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?’