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.
By the end of his assessment I'm flushed and my lips are parted. Noting that he has unsettled me (and presumably that was his aim) he switches on a friendly smile.
"I usually take a break about this time on a Thursday. How about tea here again next week?"
The following Thursday we find out more about each other - likes and dislikes; marriages; children; work. Kris is divorced, with two children at university. Chatting casually about my husband and kids, it never for a second enters my mind that one of them might glance across the street and see me - or at least part of me, as the shrubs screen us partly from the road. I'm already past caring if they do. Although I've barely known Kris for longer than an hour, I feel a connection I've not felt with anyone for years. The naughtiness of breaking lockdown is another thrill - for five weeks I've seen no-one outside my immediate family. Our conversation simmers over hot tea, but it seems Kris isn't going to let things come to the boil. He's clearly pleased to be in my company but there are no appraising glances my way this time, despite the coral dress which I pulled out of the wardrobe again.
I'm starting to feel a little disappointed but at the end of our tea break (I can hardly call it a date) Kris tells me he hopes we can make it a regular meeting.
"I look forward to seeing you, Callie. It helps the week go by faster."
Naturally I feel the same way and we agree to keep it in the diary. But when I get home I'm tense and moody with frustration. I want him. I can't deny it.
+++
The following Thursday is sweltering. I choose a skirt that usually gets compliments - a linen number the colour of caramel that splits at mid-calf but reveals significantly more when I'm seated - and a sleeveless navy silk top. I'm delighted to see tea waiting on the table when I arrive, and arrange myself in what I hope is an attractive pose, swinging out a tanned thigh and letting a blush-pink suede slingback dangle from my heel.
"You look beautiful." I turn to see Kris admiring me quite openly. Still maintaining his distance, he takes the seat opposite. For the next twenty-five minutes there isn't a hint of physical contact, but the combination of idly flirtatious comments and promise-laden silences leaves me feeling caressed all over. By the time I leave, already impatient for our next meeting, there's no doubt in my mind that he's as interested as I am - but where can this lead?
Over the weekend I'm alternately joyful and grumpy. At odd hours of the day my body stirs into arousal at the thought of him, but with so little time alone in the house I can barely satisfy my longings. By Tuesday I'm feigning headaches so I can excuse myself for 'an early night'; a few stolen moments to gently touch myself. My orgasms come incredibly quickly, flooding my body with relief, but there's an emptiness to my solitary pleasure. I want his touch. His tongue. His cock. Oh god, I want him.
Finally, inevitably, the weather turns. Thursday is dank and drizzly and I'm worried that this will somehow signal the end of the delightful afternoons. I'm not unhappy with my pilates-toned figure in white t-shirt and jeans but I'd rather be in one of my cute little summer outfits. I approach the gate tentatively and spy a note pinned to the door, which is slightly ajar: 'Please come up - social distancing measures in place'.
