Lockdown on London Lane is now a print book! Grab yours today!

Here it is! The first story in Lockdown on London Lane. (It's worth saying this is just a first draft, so please don't expect it to be anywhere near perfect...) But anyway - I hope you enjoy it!

It's starting to get light out. There's a knee digging into my thigh. I rub a hand over my face and start to peel myself out of the bed, hissing when I find out his arm's pinning down my hair. I bunch my hair up into a ponytail to slowly, inch by inch, ease it free.

The mattress creaks when I sit up, but... Nigel? snorts in his sleep, still totally out of it.

I glance over my shoulder at him.

Still cuter than his profile picture, I think, even with a line of drool down his chin.

"This has been fun," I whisper, even though he's fast asleep. I blow him a kiss and creep across the bedroom, silently wriggling into my jeans. I look at the t-shirt of his I 'borrowed' to sleep in. It's a Ramones one, but it feels genuinely vintage, not just some £5 Primark version. Actually, it's really goddamn comfortable. And cute, I think, catching a glance of myself in the mirror leaning against the far wall. Oversized, but not in a way that makes me look like a little kid playing dress up. I tuck it into the front of my jeans, admiring the effect.

Oh, yeah, that's cute.

Sorry, Neil. (Neil?) This shirt is mine now.

I collect my own t-shirt and bra from the bedroom floor, tiptoeing into the open-plan living room/diner. Where'd I leave my bag? Wasn't it... Aha, there it is! And my coat, too. I stuff my clothes into my bag, then look around for my shoes.

Where did I leave those?

Oh my God, no, I remember. He made me leave them outside, saying they looked muddy. Like it was my fault it rained last night and the pathway up to the apartment block was covered in mud from the flowerbeds. And I'd joked that they were Prada and if someone stole them, this had better be worth it, even though I'd bought them on sale on ASOS.

I do a final sweep, just to make sure I got everything. Phone, check, house key... yep, in my bag...

I hesitate, then do a quick dash back to the dining table to nab a slice of leftover pepperoni pizza.

Breakfast of champions.

I step over some junk mail as I sneak out of the front door. It can't be later than about seven o'clock – who the hell delivers junk mail that early in the morning, I wonder?

My shoes are exactly where I left them.

And, alright, in fairness, they do look like I trekked through a farmyard. I really can't blame him for making me take them off outside the flat. I'm gonna have to clean them up when I get home.

I hold the slice of pizza between my teeth as I wriggle my feet into them, and ew, they're soggy, and then I slip my coat on.

Okay, good to go!

I take the stairs to the ground floor, munching on my pizza and already on the Uber app to get myself a car home. These shoes are cute, but not really made for a walk of shame.

"Excuse me, miss?"

Despite there being nobody else around, I don't realise the voice is talking to me until they say, "Hey, Ramones!"

I turn around, finding a tired, stressed-looking guy with a handful of leaflets. Mr Junk Mail, I'm assuming. He's wearing a mask over his mouth.

"Thanks, mate, but I'm not interested," I tell him, and make for the door.

Except when I push it open, it... doesn't.

I grab the big steel handle and yank, and push, and rattle, but the door stays firmly locked.

What the fuck?

Oh my God, this is how I die. A one-night-stand and a psycho serial killer peddling leaflets. Please, please don't let anybody put that as cause of death on my gravestone.

"Miss, you can't leave," the man tells me wearily. "Didn't you get the note?"

"What note? What are you talking about?"

I turn to him, my phone clutched in my hand. Should I call the police? My mum? The Uber driver?

The man sighs again, stepping towards me, but keeping a good distance. Like me, there's a rumpled look about him – but more like he rushed out of the house this morning, not like he's just heading home. There's a huge ring of keys hanging from his belt. Then I clock the blue latex gloves he's wearing, and get a sinking feeling in my stomach.

"We got a confirmed case from one of the residents. The whole building's on lockdown. That door doesn't open except for medical needs or food deliveries."

I stare at him, all too aware of my mouth hanging open. After a while, he shrugs, in that, What can you do? kind of way.

It's a joke, I realise.

It's got to be a joke.

I let out an awkward laugh, my lips stretching into a smile. "Right. Right, yeah, good one. Look, um, totally get it, real serious, but... can you just... you know, use one of those keys, let me out of here? Cross my heart I'll be super careful. Look, hey, I'll even cancel my Uber and walk, how about that?"

The guy frowns at me. "Miss, you realise how serious this is, don't you?"

"Absolutely," I reassure him, but instead of sincere it just comes off as try-hard, and fake. Condescending, even. Shit. I try again. "I get it, I do, but... Look, thing is, I was just... visiting someone? So... I shouldn't... really be here right now? And I kind of have to get home?"

There's a flicker of sympathy on his face and I let myself get excited at having won him over, and convinced him to let me leave. But then the frown returns and he tells me sternly, "You know you're not supposed to be travelling unnecessarily, don't you?"

Bugger.

"Well... I mean... Couldn't you just..."

I look over my shoulder, longingly, at the door. At the muddy path on the other side of it, the washed-out flower beds with the droopy daffodils and brightly-coloured pansies. Freedom, so close I can almost taste it, and yet...

Yet all I can taste is my own morning breath and pepperoni pizza.

Which is not as great as it was two minutes ago.

"Seven-day quarantine. We've got to deep-clean all the communal spaces. Anyone could be infected, and unless you're going to tell me you've got fifty-odd tests in that bag of yours, nobody's going anywhere. Believe me, this is no fun for me, either. You think I want to be playing security guard all day long, just so I don't get fired by building management and end up evicted?"

Okay, fine, well done, I think. Congrats, Mr Junk Mail, I officially feel sorry for you.

"But..."

"Listen, all I can suggest is you go back to your friend" – I appreciate that he says 'friend' like, you know, we're talking about an actual friend here, when it's so obvious that's not the case – "and see if you can get a Tesco delivery slot, and maybe one from Topshop or whatever, see you through the next week. But unless you need to go to a hospital, you're stuck here."