Thursday, 26 March 2020

"Yo, Auntie Sophs!"

Darla called me as I was getting out of the shower. Work preparation only took me 15 minutes instead of an hour these days. As I wasn't going into an office, what was the point? The full-on make-up and hair styling waited until the afternoon just before Tom was due back.

"What do you want?" I asked Darla. As if I don't know. She'd sent me hundreds of messages since Monday, all of them punctuated with multiple exclamation marks and emojis. My responses, 'fine' and 'good' could not have been descriptive enough for her.

"So, the Irishman is in your house and in your bed. He's, like, super fit. I chose well, didn't I? What's he like? Spill."

"Away you go! I'm not sharing the secrets of my sex life with you, Ms Precocious!"

There was nothing to share, anyway—the chaste Sunday night, the early goodbyes on Monday morning and Tom's return to the house later that day.

Upstairs in the third bedroom, which doubled up as my office, I'd drifted downstairs at five o'clock when Tom turned the TV on. The familiar BBC colours—red and white flashed up as the newsreader told us the Prime Minister was about to appear.

"Ready? Because I think this is it," Tom said, as I settled on the couch next to him. "The big announcement."

He squeezed my leg. "The point of no return."

And yes, he was right. Boris levelled with us. Told us coronavirus was the biggest threat our country had faced for decades. There needed to be a huge national effort to halt its growth. If too many people became unwell, the NHS wouldn't be able to handle it, meaning more people would die.

Huge numbers, he added, were already staying at home. But the time had come where we were only allowed to leave our homes to shop for necessities as infrequently as possible, one form of exercise a day alone or with members of our household, medical needs or to provide care or help to a vulnerable person or to travel to and from work but only if that work couldn't be done from home.

We stared at each other. "The point of no return. Me, a clean freak who's older than you thought. Still want to stay?" I asked, my tone light, my heart serious. Earlier that day, I'd been drawn to the window—looking out at the precise moment Tom turned into the street. At the gate, I fancied I saw him smile to himself as he opened it. As overjoyed as I was that he was living here...?

"Still want me to?" he replied. "Me, a humble postie who wants to wait a bit until we sleep with each other and who criticises your cooking."

That earned him a play thump. But when he hugged me, the alternative—the ghost of Sophie's past, flashed in front of me. Cold, sterile, days, weeks, the months the same. Tom changed channel, declaring he wanted something cheerier to watch and settled on an old Simpsons episode.

"Fuck. You never told me you were a Simpsons' fan. Permission to change my mind?!"

I rose from the seat, Tom yanking me backdown beside him. "No! You're stuck with me. For four weeks at least. Sorry!"

Four weeks ended on... Monday 13th April. At which point, he might pack his bags and flee.

NO! An instinctive reaction. The man I barely knew. Who was yet to discover so many things about me.

"Why not? Please tell me everything, Aunt Sophs, I'm so booooorrrrreeedd," Darla said now. "Nothing to do. Nowhere to go. The mother-ship hovering over me all the time. It's driving me insane."

After scooping up a first at university, Josie had worked herself to the top of the corporate tree and expected her offspring to follow her example. The private school Darla attended had moved into online mode super-fast—fearful that otherwise, parents might not feel paying the full fees was justified.

Josie would march into her daughter's bedroom every morning, yank the duvet off her bed and stand over Darla until she was up, dressed and sitting in front of her iMac ready to learn and study.

"Alright then. Tom is very nice. He's offered to take over the cooking and I enjoy having him here."

"Woah, Aunt Sophs—the deets? What does 'very nice' mean? Dynamite between the sheets? And is he taking over the cooking because you're such a terrible one?"

"I'm not!"

"You are, Aunt Sophs. Nothing processed and artificial. No salt. Only a tiny bit of fat. Every dish no more than 500 calories."

I rolled my eyes. At 16, Darla took her amazing metabolism and unblemished skin for granted. Just because she and her friends could buy themselves a burger and chips for lunch and wolf down a tray of Krispy Kremes an hour later, they assumed it was normal to eat that way.

"What's that tattoo on his arm? I saw it on the Instagram pics. Looks as if it goes over his chest. A dragon, right? Have you—"

"Darla!" My first work conference call was due to start in 15 minutes and I was yet to get dressed or have breakfast.

"Whatever. Spoilsport! Worst auntie in the world. Mum wants to meet Tom via Zoom or Skype. She told Dad last night. According to her, if you've moved in with a guy, you should introduce him to your family. Expect email instructions from her anytime over the weekend."

Urgh. And no way.

"It's too soon!"

"Can I meet him, like on FaceTime or something?" she wheedled. "I won't tell Mum. Or how about I do tell her, I think he's cool/not about to murder you and she doesn't need to meet him?"

Too tempting. I sighed. "I'll think about it. Bye, Darla. I need to go. Stay safe."

She gave it a second.

"The mother ship has connections in the police, y'know. She's done it before. Checked someone out to see if they have a criminal record. Did it with this guy I was messaging on Snapchat. You didn't tell her Tom's second name, did you?"

"No. Credit me with some sense."

"There's nothing wrong with him, is there?"

"No, of course there isn't."

Wasn't. But as I hung up, I couldn't stop the prickle of unease. What might Josie find out?

*****

Friday, 27 March 2020

As it had the previous five mornings, Tom's alarm had woken four hours earlier to allow him to get up early enough to schlepp across the city to the main sorting office in Glasgow's east end. The patch he covered was near there too.

Across the hallway, I listened as the shower in the ensuite in the room I'd given Tom started up. It gave me the chance to leap up, dart into my bathroom, brush my teeth and hair, apply a subtle amount of eyeliner so my eyes didn't look piggy (old), face powder so I didn't look blotchy (old) and jump back into bed to complete the 'yes, I wake up like this!' look—a habit that was now routine.

Five minutes later, he stuck his head around the door and whispered the words, "I'm off," keeping it quiet in case I hadn't woken up.

Not a chance.

I rolled over and smiled. Tom's postie uniform was one of the modern interpretations—a Royal Mail red hoodie worn over blue canvas shorts that stopped shy of his knees, thick socks that had already started to slide down his legs, and dusty brown boots.

Once upon a time, Jack Nicholson and Jessica Lange starred in The Postman Always Rings Twice, which featured a much watched and commented scene where they had sex on the kitchen table. I super-imposed Tom's much more agreeable face onto Jack Nicholson's head and sighed to myself.

My five-minute prep when Tom's alarm had sounded included changing into a camisole top, one shoestring strap sliding off my shoulder. I did my best Marilyn Monroe pout when he came in, puckering up my lips. The smell of a lemony-pine cones shower gel accompanied him as he walked over. When he bent to kiss me, I hooked an arm around his neck, breathing in the shower gel warm skin scent.

"Stay safe out there!"

"You too! Don't spill anything."

At that he pecked me on the lips and drew back, a wide smile splitting his face in two. As his footsteps faded out of hearing, I threw my head back on the pillow and groaned. The waiting was killing me—a libido revved up and nowhere to go.

When I logged into the university's server half an hour later, the attempt took me far longer than usual. The system must be under strain as tens of thousands of us, as opposed to the usual hundreds, attempted to connect remotely.

The first email that greeted me made me groan. My boss had decided the lockdown presented the perfect opportunity for us to "take a step back and discuss our visions and values, and how we can apply them to make our impact at this time meaningful".

Other than that, panic-stricken emails flooded my inbox as the long-term implications of the pandemic hit people. How on earth was the university going to maintain its funding streams and the vast number of people it employed...?

And you, the voice in my head whispered, do not need to work...

My personal inbox held no more horrors, such as any further attempts by Richard to get in touch. What impeccable timing he'd shown. Crawl back under the rock you came out of, I whispered. And don't ruin this precious thing Tom and I have.

When the front door opened five hours later, I jumped up, relieved, and made my way downstairs.

"Hey!"

Bent over to remove the Timberland boots that kept his feet warm and dry through all the traipsing of the streets, Tom glanced up as soon as he saw me.

"Er, I'm about to strip off. In case there are tiny droplets clinging to me..." He pointed at the large plastic crate he'd dumped on the floor in front of him.

The official recommendations for key workers who lived with someone was that they removed all clothing as soon as they came into the house. The workwear the virus might contaminate through inadvertent contact with those carrying it could then be bunged straight into the washing machine at a high temperature.

Until now, he'd done this in the utility room. My day had been taken up by a four-hour video-conferencing call, stultifying boredom setting in after three minutes. I craved entertainment.

"Be my guest," I said, grinning at him, folding my arms and leaning against the doorway.

Tom's eyes met mine—challenge understood and accepted. He unzipped the red hoodie top super slowly while humming Dave Rose's The Stripper so authentically, I heard the clash of cymbals as he peeled off clothing and tossed them into the air using his foot.

Oh, my imagination had run riot when I conjured up visions of him naked, but I hadn't done him justice. Tom wasn't ripped, but his body was the product of a job where he spent the bulk of his time on his feet, lean and ribby. That tattoo and the shoulder blades stood out sharply, his physique angular all over—sharp elbows and bony knees. It drew attention to his face—those eyes much more startling when you saw them on top of an almost naked body.

He stopped at the boxers, fingers pulling the elastic out. "Better not, eh?"

I sighed. No, better not. Especially as I could tell he was as excited as I was—the evidence proclaiming itself loud and clear.

"And I ought to get back to work. I finish at five—um, can you entertain yourself until then?"

Another grin, me returning it. I'd made 'entertain yourself' sound filthy and the sparkling eyes told me he understood it even if he was doing his best to resist what we both wanted to do at that precise moment.

"No problem. Go earn your crust."

But I stayed there, so he had to brush past me on his way upstairs to the spare bedroom. And I allowed my eyes to linger on his arse as he ran up them two at a time.

Work finished at five, I headed for the living room where Tom was glued to the news. "The prime minister's tested positive," he said, pointing at the screen.

"Good god. What does that mean?" I perched on the sofa arm.

"He says he's going to carry on with his job but self-isolate at Downing Street."

"And... what are the case numbers now?"

By which I meant, deaths.

"Coming close to 3,500. Deaths at three hundred and—"

Tom's phone went—the shrill of an old-fashioned ringing tone cutting through and making us both jump. He glanced at the screen.

"Me mother. D'you mind...?"

"Not at all."

I got up and left him to it, the words, "Sorry, I've been busy, Mam," audible just before I closed the living room door behind me. She'd phoned a few times.

In the kitchen, he'd kept himself busy starting the prep for whatever he was making for dinner. Plates littered the surfaces, flour dusted the floor, half-opened packets spilling contents onto my counters and table, and there were marks near the sink.

Oh well. I swallowed irritation. Congratulated myself on surviving five days of the living together experiment without letting Tom's habitual untidiness annoy me. Bigger things to worry about, right? Not least what was going on in the world. And the tidying up would keep me busy while he chatted to his mother.

A pot bubbled on the stove, its contents starting to stick to the bottom. If whatever was in it—a stew or pie filling by the looks of it—needed anything else added, shouldn't I ask?

The door to the living room had needed fixed for some time. The mechanism sprung open unless you held up the handle firmly to keep it closed. As such, the door had opened two inches. Tom's voice sang out loud and clear.

"Should see the size of the place, Liam!"

Not Tom's mum.

"Me flat would fit in here three or four times!"

I blinked. Josie's warning once more—he'll have Googled you, you fool.

Silence. Liam, whoever Liam was, must be talking. Tom's responses, the odd "uh-huh", "I know".

His tone changed. Not so jokey now. "No, I haven't told her. But I will. Ting is Liam... I've never felt like this about anyone. It's... dunno. I can't describe it. The whole not sleeping with her is killing me, but I have me reasons."

More advice from Liam. Hopefully, wise counsel where he told Tom to overcome his scruples and leap on top of me, anyway.

I crept away as quietly as possible, elated and concerned at the same time.

'Never felt like this about anyone'. Yes, punch the air. 'I haven't told her, but I will'.

Two people keeping secrets, then.

AUTHOR'S NOTES - I wrote this story when the lockdown started in the UK and Zoom calls were a novelty. Didn't take them long to become completely tedious, eh?!