Lockdown on London Lane

We’re not especially close, I guess, but I’d call him a friend. Nate moved in here a year ago. Charlotte thought we should introduce ourselves when we noticed him tromping up and down the stairs, carrying boxes and suitcases of stuff; I ended up helping him move in. We go to the pub together every so often; Charlotte even set him up on a date with one of her friends, a couple of months ago, although that was a short-lived romance.

I assume he’s here because he needs to, I don’t know, borrow some toilet paper or something, and he can’t leave to go grocery shopping or wait for a delivery.

I do not expect him to open his mouth and rattle off some story about how there’s a random girl in his apartment he hooked up with on Saturday night, and, “I know I shouldn’t have invited her over, but . . . you didn’t see the way she was texting me, you know?”

“What, like, sexts?”

“No! No, nothing like that. Just . . . she had me hook, line, and sinker, that’s all. It was like she really got me, like we had a connection, which I know sounds totally pathetic because we matched on a dating app and we’ve only been talking for a few days. And she didn’t even remember my name! But I said sure, come on over, which is fucking crazy, right?”

“Uh, sure,” I say, because that’s obviously what he wants to hear.

Nate paces a few steps in a circle outside my door, and drags a hand back and forth through his hair.

“So she’s still here?” I ask. “Like, in your apartment, still here?”

“Yeah.”

“I mean, kudos on setting the record for the longest one-night stand anybody’s ever had.”

He laughs, but it turns quickly into a groan, and Nate bends double, arms wrapping around his head before he straightens back up again. “Can I ask you a crazy big favor?”

“She’s not staying here,” I tell him, and then add, “You’re not staying here.”

Nate scoffs, shrugging one shoulder. “No, can I—look, she’s literally only got the one outfit. You can say no, I swear, I just figured I’d take my chance asking, but you think I could borrow some of Charlotte’s clothes? Imogen’s taller, but she’s skinnier, so I figure that must even out a little, right? And honestly, man, I don’t know how I’m supposed to sit on a call doing work with her lying on the sofa in one of my shirts and her underwear with her legs out and her ASOS order won’t arrive till Wednesday and—please, dude, you’ve gotta help me.”

“The sex was that good, huh?” I tease.

Nate just shakes his head. “She’s . . . I don’t know. She’s like one of those people that makes you want to pack a bag and go travel the world, forget you have any responsibilities or that real life even exists, you know?”

“Not really.”

“I just need her to at least look normal, so I’m not suddenly inspired to quit my job and decide to go look after baby elephants in Thailand, that’s all.”

“Do you want to go look after elephants in Thailand?”

“I really, really don’t,” he tells me gravely.

I laugh. “Let me ask Charlotte, but I can’t see it’ll be a problem.”

“Thank you. Thank you. Wait, where is she, anyway?”

After explaining that she’s locked out for as long as we’re locked in, I call Charlotte. She makes Nate send her a photo of his week-long one-night stand, and then she gives me strict instructions on which few items of clothes I’m to hand over that she thinks will fit Nate’s houseguest.

“We’ll send you the dry-cleaning bill,” I joke. “Give us a shout if you need anything else, okay?”

He makes a show of peering past me, squinting at the shelf of action figures in the hallway, the cool minimalist Marvel movie posters. “Unless you’ve got a working TARDIS in there to stop me inviting her over on Saturday night . . . ”

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks,” he says. “I’m gonna need it.”

Yeah, you and me both, buddy.





apartment #14 – imogen





Chapter Eight


Nate is clean.

Objectively, this is a good thing. Especially during a pandemic. When I got here on Saturday night, I breathed a sigh of relief.

It’s never attractive when you’re picking your way through sweaty, dirty socks and old take-out containers, and a layer of grime clings to everything. It really puts a dampener on the sexy mood you’ve been building so carefully. (Not that plain beige walls and a lack of artwork or any real character are very sexy, either, but definitely the better option.)

However, it’s also not particularly attractive to be told to take the hair out of the plug in the shower and have the guy lurking in the doorway to make sure you do it properly. He’s on his lunch break; I got up late and have only just taken a shower.

Nate sighs.

In the single day into our week of quarantine, I have lost count of the number of times he has sighed. Because I didn’t use a coaster for a cup of tea. Because I put a glass on the floor, and again because I forgot about it and kicked it over, spilling water on the rug. Because I made a sandwich and got crumbs in the butter, and on the counter.

And now, apparently, because a few strands of hair missed the memo that they’re supposed to stay attached to my scalp while I’m here.

It was obvious as soon as I got here that Nate is a minimalist. There was no clutter anywhere, not so much as a candle or coffee table book to jazz the space up a little. An orderly bookcase in the hallway and another in the living-room space, a dark TV stand that I could only assume hid a mess of wires and his stuff. I mean, jeez, he only had one bottle of shampoo in the shower! Where were the half-dozen

“almost finished but there’s still a bit left and I’ll get around to using it at some point so don’t throw it away yet” shampoo bottles? He did, at least, have a blanket on the sofa, a couple of snake plants, and a nice navy-blue feature wall in both the living room/dining room and his bedroom, which made it less boring.

Minimalists are a mystery to me, but I can handle it.

The intense tidiness, not so much.

“You’re a neat freak,” I tell him, wrapping the wad of my wet hair in some toilet paper and tossing it in the bin.

“And you’re sloppy,” he bites back. He turns away, muttering under his breath, “Glad I’m not stuck at your place.”

I know he didn’t mean for me to hear that, but I bristle, glowering at his back. So what if the walls in my place aren’t a nice, boring shade of magnolia, and maybe have a couple of damp spots under the wall - paper in some rooms? Mr. High-and-Mighty who probably dusts the skirting boards and doesn’t have a single expired product in the fridge.

I pull a few faces at him but decide not to say anything. I probably shouldn’t pick a fight with Nate when he’s being generous enough to let me stay here for the week.

Not that he’s got a choice, but he has been very decent about the whole thing.

He also let me order some extra clothes on his credit card because mine is maxed out, and he told me he wouldn’t take any money off me for the food delivery order he managed to get. Which was really sweet of him, actually.

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