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, do you realize how serious this is?”
“Absolutely,” I reassure him, but instead of sounding sincere, it comes off as fake, like I’m trying too hard. Condescending, even.
Shit. I try again. “I get it. I do, but look, the 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. But then the frown returns, and he tells me sternly, “You know you’re not supposed to be traveling unnecessarily, don’t you?”
Damn it.
“Well, I mean . . . couldn’t you just . . . ”
I look longingly over my shoulder at the door. At the muddy path on the other side of the glass, the washed-out flower beds with the droopy rosebushes and brightly colored petunias. Freedom—so close I can almost taste it, and yet . . .
And yet all I can taste is my own morning breath and pepperoni pizza.
Which is not as great now as it was two minutes ago.
What are the odds I can snatch his keys off his belt and unlock the door before he catches me? Hmm, pretty nonexistent. Or what if I just run really hard and really fast at the door? Maybe I could smash the window with one of my heels? Ooh! Could I hypnotize him into letting me out of here? I could definitely give it a go. I’ve seen a few clips of Derren Brown on YouTube.
“Seven-day quarantine,” my jailer tells me. “I’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 for all the residents 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 management and end up evicted?”
Okay, fine, well done. 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 as though 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 grocery 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.”
*
I trudge slowly, grudgingly, back up the stairs. My shoes are pinching my toes, so I take them off, slinging the straps over my index finger to carry them. Mr. Junk Mail stays downstairs to scrub down the door I just put my grubby hands all over, almost like he’s warding me off, making sure I don’t try to leave again.
What the hell am I supposed to do now?
Ugh.
I know exactly what I’m supposed to do now.
But still, I hope for the teeniest bit of luck as I jiggle the handle for Apartment 14.
Locked.
Obviously.
Weighing up my options, I finally sit down on the plain tan door-mat, my back against the door, and press my hands over my face.
This is what I get for ignoring all the advice.
Not so much the stay home stuff (although that, too) so much as the You’re not in university anymore, Immy, stop acting like it advice—from my parents, my friends, my boss, hell, even my little brothers.
As I always say, who needs to grow up when you can have fun?
This, however, is decidedly not fun.
My only option is to do exactly what I would’ve done back in university: phone my bestie.
Despite the early hour, Lucy answers with a quiet but curt, “What have you done this time?”
“Heyyy, Luce . . . ”
“How much do you need, Immy?”
“What makes you think I need money? What makes you think I’ve done anything?” I ask with mock offense, clutching a hand to my heart for dramatic effect, even though she can’t see me. And even though I can’t see her, I absolutely know she’s rolling her eyes when she gives that long, low sigh. “Although, all right, I am in . . . the littlest spot of trouble.”
“Did you forget to cancel a free trial?”
Lucy’s so used to my shit by now that she knows how melodramatic I can be over something like that—melodramatic enough to warrant an early-morning phone call like this.
But, alas.
I open my mouth to tell her I’m stuck with Honeypot Guy, the guy I’ve been messaging for the last week or so, whom she specifically told me not to go see because there’s maybe a pandemic, and now I’m stuck quarantined in his building and I only have the one pair of underwear and I didn’t even bring a toothbrush with me and . . .
And I hate admitting how right Lucy always is.
Even if, technically, this is all her fault, because she was too busy with some stupid wedding planning party last night to answer her phone and talk me out of going to see the guy in the first place. So I decided to go, and not tell her about it until I was safely back at home, just to prove a point about how she always makes a big deal out of nothing, how she worries too much.
“Oh Jesus Christ, you went to see him, didn’t you? Honeypot?”
I cannot tell her the truth.
At least, not yet.
“No! No, no, of course I didn’t,” I blurt, even though I fully expect her to see right through me. “I, um, I’m just . . . well, look, so, the thing is . . . ”
I don’t like lying to my best friend—to anybody, really, if I can help it. If anything, I’m a total oversharer. But I decide this is for the greater good. I mean, really, I’m just doing her a favor, right? If she knew, she’d only spend the week worrying and stressing about me. I’m just sparing her that.
Lucy cuts me off with a sigh, understanding that whatever it is, it’s a bit more than the usual mischief I get myself into, and she says, “Oh, you’re properly fucked this time, aren’t you?”
“Thanks, Luce.”
Thankfully, she doesn’t push me for answers. “How’s your overdraft?”
“Not great.”
“Did you run up your credit card again this month?”
“A little bit.”
We both know that actually means “almost completely.”
“Will a hundred quid cover it, Immy?”
“I love you.”
“I’ll add it to your tab,” she tells me, and I know she’s smiling. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
“Oh, you know me!” I say, laughing. I’m weirdly relieved that being quarantined with a one-night stand isn’t the craziest thing that’s happened to me in the last month or so. It’s definitely not as bad as the night out where I climbed onstage to challenge the headlining drag queen to a lip sync battle, is it? “I’ll work it out. Just . . . yeah. Thanks again, Luce. I’ll tell you everything when I see you next.”