she had a job where she worked from home. It would be a lot safer,’ I say, ‘and just imagine if she’d had her way – you’d have been working on the front line too.’

‘Someone’s got to do it, although I was never cut out to be a doctor. I hated science anyway. You should have stepped up to the plate as the prodigal daughter,’ Jess replies staunchly.

‘That was never going to happen. Science was the only GCSE I had to retake and in any case she was perfectly happy with my career in law. It’s the whole teaching thing she has issues with.’

‘I guess, but you can understand it was a bit of a shock to her after putting you through years of law school. I’d have loved to have an opportunity like that.’

I sigh inwardly. This is an age-old argument. Neither Mum nor Jess get the whole career change thing. For ages they just thought I was having a momentary crisis, which they expected to resolve along with the cessation of my seizures with the epilepsy meds, with the happy result of me going back to my legal career and everything returning to normal.

As always Jess is oblivious. ‘I’ve got to go now, but before I speak to you next I want you to try the app.’

I get the sense the world could be ending and she’d still remember to check.

‘I’ll speak to you tomorrow,’ I say.

‘I’ll be asking questions,’ Jess replies and with that she’s gone.

Half-heartedly, I click on the link she’s sent, but quickly exit it again. I can’t face it – it’s simply not the right time to meet someone now. It’s typical, just when I’m finally considering making some sort of effort to at least try to regain my trust in guys. They can’t all be unreliable and shallow, influenced totally by success and looks. There must be some genuinely nice blokes out there somewhere; it’s only a matter of finding them.

I glance at the clock: 7.50. There’s just enough time to clear up the remains of dinner and get ready for the clap for the NHS.

At 7.55 I am ready. The door to the balcony is open and I potter about just inside, not wanting to look as though I don’t know what I’m doing. I’m not sure why. It’s not like anyone will see me. I fiddle with a couple of bits, picking them up and putting them down again.

I go back out again at 7.59. Should I start? Is it like a thing when everyone automatically knows when to begin? Will I be able to hear anyone else? I peer down into the courtyard but it’s empty as usual. Perhaps I’ll just start clapping on my own. I check my phone and as I am looking, it changes to 8 p.m.

As if by magic the clapping starts – first quietly, from one side of the courtyard, then the next, and from above, until all around me the air is full of clapping. It’s a rousing chorus of applause ringing out round the courtyard and beyond from the streets of the city, echoing far and wide. It’s simply beautiful.

Before I realise what is happening, the tears start streaming down my face. So many people everywhere, kept apart, yet we are all responding in the same way. We are clapping together in one united group for our incredible fellow human beings out there right now on the front line, risking their lives for us all, battling to save people from this hideous virus. Erica, Mum, and so many others – people we care about and are terrified of losing. I hate this isolation from friends, family, even strangers, from normal human contact. I am sobbing now; a raucous, noisy broken sound and I can’t stop.

‘Hello? Are you okay?’

Now I’ve completely lost it – I’m beginning to hear things.

‘Hello?’

I stop crying for a second and glance over my shoulder. No, there’s no one there. Thank goodness no one has broken into the flat, though the door’s locked and who would try burgling someone in the middle of the clap for the NHS, when everyone’s in? I really am losing it.

‘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 paws 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.

‘And the pink gloves?’

‘What? Oh,’ I snatch off the rubber glove. ‘Well, you can’t be too careful with germs.’

‘We’d seriously better hope this lockdown doesn’t last long – you’re totally losing it. I mean, for a start, since when did you care if the flat is tidy?’

I throw myself down in the chair, exhausted after my short burst of activity – it’s seriously true that the less you do, the less you are able to do. ‘I’m pretty bored.’

Sam laughs. ‘You must be.’

‘How’s Tina?’

‘Clearing up also. There must be something in the air; she’s been scrubbing the bath since first thing this morning. It’s not like anyone’s used it recently.’

‘I guess she’s getting ready for the baby,’ I suggest.

‘Yeah it’s called nesting or something. Apparently it means it’s not far off.’

‘Exciting times. You still going to risk the hospital?’

‘No choice with a first baby. Means I won’t even be allowed in the room with her though.’

‘That’s tough. I guess you’ll be cheering on from the sidelines then. Can you use Zoom or something?’

‘Hardly, it’s probably against health and safety or something. To be honest with you I don’t really mind; I just wanted to be there for Tina. I was going to stay up the top end anyway.’

‘Coward!’

‘Says you. You’d run a mile.’

‘To be fair, it’s scary stuff. But life-changing.’ I’m silent for a moment. ‘I envy you though. You’ve already got Tina and now you’re going to have a little one to keep you company.’

‘I bet you’re finding things quiet there still. No calls from the solicitor?’

‘No, and yeah it is a bit. For me to have to tidy up – it’s pretty desperate. I feel like I’m copping out somehow. Useless. I watch the news and people are all out there helping and I’m stuck in here hiding away.’

‘For good reason.’

‘I know, but it doesn’t help. It’s so boring. Dan’s got himself a job as a delivery driver as he was made redundant and Matt is still working to get stuff packaged. It feels like everyone’s busy except me.’

‘Why don’t you get out your guitar again? You must have it there with you.’

‘Haven’t played for ages.’

‘All the more reason to get it out now.’

‘I guess. Still me, myself and I though.’

‘It’s the way it’s gonna be for a while. But you’ve got us and we can Zoom when the little one’s born.’

‘Yeah that’ll be nice.’ There’s a silence. ‘I did speak to someone downstairs last night.’

‘I hope you didn’t get near. You’ve got to keep yourself safe – you know what the specialist said.’

‘I know.’ I love Sam, but he gets overstressed. ‘I didn’t even see her.’

‘Her?’ he asks.

‘I heard someone crying when I was out on the balcony last night, after the NHS clap, which was really cool by the way.’

‘I know, I thought hardly anyone would be doing it, but you could hear it all round our street. It was great.’

‘Afterwards there was this sobbing, so I called to the person down below and we got talking.’

‘Trust you, Jack.’ Sam raises his eyebrows and gives me one of his big-brotherly looks. Bizarrely I’ve missed them. ‘There’s no keeping you away from the chicks, is there?’

‘No, it wasn’t like that; it was simply nice to hear someone’s voice. To actually have a conversation, other than on the phone, with another human being.’

That was the point; it had somehow made me feel less alone, talking to someone here in the building, so nearby, even if we couldn’t see each other. I find myself wondering if she’ll be out there again later. Perhaps I’ll have my last packet of crisps on the balcony at the same time tonight, just in case.

Chapter 3
Sophia

‘I’m sorry about the change of plan, but chocolate crispy cakes are really yummy too,’ I say apologetically to the six pairs of hopeful eyes staring at me and my bag of goodies.

‘Chocolate crispy cakes yessss!!!’ shouts Milo. I smile affectionately at his cheeky face under the mop of fair hair; I can always rely on him to be enthusiastic.

‘What about the fairy cakes?’ Freya asks.

‘The thing is, I can’t get flour anywhere because the shops have run out,’ I explain. ‘So fairy cakes will have to wait for another day.’

‘But then we can’t put sprinkles on them.’ Freya looks miserable. ‘I wanted to surprise Mum with something pretty.’

‘Well,’ I say thinking on my feet, ‘I think you’ll find that, first of all, chocolate is full of magnesium and other good things that will help your mum be an even better nurse than she is already, and secondly, we have some other little goodies in here we can use to decorate them.’ I tip the bag up and out fall some decorative paste butterflies, silver balls and pink edible flowers.

Freya and her friend Lola shriek. ‘Please can I use the butterflies?’ asks Freya.

‘I like the flowers,’ calls Lola.

‘I’m just going to do mine plain with lots and lots of chocolate,’ says Milo decisively. ‘My mum needs extra chocolate ’cause she was really grumpy this morning.’

‘You can all do them as you like,’ I say with a smile. ‘What about you, Alfie?’ It’s always hard to get eleven-year-old Alfie to say much.

‘Am I allowed to do cakes?’ he asks. ‘I thought they’d just be for the younger kids.’

‘Of course not,’ I say. ‘They’re for everyone. In any case, I expect your parents are in just as much need of chocolate cakes as anyone else?’ My current class is made up of all ages as they are the children of key workers.

Alfie nods shyly.

‘What about you, Pritti?’

‘My mum loves cakes. She makes them all the time.’

No pressure then. ‘It will be nice for you to make her some in that case.’ I have a hideous flashback to the time I volunteered to make cakes with the reception class during teaching practice. The look of horror on the headteacher’s face when she happened to come into the room, which was mostly decorated with icing sugar and flour, as well as the children who were pretty much covered, will probably stay with me forever.

Pritti smiles. ‘I don’t think she’s made crispy cakes before.’

I notice Zane peeking at the bowls and ingredients with a worried look on his face. Zane is only four and a cute little lad, but always painfully shy. I hoped he would come out of his shell more with fewer students in the class, but if anything he’s become even more timid. Hopefully he’ll enjoy it more once we get the chocolate out. You can’t really go far wrong with these. Or at least I hope not, as I think of Pritti’s mother, who is a professional pastry chef. I start to put out the ingredients, making sure Zane has some pictures to follow to make it easier for him. It’s been a real struggle to get all the utensils because of course we have to have six bowls, six spoons – six of everything, basically, or we’ll never keep up social distancing.

‘So I’ve placed a bowl on each table and next to it all the things you will need to make your mixture. When I call your name each of you will come up and I’ll use the plug-in hob to melt your chocolate. Of course we will have to make sure we keep two metres apart – the length of a broom.’ I point at the chart on the wall.

It works more smoothly than I’d hoped and after an hour, each child miraculously has a plate of chocolate crispy cakes next to them.

‘Can we eat them now?’ asks Milo, a crispy cake poised halfway into his open mouth.

‘You can have one, once you’ve each gone and washed your hands again, but take the rest home for your parents. They’ve been working hard and deserve them.’

‘But, Miss Trent, Zane has eaten nearly all of his.’

Oh, good grief. While I’ve had my back turned, Zane has eaten four of his cakes. They say it’s always the quiet ones you have to watch. I really hope he isn’t going to be sick.

‘Did he really eat all of them?’ Jess asks with a laugh, on FaceTime that evening. I am exhaustedly slumped on my sofa eating my own batch of chocolate crispy cakes.

‘Most of them.’ I chuckle. ‘I just hope he isn’t sick when he gets home or his mum will be after me. I gave him a load of spares I made so at least he got to take some for his family – if he didn’t eat them on the way home.’

‘I don’t know how you do it,’ says Jess, ‘spending all day surrounded by kids.’

‘I’m not exactly surrounded,’ I say amused. ‘There are only six of them in at the moment. Anyway, they’re brilliant; they say what they think, unlike most adults. And it’s a good excuse to do fun stuff.’

‘Wish you could send one of those cakes down the phone,’ Jess groans. ‘They look delicious.’

‘They are.’ I finish popping another cake in my mouth and put the others to one side. I feel mean eating them in front of Jess. It seems rude somehow. This lockdown has taken away any pleasure in eating with people, other than those you are with. It’s all very well saying we can FaceTime or Zoom, but there is something so basic about our need to be together, to eat and celebrate special events with each other, not in our own separate little universes. ‘How are the plans going?’

‘Good. I’ve finished paying for the dress, the suits are sorted and the hotel has kindly agreed to refund the reception.’

‘Decent of them.’

‘I guess they haven’t any choice.’

‘No, but I kind of feel sorry for hotels, restaurants and bars; how are they supposed to make a living?’ I wonder.

‘You feel sorry for everyone. That’s your trouble; you’re too soft.’

‘Not really, but I do imagine how other people might feel about things.’

‘Good job you didn’t keep working as a lawyer then.’

I stay silent for a moment. That was a little near the bone. I enjoyed working in law. I had worked so hard for my legal career. I earned my way with relentless graft and hours of burning the midnight oil. I can still visualise all the pages of legal clauses, the Latin names and ream upon ream of legal jargon and provisos. At times my room-mate would struggle to find me behind the mountainous piles of books I would be lost behind. But I guess Jess is right: in the end, I wasn’t ever really suited to it. Much as I blame the epilepsy.

‘Sorry, I didn’t mean to offend you,’ she says as an afterthought.

‘It’s okay.’ Although it’s not really, but there’s no point in trying to explain it to Jess. I attempted it a couple of times, soon after my diagnosis, thinking she would understand, as she so often had with other things in the past, but she really didn’t get it. So I have learned to smooth it over. Make it all appear to go away. It’s so much easier for everyone else that way, especially since the meds have been keeping the seizures under control. ‘I love what I do,’ I continue, ‘and there’s no going back now. Kids are far less demanding than divorcing couples anyway.’

‘True.’ Jess giggles. ‘And at least you can put them on the sun on the reward chart, if they’re good, or on the naughty step if they’re bad.’

‘There is no naughty step any more,’ I retort, stifling a yawn.

‘How’re the new meds?’ she asks.

‘Better.’ Thank goodness they are, as well. ‘That hideous feeling of exhaustion has diminished a little. The last ones were awful. I felt drugged all day. As long as I take these the same time every evening I’m a tiny bit better. The mornings are still hard as I feel most tired then, but the exhaustion sometimes wears off during the day. Other times it doesn’t. It kind of feels as though you’ve been out on the razzle every night and you have to work through it all morning until by about lunchtime, things feel a little better. Other times I stumble or lean on the wall because I feel sort of off balance, but it only happens occasionally.’

‘It’s a hard price to pay to avoid having a seizure,’ Jess says.

‘It is, but there isn’t any choice is there? The thought of collapsing in front of the entire class is not a good one. They’d be terrified.’

‘Not a pretty sight, but the staff would manage. I mean it must happen.’

‘It just can’t happen. I’d have to leave my job. I’d feel as though I had traumatised the kids; they would be afraid for me to teach them.’

‘It really can’t be that bad. I know it’s a bit embarrassing but …’

‘One of my colleagues at Price Maberton told me I looked like I was doing the running man, the last time I had a seizure, let alone the fact he was totally freaked out because I had been eating a biscuit at the time and he was worried I would choke. It made me almost feel ashamed of even having to talk about it – as though I was an annoyance to everyone else. Also, I don’t want to be “Sophia with the epilepsy”. I want people to see beyond that.’

‘Fair enough. I think you’re best on the meds then.’

‘Yes and at least they work at the moment. Viv’s niece at school still has them occasionally in spite of the meds.’

‘What a nightmare that must be. I suppose you have to be grateful for small mercies.’ Jess sighs. Then she brightens a little. ‘Anyway, it’s all the more reason why you need someone nice to take care of you. How did you get on with Hinge?’

How annoying. I thought she’d forgotten about it. ‘I’ve been really busy,’ I mutter.

‘Not that busy,’ she says in a stern tone. ‘You just don’t want to do it.’ I’m silent for a moment, hoping she’s got the hint. ‘Okay, I’ll have to think of something else,’ she declares breezily.

We chat for a few more minutes before I get off the phone. I need to make sure everything’s washed ready for tomorrow, as my best shirt has a stain on it. I’m pondering the idea of cooking up some mince and making a cottage pie, which would at least do for two nights, then I could have a night off tomorrow.

As I pootle about, clearing things off counter tops and sorting clothes, I wonder about the guy from last night. I haven’t heard anything since I got in, but I guess that’s not surprising, given Erica was here earlier, crashing about with her stuff before rushing off to her shift, and then I’ve been on the phone. I open the door, wander out onto the balcony and stand there looking down into the courtyard. It’s all quiet. I consider going back inside and watching something on TV but it’s a warm evening and it seems a shame to spend it indoors. Then I hear a noise. Up above.

It sounds as though his balcony door is opening. ‘Hello?’ I call quietly.

Nothing.

‘Hello?’ I call a little louder this time.

‘Hello?’ comes the voice from above.

‘Oh, hi.’ I smile, ridiculously pleased that he’s there. ‘You’re back.’

‘I haven’t really gone anywhere,’ replies the voice.

‘No … I guess it’s quite difficult at the moment,’ I say.

‘How were the kids today?’ he asks.

‘Great, thanks.’ I feel inordinately pleased he remembers our previous conversation. ‘We all made chocolate crispy cakes.’

‘Sounds delicious.’

He sounds wistful, hungry even. ‘I wish I could send one up to you, but I’m not sure how.’

‘Don’t worry, I’m okay – I have my emergency packet of crisps left.’

‘Is that all?’

‘I do have an Old-Fashioned as well.’

‘I’ve never tried one of those,’ I admit.

‘Well it’s not a proper one – I haven’t all the ingredients – but it’s refreshing.’

‘Ooh I’m jealous,’ I say.

‘I’ve had an idea. Give me ten minutes and I’ll be back.’

I smile to myself, wondering what his idea could be; there aren’t really a lot of options currently. As I stand on the balcony an older guy, still fairly upright, with a silver moustache and wearing an old green jacket combined with smartish trousers, walks across the courtyard and through the archway across the other side. I’ve seen him walk through here before but I don’t know where he lives. I know pretty much all the residents in this block so I don’t think he lives in the flats. He must come from one of the nearby houses. He seems to go out about the same time every night. It makes me feel sad for him somehow; he cuts a lonely figure, in spite of the purposeful nature of his walk. I wonder if he has a wife or if he lives by himself. It must be so hard for anyone coping with this lockdown living in total isolation. I would hate it.

The man upstairs has only been gone a minute or so – I have time to pop on the veg for the cottage pie while I wait. I go in and peel, rinse and chop the carrots, then soften them with the onion and a clove of garlic. The mince is just browning nicely and I’m about to add the tomatoes when I hear a noise from outside. I go back out onto the balcony.

To my amazement, a box has appeared, just below the parapet of the upstairs balcony. It looks like the end of a cardboard Budweiser box, hanging from what appears to be a bright yellow skipping rope.

‘Have you got it?’ calls the voice.

‘Just a mo, keep it steady,’ I say, trying not to laugh. I rush forward to grab the box, which is dangling precariously and at high risk of tipping out its contents, which on closer inspection turn out to be a glass of something with a slightly old-looking piece of lemon and a cherry on a cocktail stick. Miraculously it hasn’t spilt.

‘Oh wow!’ I exclaim and carefully remove the glass, placing it on the little table on the balcony. ‘This looks amazing.’

‘Hope you like it!’ There’s a warmth to his voice and I wonder if he’s smiling.

‘I’m sure I shall.’ The box starts to rise up again towards the balcony above. ‘Hold on a minute!’ I call. ‘Don’t pull it up yet, incoming!’ I rush into the lounge and grab a handful of chocolate crispy cakes and place them carefully in the box. ‘Okay,’ I say standing back, ‘pull away.’ The box disappears, wibbling up in the air. At one point it tips at a precarious angle and I’m worried the cakes will scatter over the courtyard below. He manages to balance it again, though, and the trusty Budweiser box disappears from view.

‘Chocolate crispy cakes!’ he shouts. ‘What a result – I love these.’

‘Cheers!’ I say taking a sip of the cocktail. ‘Mmm, that is so good. What is it?’

‘Well, it’s my own invention at the moment as I haven’t got half the usual ingredients.’

‘Tastes pretty darn good to me. I’m not sure it will go with the cakes.’

‘I can tell you it does,’ he replies. I have to strain to make out his words; I reckon he’s got a mouthful.

‘They are pretty moreish,’ I agree, tucking into another one myself. I can always make another batch tomorrow. ‘Good grief.’ I suddenly remember the mince and as I run inside the flat, I am almost knocked backwards by an acrid smell of burning. ‘For goodness’ sake!’ The contents of the pan have stuck fast to the bottom in a blackened mess. ‘So much for being organised,’ I lament to no one in particular, scraping the burnt meat into a bowl just in case any of it’s salvageable. This is all going horribly wrong. I was only trying to be organised so things would feel a little more under control, a couple of dinners prepared in advance so I don’t have to worry about cooking when I get in from work, and I can’t even manage that.

‘Everything all right?’ calls the voice.

I walk back outside. ‘Yes – no, not really, I’ve just burnt tea for the next two days and I might have ruined my favourite pan.’ I take a comforting sip of my cocktail.

‘That’s a bit of a crisis. Is it totally trashed or can you save some of it?’

‘It’s pretty blackened.’

‘Looks like you’re going to have to live off cocktails and cakes.’ We both laugh.

‘Could be worse I guess. Where did you learn to make such amazing cocktails?’

‘In Greece. I lived in Crete for a couple of years and did a bartending course.’

‘Oh wow, that sounds amazing. I’ve not been to Crete but I’ve visited Santorini and it was just beautiful.’ I refrain from adding that the memory is tinged with sadness, as it was my last holiday with Ryan. We had stayed in a gorgeous apartment with a shared pool. Our days had been spent exploring the cobbled streets, swimming in the glass-smooth water and making love in the cool white cotton sheets within the sanctuary of the air-conditioned stone-clad apartment. It’s been many months since we broke up, yet I still miss him, the feel of him, what we had together. Now I feel so bereft. Five years is a long time to be together for it to end so abruptly, just like that.

‘Santorini is stunning.’ His voice breaks in on my thoughts. ‘I went on a day trip from Crete once. I didn’t like the cable car ride much though – it felt really dodgy.’

‘I avoided that.’ I smile at the recollection, trying not to think of Ryan. ‘The donkeys looked safer to me.’

‘You’re braver than me; they looked every bit as lethal as the cable car.’

‘Yes, they were a bit twitchy and fidgety,’ I acknowledge. ‘And it seemed to take forever to get up the cliff path. At one point I was worried I was going to have to dismount and carry the poor donkey.’

He laughs. ‘It was awfully hot there, even for carrying just a scrawny donkey.’

‘Baking. I needed one of your cocktails. When I got to the top I drank three jugs full of iced water.’ Ryan had laughed at me, as I had sprawled against a cooling wall in a shady spot to recover. I had laughed too. Everything seemed so much simpler then. We had been two young people having fun. With difficulty, I drag my thoughts back to the present.

‘Did you always want to be a barman?’ I ask.

‘No, funnily enough I wanted to be a sports therapist. I was all set to go to college. I was looking forward to the course but …’ He breaks off suddenly.

‘But?’

‘Things changed. Greece sounded fun, less responsible. It was easier to run away instead I guess.’

‘You could always go back to it, if it’s really what you want to do. It’s never too late. Our local college has an excellent reputation for Sports Science.’

‘I guess.’ He goes quiet and I worry I’ve touched a nerve.

‘What made you come back from Greece anyway?’ I ask, to change the subject a little.

‘My brother Sam,’ he says simply. ‘And a few other things.’

‘Does he live nearby?’

‘Sort of – he’s about an hour away.’

‘That’s nice. It’s good not to be too far away from family, but maybe not too near either? If my sister Jess lived any closer, it would be a complete nightmare.’

‘I know what you mean.’ He laughs. ‘I’m glad Sam’s around though. He’s about to become a dad.’

‘Exciting – when’s the baby due?’

‘In the next couple of weeks.’

‘Not long then. How’s Sam’s wife doing? It must be stressful in the middle of this whole business?’ I know I would be terrified giving birth in the middle of a lockdown, although I guess it would be exciting as well. This birth would be a small moment in history, a snapshot from a major human drama. Ryan and I had discussed having kids several times. He wanted to have children and so did I, until I was ill that is; it made everything so much more complicated. Now our dreams feel as flimsy and transient as a gossamer-thin spider’s web flickering in a thunderstorm.

‘Tina? Yeah, she’s doing okay, though Sam says she’s driving him mad with frenetic scrubbing of everything in the house. Even the cat’s running scared in case he ends up with a good bathing.’

I laugh. ‘That’s quite normal, as I understand it. My flatmate Erica’s a midwife and she says all sorts of strange behaviour is completely run of the mill when dealing with pregnant women.’

‘From what Sam says, I think she’s right. Tina has insisted on reading Shakespeare to the bump at least once a day as well as the Quantum Theory of Physics – apparently she figures he or she needs to be fully rounded – at the same time as eating mustard and gherkin sandwiches. Most bizarre.’ He pauses a second. ‘Nice for you to have company – when your flatmate’s not at work.’ He sounds envious.

‘Are you on your own up there, then?’ I wonder if he has a girlfriend living with him.

‘Yep, at the moment. I used to have a flatmate but he moved out. I was about to advertise for a new inmate and this all happened.’

‘What a pain – you must be fed up then. How are you coping on your own? I guess at least it’s peaceful?’

‘Yeah maybe a bit too quiet for me,’ he admits.

‘Are you still working?’

‘Nope, the bar’s shut.’

‘Oh, of course.’ I feel really stupid now. ‘Which bar is that?’

‘Soho.’

‘Oh, I know it.’ I’ve been several times with Erica. I wonder whether I might have seen this guy there, amongst the admittedly fit and smartly uniformed barmen. ‘It’s great in there, nice atmosphere.’

‘Yeah it is good, and our cocktails are second to none.’ I can feel the pride in his voice.

‘I can tell.’ I take another sip. ‘I haven’t been in there for ages.’

‘You’ll have to pop in when we’ve reopened.’

‘That would be lovely. I can’t wait to have a night out again with the girls.’

‘It all seems a long time ago now, doesn’t it?’

‘Going on a night out?’

‘Going out at all.’ The raw tone of despair paired with utter resignation in his voice is painful to hear.

‘Are you stuck in then?’

‘Yeah, pretty much.’

‘Oh that sucks.’ I wonder why he’s having to stay in. He must be shielding for some reason, but I don’t like to ask why.

‘Yeah it does. I’ve got kidney disease, so I’m in the high-risk category. Not that I’ve got a letter to prove it or anything. But doctor’s advice. You know how it is.’

‘I do, actually.’ I know all too well. It was with mixed emotions I had read the letter from the hospital.

We would like to inform you that there are no known additional risks associated with catching Covid-19 if you have epilepsy. If, however, you have any concerns, please call the Epilepsy Team.

In spite of this supposedly reassuring letter, I had been in a quandary about work. After all, no one really knows how this virus affects anyone. It’s an unknown quantity, especially for anyone with any kind of underlying condition. For anyone told to shield, it must be terrifying. ‘How are you coping? How are you getting food and stuff?’

‘I’m okay. I managed to get a delivery booked for a couple of weeks’ time.’

‘But what are you going to do until then?’ I’m horrified now.

‘I do have nice chocolate cakes that a kind person sent me.’

I laugh. ‘No, seriously, do you have enough? If you ever need anything …’

‘No, I’m fine.’ I don’t believe him at all. I’m getting the sense that he’s the type of independent guy who doesn’t like to ask for help. It would be admitting weakness. He’s been through a lot by the sound of it; it’s hardly surprising he feels this way.

‘I’m going to Tesco tomorrow. Why don’t you drop me down a list? I bet there must be some things you need.’

‘I did eat my last crust of toast this morning,’ he admits after a pause.

‘Right: bread, what else?’

‘I have a terrible craving for crisps, beef-flavoured ones, and Super Noodles; I love them. But I can’t possibly ask you to get all those things.’

‘Look, it’s nothing. Write me a proper list with everything on it and send it down.’

‘It’s really kind of you – that would be brilliant! But I feel terrible. You’ve already got a lot on your plate.’

‘Honestly, it’s no trouble. I insist.’

‘Okay then. I’m really grateful, thanks. But there’s one thing, other than the fact you must let me give you the money.’

‘That’s fine – what’s the other thing?’

‘If you’re kindly doing some shopping for me, I’d like to at least know your name?’

‘Sophia.’

‘Jack.’

‘Nice to almost meet you, Jack,’ I say – and it is. It really is.

Chapter 4
Jack

I go back inside as Sophia says she needs to go and try to salvage her dinner, but I leave the door to the balcony open, just in case. I like her name; it suits her.

I flick on my iPad and check all the major supermarkets’ delivery slots, but they’ve got nothing sooner than my trusty slot on April 1st. I hope Sophia really is happy to shop for me. I feel bad asking her, but she didn’t seem to mind. I peer in the cupboards and make a list, crisps and peanuts at the top – not that they’re the most important, but at the moment they feel as though they are. Perhaps I should put staples at the top of the list, like bread and noodles and the other stuff at the bottom with a disclaimer: only get if you don’t mind.

I tear off another bit of paper and rewrite the list with little notes next to what’s urgent and what is just an extra luxury. I even add a few illustrations. I survey my handiwork – this is really sad. This is what lockdown does to a chap.

I flick on the iPad and select Dua Lipa’s ‘Physical’, connect to the speaker and crank up the volume. I feel more energised than I have in weeks. It must be the thought of crisps and nuts. I dance around the room, and I almost feel like breakdancing as a sudden wave of unexpected happiness washes over me. Perhaps I should take up some kind of exercise again. My old training rope lies across the back of the sofa, still attached to the Budweiser packet – I could start skipping again. Then again, Sophia might think someone’s coming through the ceiling if I bang about like that. Perhaps I’ll give it a go in the day, while she’s out. I might even do some push-ups. I need to do something to keep fit.

I catch sight of myself in the mirror and want to laugh – my hair has gone crazy. I’m going to have to shave it sometime, given that a trip to the hairdresser isn’t going to happen any time soon.

My phone buzzes round the table.

‘Hi, mate,’ I answer. It’s Dan, my friend from school. Back in the day we used to have some right old laughs. I’m really pleased to hear from him. It’s been a while and I haven’t exactly had much contact from the outside world.

‘Hi, Jack, how you doin’?’

‘Yeah okay, you know … considering.’

‘Matt said you’re having to self-isolate. That’s a right bummer. Mind you, sounds like you’re having a party.’

I turn down Dua Lipa. ‘Thought I’d liven things up a bit.’

‘The party starts at home, right? Reminds me of that night at “Urban Reef” when we all went late-night surfing.’

‘Yeah, Matt miraculously found he could super surf after several beers, until that huge wave totally took him out.’

‘It was brilliant, happy days,’ he says.

‘Feels like another lifetime, mate.’

‘I know. How are you coping on your own?’ he asks.

‘It’s okay I suppose.’ I pause a second. There’s no point in pretending it’s all great when it isn’t. ‘Well not really – it’s boring to be honest and I never thought I’d say this, but I’m a bit lonely. How’s tricks with you?’

‘Complicated.’

‘That doesn’t sound too good. Work not going well?’

‘No, the delivery job’s all right. As long as people keep their distance, and most of them don’t even come out the house. I had someone earlier today who just yelled out the upstairs window to leave the parcel on her car. Makes me feel like I’ve got the plague.’

‘For all they know, you might have,’ I joke.

‘Yeah it’s made everyone pretty fearful … Bad times, mate. Nah, it’s not work that’s the problem.’ He sounds furtive and lowers his voice to a whisper. ‘It’s Rick.’

‘What’s up with him?’ Rick is Dan’s room-mate. We all worked together in the holidays in our first student job down at the local eatery. Rick is a nice enough guy, a real joker, but he can be full on when he gets going.

‘He’s not the problem, exactly. More his girlfriend. Wait a minute.’ He breaks off for a moment. ‘I’m shutting the door – I don’t want them to hear.’

‘I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.’ That’s the other thing about Rick – he’s a bit of a lad. I don’t think he’s ever stuck with anyone for more than a couple of dates. They usually run away and change their number, if not their whole identity by that stage.

‘He didn’t.’

‘I’m confused now.’ I shove in a mouthful of cake; perhaps the chocolate will help my addled brain.

‘He has now, though, and that’s the problem.’

‘Don’t you like her?’ I’m also wondering how he even met someone in the current situation.

‘No, I don’t think anyone does. He must have been totally trashed when he met her.’

‘Surely he can’t see her at the moment anyway? We’re all in lockdown.’

‘That’s the thing: she was a one-night stand and hasn’t gone home since they got together, because the next day the lockdown started.’

This does not surprise me with Rick at all. ‘That’s classic. So you’re all stuck with her.’

Dan sounds cross now. ‘Yes, and she’s the most hideous person ever. Totally obsessive.’

‘Maybe she can’t help that. Anyway, you are a bit of a slob.’

‘But it’s my flat! I didn’t ask to live with her and I really can’t do it. You know my new rugby kit?’

‘Yeah.’ Perhaps I’ll finish that cake. I reach for the rest of it.

‘She’s dyed it.’

‘Dyed it?’

‘Dyed it. Pink.’

I laugh again; I can’t help it. ‘That’s unfortunate.’

‘Unfortunate! It’s a flipping disaster. It cost over a hundred quid and now it’s bright pink. All because she can’t leave anything unwashed or not put away. I can’t find anything. And she is the world’s pickiest eater – except when it comes to my food. I went to the cupboard yesterday and she’d eaten all the Twix.’

‘That is a serious offence, especially at the moment; snacks are like gold dust. Perhaps you should lock them away?’

‘And my beers have all run out because they’re her favourite.’

‘I suppose at least you can go get some more.’ I’m beginning to struggle here. It’s tough having someone grumble about stuff running out when at least he’s able to get out. It’s a basic human right.

‘Not the point though, is it.’ There’s a silence. ‘It’s no good, Jack. I’m going to have to move out.’

‘But where would you go?’ Dan is a bit of a drama queen. Only he could think of flouncing out of his flat in the middle of a lockdown.

‘That’s the thing, I was wondering …’

‘Look, Dan, of course you could crash here if we weren’t in the middle of a lockdown.’

‘I was hoping it might be okay, just for a couple of nights.’

‘It’s not that. I just can’t risk it – I’m meant to be staying in. Can’t even go out for a walk.’ I feel really awkward now.

‘I haven’t really been in contact with many people.’ I hate it when people say things like this. I know Dan has at least seen Rick and this new girl, whoever she is, and we don’t know how many people she sees each day or anything else. The whole situation is so complicated; the risks are incalculable.

‘What, on your delivery rounds?’

‘Yeah, we stay at least a couple of metres away.’

‘I know, mate, but I just can’t risk it,’ I repeat almost as though I’m convincing myself. It would be so nice to have Dan here. We could have a real laugh. It would be someone to watch TV with, help cook, and besides I miss him. I don’t even know when I’m going to see him again. But no, it’s too high a price to pay. ‘I’m really sorry. What about Matt?’

‘I could ask him I s’pose, but he’s a terrible snorer.’

‘Desperate times,’ I say.

Dan has to go after a bit more chat. It’s one of the horrible things about this virus – it puts you in awkward situations where you really want to help, especially people you care about, as well as do something that you know will help your own mental health, but you can’t.

‘Jack?’ I hear a faint voice from outside.

‘Hello?’ I go out on the balcony.

‘I thought you were having a party up there!’ she says.

‘Maybe a small one.’ Okay this is slightly embarrassing. I didn’t know the walls are so thin.

‘I love that song – it’s terrific to dance to. I could hear you having a go.’ I can hear laughter in her voice and I’m glad she can’t see the state of my hair.

‘No comment. The party’s winding down though. I just had to let a good mate down who wanted to come crash here.’

‘Is he being kicked out?’

‘No, but his flatmate’s one-night stand turned into a live-in girlfriend when she couldn’t leave due to lockdown.’

She laughs, a bright bubbly sound. It’s infectious.

‘I guess it is kind of funny.’

‘It’s hilarious. And it’s not like he’s really homeless so you don’t need to feel guilty.’

She’s right actually. I don’t, so I’m not going to.

‘Have you got that list of stuff you’d like?’

‘Sure thing.’ Within minutes I’m lowering down the Budweiser box, my list of requests in it; carefully packaged and stowed away, hanging on to my yellow lifeline, which is swaying gently in the evening breeze.

‘Got it,’ she says.

‘You don’t need to get all of it.’

‘I know,’ she says, ‘but I’ll prioritise the crisps and beef noodles; they’re total necessities.’

Chapter 5
Sophia

Carrying three heavy bags of shopping makes the stairs feel as though they are going on forever; I’m really glad I don’t live on the third floor. Not that I mind doing this for Jack. It must be terrible not being able to go out and get the basic necessities we all take for granted. With a sigh of relief, I reach the top floor and rest for a moment. Only then do I realise I don’t actually know what Jack’s flat number is.

Okay, I tell myself, keep calm; it must be the one above me. I’m three along on the second floor so of course, he must be third flat on the right on the third floor. That makes sense. I think so, anyway, but I don’t actually know. If I went back down to my flat I could call up to him, as I don’t have his number, but that would be a right old faff. I’ll just knock and then stand at an appropriate distance and see who comes to the door. This seems like a plan. I approach the third door along the corridor and knock gently, then stand a couple of metres distant along the corridor and wait with a sense of heightened expectation. I can’t wait to see this guy who I’ve been talking to for the past couple of days.

And wait. Nothing. The long row of depressingly brown doors all stare blankly back at me. I walk forward and knock again, much louder this time. I also call ‘hello?’ for good measure. I hope it is Jack’s flat; what if it’s some poor older person who needs food and thinks all these provisions are for them? I’d have to give them all Jack’s food of course. I have nightmare visions of having to fight my way back into the supermarket, having already queued in a socially distanced manner and then go back round the one-way system all over again.

I really hate one-way systems. I know it’s necessary in this case, but I think there must be, somewhere buried deep within me, a small but vital streak of anarchy, because I really don’t like being told which way I should go round a shop. It feels sort of robotic and soulless somehow. At least in a food shop, they’re not that much fun anyway and during this pandemic I can see the sense behind it. But in IKEA – that’s something else. I’ve been so many times with Jess and insisted on going round the whole store against the direction of the arrows. ‘What is your problem?’ she always joked.

‘I don’t want to go that way,’ I would remark. ‘I need to go and look at the futons and then I must pop down to the Market Hall (who doesn’t just love all the nick-nackadee noodles down there). But who wants to traipse twenty miles extra with everyone in the wrong direction when you could just walk straight there?’ Jess would laugh at me over this, but I’ve always liked to go my own way. Maybe that’s why in the end I was never really cut out for a career in law; it was too predictable and logical. I needed something with more flexibility and creativity. With the kids in school, you simply never know what’s going to happen next.

Speaking of which, I’m not getting anywhere at all, I’m still standing here like a spoon waiting for Jack, or someone, anyone, to open a door. My phone pings in the arrival of a new WhatsApp message.

Hi Sophia, Just wondered how you’re getting on working in a school with all this hoo-ha going on. Marge

Typical Marge, she is obviously itching to hear some gossip about work. Marge is the local neighbourhood busybody who knows everything about everyone. If someone at number 32 dyes her hair, she knows what colour and exactly when they changed it. I’ll never forget the time Erica’s mum came to visit and within minutes Marge appeared asking whose yellow car was parked in the car park, because she didn’t recognise it and thought it might be an intruder. Of course we didn’t believe her for a minute; she spent so much time once she was at the door finding out who Erica’s mum is, what her job is and where she lives. I can’t think how she remembers all the information she accrues, but either way, she’s the only person who might be able to help with my current dilemma.

After a moment’s thought, I reply.

Hope you’re well. (This seems to be obligatory on all messages currently, along with ‘stay well’ or ‘stay safe’, as though it will somehow magically ward off the virus.) Yes, school is different but I’m enjoying working with the kids, they are all coping well. Funny question, but do you know what flat number a young guy called Jack lives at? I think he lives above me but I don’t know the number.

Thank goodness Marge is immediately on it like a car bonnet.

Hi Sophia. You mean the one who works at Soho? Used to live with his mate Chris until he moved out last month.

I told you: she knows everything about everyone.

Yes that’s the one.

He lives in flat 89. The one above you.

Thanks, Marge, you’re a star.

Why do you need to know?

I’m just dropping him off some shopping.

Yes he’s in the vulnerable category because of his kidney. I’d have thought he’d be able to get delivery.

He can’t, they’re all booked. Thought I’d help him out as I was already going to the shop anyway.

Kind of you – how come you know him?

I don’t, just trying to be neighbourly. Thanks again, Marge. Just going to drop it outside his door.

I get off the phone quickly before she asks any more questions. Marge is like the inquisition and has a way of winkling information out of the strongest of people. I am totally hopeless at keeping things to myself; I have this habit of blurting things out before my brain has engaged with my mouth. Also I’m not sure if Jack will want Marge to know all his business, much as she seems to know a lot of it already.

I knock again more confidently this time and call ‘hello’ again for good measure, then stand well back but there’s still no response. There’s nothing else for it; I’ll have to leave the bags on the doorstep. I can always give him a shout from the balcony to let him know I’ve dropped it off. Perhaps he’s in the shower or something. Having placed the bags up against his door, carefully out of the way of the corridor (yes, I do like to worry about everything) I stand and stare momentarily at the plain brown door. It’s kind of strange to think that such a lively outgoing guy is stuck behind this bland boring façade. I give myself a little shake and leg it back down the stairs.

My phone rings as I’m letting myself back in the flat. It’s my mum.

‘Hi, sweetheart, how’s it going?’

‘Fine thanks. I’ve got a day at home so a bit of time to sort some stuff out and prepare activities for the kids tomorrow. How about you?’

‘The surgery has been quieter than usual, to be honest. I think people are more anxious about coming in, not surprisingly. They’ve all been told to stay at home if at all possible.’

‘Maybe not a bad thing, as long as it’s nothing urgent.’

‘That’s the problem,’ she replies. ‘We’re having to keep an eye on our older patients, because they tend to follow the government advice to the letter, even when they need help. Not including Uncle Jim of course.’

‘How is Uncle Jim?’ I’m really fond of the old guy in spite of his idiosyncrasies; he is the last of a dying breed. He might be cantankerous and has always been a bit of a hypochondriac but my mum says he was one of the first to enlist in 1939 to work on oil tankers, one of the most dangerous jobs there was. He was only fifteen and lied about his age so he would be eligible. Pretty brave I think; so you never know about people really.

‘He’s fine, although Jess was worried as he keeps telling us all he has a bad stomach still and has been losing weight. So she phoned the surgery and asked one of my colleagues to call him.’

‘Good idea,’ I say.

‘Well it was,’ my mum says awkwardly. Oh no, what did he do this time?

‘He picked up the phone to Dr Gregor, answered all his questions – did he feel dizzy, was he struggling to eat, et cetera? You know the sort of thing.’

‘Yes,’ I agree, ‘basically all the symptoms Uncle Jim said he was having.’

‘That’s the one,’ says my mum. ‘Well of course Uncle Jim said he hadn’t got any of those issues and was perfectly fine. Seemed surprised the doctor had phoned at all.’

‘How typical!’

‘It was. He’s apparently decided he’s not ill after all.’

‘I don’t understand. Did he just suddenly wake up and feel better?’

Mum laughs. ‘I wish. No, it turns out it’s all because of his neighbour Geoff.’

‘Geoff? Has he become a doctor then?’

‘No, it’s because Geoff had an accident with the hoover and according to Uncle Jim, he hit his wall so hard with it that all his photos fell out of his picture frames and broke.’

‘Uncle Jim’s or Geoff’s?’ I ask.

‘Uncle Jim’s.’

‘That’s sad,’ I say. I hate the idea of his losing his picture frames; his photos mean a great deal to him. ‘Can we get them replaced?’

‘He’s already on it,’ Mum says. ‘Apparently he went down to the picture framers at nine o’clock this morning and was hammering on the door.’

‘But they’re shut,’ I say confused.

‘I know, but Uncle Jim thought they should be open as an essential service. Anyway, the upshot of it is that he’s decided that Geoff shouldn’t be left to do his own cooking and hoovering and has been on to social services and his MP.’

‘Whoa – go Uncle Jim!’

‘Yeah apparently it’s given him a new lease of life and he feels much better. He doesn’t need the doctor any more.’

We both laugh and after we work out how we can get some more picture frames sent to Uncle Jim, my mum rings off. Our conversation about Uncle Jim has made me think. Perhaps everyone’s mental health is better when we have a purpose and feel needed. Especially someone like Uncle Jim who has been hard-working and much valued during his whole working life as an ambulance driver and now he’s been left in a flat with no one needing him, his health has deteriorated.

‘You all right?’ asks Erica, emerging from the shower. She’s been on an early shift today so is around for the evening, which is really nice. I’m hoping we can chill out and watch Love is Blind. We’ll probably Zoom Jess afterwards – we are behind a couple of episodes and have loads of gossip to catch up on.

‘Yeah, fine,’ I say. ‘Just thinking deep philosophical thoughts to myself.’

She laughs. ‘Be careful with them – they’re in a strange place.’

‘Thanks a lot.’ I wander out onto the balcony and listen for a moment. I can’t hear anything up above.

‘Hello?’ I call. I’ve taken to leaving the balcony door open a lot of the time as it’s quite warm for the time of year and in case Jack needs something.

‘Sophia?’

‘Hi, Jack?’

‘Yep, I’m here.’ He sounds a little flustered.

‘Are you all right? I knocked on your door; well at least I think it was your door – I’ve left your shopping outside.’

‘Thanks. Did you knock? I didn’t hear you, I was on the phone.’ He definitely sounds dazed. ‘Sorry, thanks. I mean … it’s just that the baby’s coming.’

‘Right now?’ I ask.

‘Yeah. I was on the phone to Sam. He’s popped out to the waiting room, but at least they’ve let him go in with Tina at the moment. Her contractions started to become regular about 10 p.m. last night. I think they were in the queue for Tesco.’

‘Tesco? At 10 p.m.?’

‘Yeah a bit weird I know, but apparently Tina had a craving for nachos and she was feeling uncomfortable so wanted to take her mind off it.’

‘In the middle of a pandemic?’

‘I know, poor Sam sounded beside himself; said there was no reasoning with her so he just gave in.’

‘Probably the best way,’ remarks Erica, who has joined me on the balcony. ‘How long’s she been in labour?’

Jack hesitates a moment. I call up to him, ‘Jack, this is my friend Erica – she’s a fully qualified midwife so you’re in safe hands!’

‘Hi, Erica!’ he says, sounding more his usual self. ‘I don’t know. Apparently the contractions are every three to four minutes.’ Jack recites this fact as though he has learnt it by heart.

‘Okay, well that means she is probably about six centimetres dilated so she’s still got a way to go until that baby’s going to be born. You can never tell though.’

‘How dilated does she need to be? Sounds horrible.’ Jack is obviously totally traumatised. It almost makes me want to giggle – guys just have no idea what women have to go through. I have a sudden memory of a conversation I’d had with Ryan about having kids when he’d announced we would definitely have at least two, but there’s no way he’d be in the delivery room because he would be too grossed out. What had started out as a lovely dinner in our favourite restaurant had left a very sour taste in my mouth that had nothing to do with the food.

‘Once she’s eight centimetres dilated, she will be ready to give birth,’ Erica confirms.

‘Excuse me,’ an unknown voice floats from seemingly out of nowhere. ‘Do you think you can talk about nice things like flowers or something? I’m trying to eat my dinner.’

‘Oh, sorry,’ I call guiltily. ‘It’s just we’re in the middle of a baby being born.’

‘How fabulous!’ exclaims the voice. ‘Do I need to shimmy across with hot water and towels?’

Erica laughs. ‘Not these days – we’ve moved on a bit since then but thanks.’

‘How very disappointing. Can’t I do something? I’ve always wanted to say I’ve helped deliver a baby.’

‘The baby’s not here,’ shouts Jack from above.

‘I could help make tea or something?’

‘No,’ Jack says, laughing now, ‘it’s my brother’s baby and his wife’s at the hospital.’

‘Shame,’ says the voice, sounding rather crestfallen. ‘And here I was thinking this was my big moment.’

‘Thanks anyway though,’ I say, feeling sorry for the guy. He sounds like a laugh. ‘Where do you live?’

‘In flat 29,’ comes the voice.

‘Hi, nice to meet you, we’re Erica and Sophia – are you on the second floor?’

‘Yeah that’s me.’

‘Well, you must be to the left of us then. Jack, whose brother’s wife Tina is having a baby, is on the third floor. He’s above us.’ This is a bit random; I’m introducing someone I’ve never met to someone I don’t know and have never met. This lockdown just gets weirder by the minute.

‘How fabulous, I love the idea of having a socially distanced meet and greet. Hello, all, I’m Greg at number 29.’

‘Great to nearly meet you, Greg at number 29,’ Erica says.

‘Yeah,’ says Jack, ‘sorry to ruin your tea, mate.’

‘S’all right,’ calls Greg. ‘I’d much rather hear about the baby than most things. Beats the news at the moment anyway.’

‘My phone’s going again,’ we hear, accompanied by a crash from above. ‘I’ve dropped it.’ This is followed by a lot of scuffling and general cursing.

‘You all right up there?’ Erica asks.

‘Yes fine thanks, it’s okay – not smashed.’

‘What a relief,’ comments Greg. ‘I remember dropping my phone down the loo and it was never …’

‘Just a mo, Greg, Jack’s on the phone.’

‘Sorry, guys.’

‘Sam, hello? Yes I know, I dropped the phone.’

Erica and I exchange a smile; he’s in such a tither.

‘He’s almost as bad as some of the dads I have to deal with,’ she whispers.

‘It’s all okay,’ calls down Jack. ‘Sam just popped out to tell me she’s in transition or something like that – sounds as though she’s turning into something else.’

‘In a way, mums do at that point.’ Erica laughs. ‘Women in transition can sometimes become a bit unreasonable because they’re exhausted with the contractions and frustrated because at that point they can’t push … Sorry, Greg!’

‘You’re all right, darlin’,’ he calls. ‘I’m on dessert now and no one puts me off Rocky Road and ice cream.’

‘Ooh I’m so jealous!’ I realise I haven’t had Rocky Road for ages. In fact I’d totally forgotten it existed. Now I come to think about it, I really need Rocky Road back in my life. It’s definitely going on my list next time I have to do the weekly shop.

‘I’d send some across, but I’ve pretty much eaten it all,’ remarks Greg.

This guy is hilarious. I can’t believe I haven’t come across him before when he lives so near.

‘So … basically won’t be long now then?’ asks Jack, bringing our attention back to the current issue.

‘No – the baby might well be born in the next hour or so, although it’s a first-born and they can be unpredictable.’ Erica is matter-of-fact.

‘But I don’t know what to do with myself until then. I’m all over the place,’ says Jack, sounding more restless than one of my reception students.

‘Why don’t you go and grab your shopping from outside the door and then come back and we’ll all have a drink?’ I suggest.

‘Excellent idea.’ We hear Jack walking inside his flat.

‘What can I do to help?’ calls Greg.

‘We could put on some relaxation music, whale sounds or something,’ suggests Erica, although she doesn’t sound too enthused about it.

‘Please don’t.’ I laugh. ‘Whale sounds always make me ridiculously stressed.’ I love relaxation music and have got quite into mindfulness when I get a minute, especially during the lockdown. I find I need it. But whale sounds, they’re like a really horrible eerie shrieking; makes me feel really tense. Who on earth first thought they were relaxing in the first place? Thinking about it, who even discovered whales make a sound, as they’re not discernible by the naked human ear? Even more puzzling, whoever that person was felt it was important to not only encourage other people to listen to the hideous sound, but worse still, that it was necessary to record it for innocent people going about their daily business who would never ordinarily listen to whale noises. It’s worrying really.

Before we can discuss the choice of music any further, the dulcet tones of a saxophone lilt over the edge of the balcony and waft towards us on the afternoon breeze. Erica and I both stand transfixed, wrapped in the chocolate velvetiness of the sound. For a moment we are transported far away into another place, another world where there isn’t a pandemic. A perfect time and place – it’s like a really mellow version of ‘Perfect Day’. Now this is my kind of relaxation music.

‘Is that Greg playing?’ Erica asks peering over the balcony rather pointlessly. She can’t possibly see anything of him, as his flat is to the side of another part of the building, which juts out obliterating the view.

‘I guess it must be, unless he’s put on a CD.’

The music ends and we both feel a sense of regret, bereft almost.

‘Hey, Greg, was that a disc?’

‘No, it was me,’ he replies. ‘I like a bit of a blast on the old sax.’

‘Man, you are talented.’ Jack has obviously returned.

‘It’s just a few notes all thrown together,’ says Greg.

‘Play us something else,’ I urge throwing myself down in a chair and making myself comfortable.

‘I’ve got the rest of the shopping to unpack – I could do with some accompaniment,’ Jack adds. ‘Thanks so much for this, Sophia,’ he calls down. ‘You’re a lifesaver.’

‘Don’t worry; I was going to the shop anyway. You really need to give me a list each week and I’ll sort it.’

‘Yeah she loves shopping,’ says Erica, sarcastically.

‘I hate food shopping,’ retorts Greg. ‘You can go for me too.’

‘Course I will,’ I say.

‘Nah you’re okay.’ He laughs. ‘I’m allowed out – when I’m not at work.’

‘You still working, then?’ Erica asks.

‘There’s no rest for the wicked.’

‘That good, huh?’

‘Yeah, but I love my job, hard though it is sometimes.’

‘Are you a medical worker then?’

‘Not exactly. I’m a carer at the local autism residential college for young people.’

‘Whoa, that’s tough,’ says Erica.

‘It can be, but also really rewarding.’

‘I can imagine,’ I say. ‘Why haven’t they gone home to their families?’

‘Many of them have, but for some it’s just not possible. Either the family don’t want them, or in some cases they desperately do, but can’t cope with them.’

We are all silent for a moment. Lockdown is incredibly tough for so many people and makes difficult situations for many even more complicated. I think of all those who are struggling – those living on their own, people with health conditions, elderly people, the kids in the residential colleges, who already have anxiety and struggle with the complexities of life without a lockdown being thrown into the mix. I feel as though we should be able to do something to help them. I need to think of something, however small, to try to make a difference.

Whilst I stand there, Erica disappears inside to call her mum, and Greg’s saxophone starts again, weaving its magic once more.

I think about the old guy who I often see walking through the courtyard, treading slowly as though he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders.

‘That’s it,’ I say loudly.

‘That’s what?’ I jump, as I hadn’t realised Jack was back out up above.

‘I’ve had an idea.’

‘About what?’

‘Helping people. I’m thinking I could get some messages around on WhatsApp to get in touch with anyone like you who’s struggling with getting shopping, or who’s lonely?’

‘You really are a glutton for punishment.’ He sounds impressed.

‘I know, but I’d hate to be bored.’

‘Like me.’

‘I didn’t mean it like that. You can’t go out – you have an excuse.’

‘That doesn’t really help. I hate it. I feel so powerless.’ His words pull at my heartstrings, but at the same time, I’m amazed how honest he is being about his feelings. Ryan convinced me that all men are emotionally unavailable, but it looks as though maybe he was wrong.

‘There must be something you can do,’ I muse.

‘Like what?’

‘Just give me time. Are you on WhatsApp?’

‘Yeah of course.’

‘What’s your number? I’ll add you.’

I feel kind of excited about this. I might get to see what Jack looks like. I’m not shallow, I’m really not, but it would be nice to see him so I can put a face to the name.

Jack tells me his number and I pop it in, a feeling of exhilaration rising up in me, which I can’t quite quash.

His number bings up. Hi Sophia, thanks for inviting me to the group!

I quickly press on his profile picture. It’s of a flipping cocktail. I don’t believe it. It’s a very attractive one, but even so.

Give me some time and I’m going to think of some stuff you can do to get involved. Meanwhile, enjoy having a break! I message back and press send. This is kind of sad, messaging when we’re able to call up or down to each other. But he can get hold of me when he needs to now, and somehow that’s strangely reassuring.

‘So you can message me any more shopping lists direct,’ I say, pocketing my phone.

‘Great. I’ve already started scoffing the crisps. They are just the best. Can I pass you some down?’

‘No I’m good thanks. I’m on the hard stuff: Dairy Milk.’

‘Sam’s calling,’ Jack says, suddenly sounding really tense.

‘Go answer it!’

‘Have I missed anything?’ asks Greg, who has stopped playing and is obviously intrigued.

‘That baby must be on its way by now,’ Erica says, reappearing with a couple of glasses of ice-cold wine.

‘I don’t normally drink on a week night,’ I protest.

‘You have to celebrate,’ calls Greg. ‘Unless of course it’s not born for another day or two.’

‘He or she will be along before then,’ Erica says. ‘First babies may be late, but once they start coming there’s no stopping them.’

‘Thanks for that,’ says Greg. ‘In that case, I’m breaking out the scotch.’

‘She’s here!’ Jack cries, interrupting our conflab on the ins and outs of childbirth, but his voice cracks and he breaks off, clearing his throat. ‘The baby’s here. It’s a girl.’

‘Wonderful,’ I shout in delight, torn between tears and laughter. Jack is making it sound as though he’s the father in the birthing room.

‘Congratulations, Uncle Jack,’ Erica tells him. ‘What’s her name?’

‘Yes, we must know the name,’ calls Greg, his enthusiasm for the whole situation makes me smile.

‘Carrie Elizabeth,’ Jack manages to say. It sounds suspiciously as though he’s crying. ‘Sorry, guys, I’m just a bit emotional.’

‘Take your time,’ Erica says. ‘Babies can make you feel like that.’

‘They don’t usually.’ Jack laughs. His voice sounds stronger now.

‘I love her name. Carrie is gorgeous – it’s unusual,’ I say. ‘How’s Tina?’

‘And Sam?’ asks Erica. ‘Dads are often totally exhausted by the whole process, as you can imagine!’

‘I’m totally exhausted just hearing about it,’ jokes Greg.

‘They’re all doing really well. He’s sent some pictures. I must show you.’

Within minutes, thanks to the wonders of technology, we are all admiring a tiny pink-faced bundle, her eyes, two gossamer slender curved lines, edged by fairy-tale-long lashes and a tiny rosebud mouth.

Greg bursts into ‘All That She Wants Is Another Baby,’ on the sax.

‘Have you got a drink, Jack?’ I ask.

‘You bet,’ he says. ‘Well … here’s to Carrie.’

‘To Carrie,’ we all echo from our individual balconies. Toasting a tiny little miracle, born in the most trying of circumstances. We sip our drinks and bask momentarily in the warmth and happiness that only the hopeful joy of a new birth can create, along with a shared sense of feeling amongst those who otherwise must stay apart.

Конец ознакомительного фрагмента.

Текст предоставлен ООО «ЛитРес».

Прочитайте эту книгу целиком, купив полную легальную версию на ЛитРес.

Безопасно оплатить книгу можно банковской картой Visa, MasterCard, Maestro, со счета мобильного телефона, с платежного терминала, в салоне МТС или Связной, через PayPal, WebMoney, Яндекс.Деньги, QIWI Кошелек, бонусными картами или другим удобным Вам способом.