“Not like you were planning on wearing clothes much?”
I blush, but Serena only laughs.
“Puppy love. God, I miss that. Just seeing them and wanting to rip their clothes off.”
I’m not sure what stops me from correcting her about the “puppy love,” or saying it’s not actually all that rosy with us at the minute, but I know I’ve painted a great picture on Instagram the last few days and I’d feel stupid for contradicting that, so just smile instead. “Yeah! It’s been pretty great. I think it’ll be really good for us and our relationship. Really help us get to know each other better.”
Serena smiles, looking a little sorry for me. We’re not close, but I get the impression she suspects I’m stretching the truth a little.
“Well, your guy looks pretty built, but if you want I can lend you some of Zach’s T-shirts and joggers. God knows he’s got enough of them, he won’t mind. If you want. If it’s helpful, I mean.”
“No! That’d—gosh, thanks. That’d be really lovely. Thank you.”
We smile softly at each other and lapse back into silence. It might be the longest conversation we’ve ever had, and it makes me think that I really should make more of an effort with my neighbors.
And then Mr. Harris comes back inside and grumbles loudly,
“Bloody hell, no wonder everyone’s up in arms because they can’t buy pasta. You must’ve bought all the penne in the country here, Number Fifteen. Leave some for the rest of us, eh?”
I scoff. “Try telling that to my boyfriend.”
apartment #14 – imogen
Chapter Seventeen
Nate’s phone pings and I glance up from my own over to the small dining table he’s currently working at. I’m so bored, I even found the exact make and model of that dining table on the IKEA website. And the chairs too. And his TV stand.
I am bored.
He waves his phone at me. “That’s your ASOS order. Apparently it’s just been delivered.”
“Oh! Amazing.”
I never knew I’d be so happy to get a multipack of basic black briefs.
Until now I’ve been alternating between my underwear (and then handwashing them in the sink, rather than waiting for him to have an entire load of laundry) and a pair of Nate’s boxer shorts. Because, I’m sorry, but I slept with him, so borrowing a clean pair of his underwear is the least of my problems, and it feels genuinely icky—not to mention downright rude—to go commando in the leggings I’ve borrowed from his neighbor.
“I’ll go down and grab it,” I tell him, rather unnecessarily. Like he hasn’t done enough this week without interrupting his workday to go downstairs and collect my clothes delivery, which he paid for.
(I mean, I paid him back, out of the money Lucy sent me, but you know. He used his credit card.)
I do steal the hoodie he was wearing the morning, which is draped over the back of his chair. I wiggle it away from him, pulling it on over the Ramones shirt I’m wearing once again.
It’s such a nice shirt.
“First my shirt, now my favorite hoodie,” he laments, all melodramatic, slumping back in his chair. He must be in a good mood, because he cracks a wide smile at me, head turning to look at me.
Not that he’s been in a bad mood, or anything, but I feel like he’s so on guard with me most of the time and honestly, I’m not really sure how I’m supposed to handle that, or even if I’m, like, supposed to. It’s a Nate thing, I keep trying to tell myself, not a me thing.
Still. It’s nice to see he’s taken a break from the distant attitude, if only for a minute or two.
“Sorry. Finders, keepers.”
“I thought you said you owed me for the clothes order?”
“Hmm.” I narrow my eyes at him and pull on the hoodie.
“I want both of those back at the end of this week, you know.”
“But I look so good in them.”
I stick my hands in the hoodie’s pockets and strike a pose. Nate waves a hand at me, as if to say, “Go on, leave already,” and I pull a face at him.
“Hey. You better show a little more enthusiasm when I bring that clothes order back. The whole experience of buying clothes isn’t truly over until you’ve tried everything on and paraded about in a full fashion show.”
“What, seriously?”
“Don’t tell me you’ve never had a girlfriend do that. Or like, a female housemate at university. Or your mum, even. Like, everyone does it.”
Nate looks at me like I’ve lost my mind.
“Like with music and everything?” he asks, looking mildly horrified.
I burst into laughter, moving over to cup his face in my hands.
“Oh, my poor, sweet Nathan. Stick to your spreadsheets, okay?” I pat one of his cheeks gently, playfully, laughing again at the look of utter bewilderment on his face.
His key hangs on a hook near the door, so I take it and put on my shoes (which are inside the apartment now, and clean—if only because I was that bored yesterday I sat on the balcony scrubbing them with damp paper towels) and I head downstairs to collect my order.
When I picked up the food delivery the other day, I had to wait half an hour for the not-a-serial-killer, actual y-a-caretaker guy to disinfect it all. I figure I’m in for the same experience with my clothes.
In the corridor, there’s a heady, pungent stench of cleaning products. Bleach, and disinfectant, and something lemony. It kind of reminds me of a hospital, only worse.
I need a mask, just to be able to breathe through it. I pull the Ramones shirt up over my nose instead, chin tucked down against my chest.
When I arrive at the front door, I find the caretaker looking even more like a serial killer this time, in a yellow onesie made of thin plastic. It’s even got a hood, which is pulled up over his head.
I snap a quick, sneaky photo. Nate definitely needs to see this. And I’ll totally share it with Lucy, once I’m out the other side and I can admit to her I got quarantined with a one-night stand she told me, in no uncertain terms, not to go and see.
“What’s up, Walter White?” I ask him, announcing my arrival.
He turns around, looking less than impressed, and he obviously recognizes me by the way his frown deepens. “Ramones,” he greets me, and then points a gloved finger accusingly at the plastic bag full of clothes. “I’m guessing this is yours.”
“Yup. Took your advice. Ordered some clothes to see me through the week. And I see you did the same. I’m loving this look, mister. It’s very pandemic chic.”
His face twitches, but since his mouth is covered by a white papery mask, I’m not sure if he smiles or if it’s more a look of deep disdain he’s got going on under there.
He dunks a sponge into a bucket of soapy water, and starts scrubbing viciously at my delivery. So viciously, in fact, that by the time he takes several large steps back and lets me pick it up, he’s rubbed the ink clean off the postage label.
I salute him and start back upstairs.
Except as I’m getting to the first floor, one more staircase to go, voices drift down through the stairwell.
And I definitely recognize one of them.
Actually, come to think of it, I recognize both of them.