It's the workout I notice first, at around 8.30am on a Monday. At least I think it's a Monday. Hard to tell these days. I'm folding clothes by the bedroom window, which looks down on to the garden of the flats opposite. The sprawling overgrown shrubs don't quite disguise the raised decking and sometimes on summer weekends it's populated by a couple of tired-looking hipsters enjoying a beer in the sunshine, although it's been quiet since lockdown began a month ago.
But there he is, a man I've not seen before, doing very serious-looking press-ups in non-serious workout gear. He's already in good shape and clearly knows how to keep it that way. A nice change from all the couch potatoes in brand new lycra who've been wobbling down the street for the last few weeks, fooling no-one. I carry on with my chores and it's only much later, at the end of another tedious day that manages to be simultaneously empty and exhausting, that I realise I found him attractive.
The week after, rising early for once, I see him again. Wednesday today. Sit-ups. I'm fairly inquisitive at the best of times and the whole situation having made a curtain-twitcher of everyone to some extent, I enjoy a good three-minute stare. Taut thighs. Strong neck muscles and the beginning of a spring tan. Again I note the professional technique of his movements - slow and controlled. A man who understands how to use his body... I give my head a shake. I have to admit that I'm bored. I'm in my twelfth year of marriage to a lovely but often absent workaholic. I have two children who are getting too old to seek maternal attention, unless they want feeding and watering. Lockdown has highlighted how much I distract myself with trips around town - lunches at the Dorchester, shopping at Fortnums or exhibitions at the Royal Academy with my friends; all pretty, rich, bored housewives, just like me. But for now London is closed. I sigh and slope off to do more laundry.
Two days later I'm in the bedroom brushing my hair and see a delivery van pull up outside the flats. The masked driver gets out and leaves a package just inside the gate. I see him glance up and wave before heading back to the van - Mr Workout's saying thank you from the front door. As he saunters down to collect the box I get my first real look at his face. Confident, relaxed, masculine. All those ridiculous aftershave advert clichés rolled into one. Not handsome, no - but compelling. Fair enough, good for you, I'm thinking. And then, as he reads the label attached to the parcel, his face breaks into a smile and from across the street through a double-glazed window it knocks the breath out of me.
After a minute I recover enough to go and put the kettle on.
I spend the next four days as busy as possible, studiously avoiding the view. But thinking. All that news about furloughed workers. Maybe he needs money? Or food? So many people in difficulties these days... Oh for heaven's sake, woman.
It's a Thursday when I decide. Surveying the stockpile and realising that now the initial panic is over we will have plenty of supplies for a while. And isn't it common knowledge that people are finding it hard to get flour? Breathing too quickly, I start chucking staples into a carrier bag. That bath I had that lasted all morning? Well, it's pleasant to pamper oneself occasionally. Can't let all that coconut body oil go to waste. It's 3pm. The family are lazily staring at books or screens, the afternoon heat making everyone drowsy. I make a last trip to the bathroom mirror. Not bad. The April sun has tanned my skin to a light café au lait and my conker-brown eyes are bright - lockdown lifestyle seems to have improved my looks.
I'm considered attractive for 42, as far as I can judge from compliments. Women generally like my preppy, feminine style and men adore my petite, supple body, which good genes and regular workouts have kept in good shape; my breasts and bottom are still firm and my legs are as shapely as they were twenty years ago. My soft hazelnut hair is usually styled into a short pixie cut, to match my five foot frame, but as I've not seen the inside of a salon for weeks, it's grown into a fashionable Waller-Bridge bob and curls softly above the nape of my neck. I add a little make-up to complement my coral sundress and leave before I can change my mind, hurrying out of the door with a yell of 'daily walk!'.
Mindful that the neighbours are always in these days, I waste no time in quickly crossing the road. Through the gate. Up the steps. Ring the doorbell. Back off a few paces. It's at this stage I realise I have no idea at all what I'm going to say when the door opens. The door opens. He's wearing a salmon pink shirt with the sleeves rolled up and a pair of faded denim jeans. Nothing polite about the face, close up - it has a decisiveness I should have expected from a man who works his body so hard. And nothing shy about the eyes, either, which meet mine directly.
Flustered, I try a benevolent smile. "I'm dropping a few bags round to neighbours as we've got extra supplies this week - would this be any use?"
"Thank you. That's very kind." He doesn't break eye contact for a second. His voice is like melting butter. Oh god.
"I'll just...leave it here." Feeling like a PTA busybody, I drop the bag awkwardly at my feet and flash another embarrassed smile. Well, that's the errand done. I turn hastily to go and have just reached the second step down when he speaks again.
"I'm Chris, by the way."
I turn around. Is my face as red as I think it is?
"And you are...?"
"Callie! I'm Callie. From 53. Across the road. We own the black and white cat, you might have seen him? He comes and sniffs around your garden sometimes!" Oh god, woman. Shut. Up.
He lets me finish waffling and I can see a mildly amused look on his face. When he pauses and wets his lips, considering something, I get a flash of recognition - he vaguely resembles a young Bruce Willis, from his Moonlighting days. One of my first crushes...
He gestures towards the furniture on the decking.
"The chairs are about 8 feet apart, I think. I really didn't expect such generosity - can I offer you a cup of tea?"
There's only one answer.
"Yes. Thank you."
The tea comes in spotlessly clean blue mugs. He tells me that he is borrowing the flat from a colleague, having been in London on a work secondment when lockdown began. We talk about working from home and living in other people's houses. I learn that he enjoys football and has family in Surrey. And that it's Kris, not Chris, which is unexpected but fitting, somehow. He's effortlessly charming, funny without being forward, clever and interesting. He doesn't invade my space for a second. I had expected to be stammering with nerves but for the first time in weeks I'm feeling relaxed and happy. I have almost finished my tea when there is a natural pause in the conversation and he fills the silence by leaning back in his seat and sweeping his gaze deliberately, steadily over my entire body.
