This is my entry for the "Love the One(s) You're With" CV19 competition, May 2020. All characters above the age of consent -- and sadly completely fictional. The subject matter is somewhat new territory for me, so fingers crossed. As ever -- votes and comments are very welcome.
My divorce was finalised a few weeks before the lockdown.
Up until that moment my ex-wife had probably been congratulating herself on the outcome: she got the house in the city and I got the much more modest and rather run-down cottage in the countryside. But if you were looking at weeks in isolation, I was very happy with where I was. It was fairly remote, for one thing, with just a sprinkling of other dwellings around. I had plenty of land, so if things did turn really bad, I could at least grow a few vegetables and maybe even keep some chickens. And I could exercise relatively often with minimal risk to myself and those around me - long rambling walks or runs in the countryside, sometimes taking slightly more than the approved government "hour", but I was pretty sure nobody was keeping tabs.
The few people I met when out and about nodded politely at me and occasionally we exchanged brief pleasantries. "Strange times" was the phrase I tended to hear most, and it was hard to disagree with that.
I'd been worried about food supplies, but soon found that a number of local farm shops had started offering delivery services. Once a week I received a box of fresh fruit and vegetables, some bread, some milk and a dozen eggs. Financially, although I was smarting from the divorce, I was in a better position than many. I was self-employed, able to work from almost anywhere, and most of my clients seemed to need my consultancy services at least as much as they did before the crisis hit. I had never minded being on my own, and I had already done my mourning for my marriage long before the paperwork had been finally finished. In a selfish way I relished the newness and strangeness of it all.
So, yes, I had nothing really to complain about. But as the days turned into weeks, and the weeks, amazingly, into a month, I realised I was more than a little tired of my own rather limited cooking. There was no chance of Deliveroo out here, for sure, but I thought perhaps I could find a local pub or restaurant within a short drive that was offering a takeaway service, even if from a limited menu.
I found several, but the one that was closest was a wedding caterer who said they were now offering a limited delivery service in my area. Their website was a bit sparse on details but I thought I'd try them.
The lady who answered the phone sounded rather harassed, but I liked her voice. Clear and well-spoken but with a hint of sensuality.
"Sorry to ask, but are you vulnerable or elderly? We're putting them at the top of the list, you see."
"Certainly not vulnerable," I said. "I'm probably elderly compared to you, I suspect."
She laughed at that. "Good job you can't see me then! But flattery isn't going to get you anywhere, I'm afraid."
"I understand. Well... best of luck to you. I'm not far away, so if you ever expand your vulnerable list to include bad cooks living on their own who are tired of poached eggs, perhaps I could leave my number?"
She laughed again. "Yes, I think we could do that."
After she took my number and rang off I found myself smiling. As limited and basic as it was, our very mild flirting had been enjoyable. But I didn't expect I'd ever speak to her again. I found another restaurant in a local village who did a takeaway service, and I booked a meal that evening with them instead.
It was when I was returning with my food that my phone rang. I hastily pulled the car over and answered.
"Is that the bad cook who's tired of poached eggs?"
"It is! Is that the nice lady with the very youthful voice?"
"Ha! No need to flatter me any more... we took pity on you and did a bit extra. We can deliver it sometime in the next hour, if that's convenient?"
I glanced guiltily at the plastic bags beside me. No problem - I could put them in the fridge and have them tomorrow instead. And, I confess, I wanted to meet this lady. She'd probably be a disappointment compared to my fevered imagination, but still...
"That would be great," I said. "That's really kind of you."
I gave her my address and credit card details and then hung up and hurried home. I thought I'd shave and tidy myself up before she arrived. Pathetic, I know, but there we are.
It was only as I was glancing at myself in the mirror and adjusting my shirt that I remembered she'd said "we can deliver". Who was "we", I wondered? Boyfriend? Husband? Lesbian partner? I found myself faintly down-hearted at the thought. And yes, I agree - I had clearly been on my own a little too long, and out of the dating scene for considerably longer.
The answer, I'm happy to say, was d) None of the above.
When I saw the car pull up outside my gate I hurried downstairs and opened the door. I ventured to within the permitted two meters of my entrance and watched as a very attractive brunette lady of about forty got out of the car and then extracted a cardboard box from the back seat. Sitting in the passenger seat was a young blonde girl, not out of her teens yet, also very pretty.
"There's a table just there you can leave it on," I said, gesturing rather pointlessly at the enormous wooden table I'd positioned for deliveries, which she couldn't possibly have failed to spot.
"Perfect," she said, smiling at me.
"I was wrong about your voice."
She cocked her head inquisitively, amused.
"You're clearly even younger than I thought. That must be your sister in the car."
She snorted, but I think she was pleased. "Now you're really over-doing it! That's Stella, my daughter."
"I'm David," I said.
"Helen," she said, and our eyes met briefly. They were friendly but challenging eyes.
"Nice to meet you." I really wanted to prolong the conversation, but the girl seemed to be staring at me a little aggressively from the car and I imagined they still had a number of deliveries to make.
She smiled again. "Enjoy your meal."
"I will," I said, and watched as she got back in and drove off. I thought I heard them giggling as they bumped off down my track, but perhaps that was my imagination. I did feel strangely lifted by having met them, and deflated by their departure. But, as I said, I'd be alone on my own too long. You can read too much into things.
**
The food -- a chicken and mushroom pie, with some assorted vegetables -- was delicious. I left them a five-star review on Google saying as much, and made reference to the fact that they were a "lifesaver for a bad cook like me."
A few days later, I got a text from her.
Thanks for the review. Very kind of you, and glad you liked it. Helen.
I texted back almost immediately:
Hope it gets you some extra business. If you ever have any left overs, I'll take whatever you can spare! All the best. David.
A few minutes later:
Sadly we're having some car trouble today otherwise you'd be welcome to some Roast Chicken. Might be a few days before we're back in action -- so frustrating! H.
Few things appeal more to the male ego than a damsel in distress. And this was TWO damsels in distress.
Can I help? I could do deliveries for you? Happy to.
D.
It seemed like a long wait for her reply. At least a minute.
That's kind of you, but I couldn't impose on you like that. And there's all this social distancing and it's all such a palaver. Shame. Thanks anyway!
I didn't think this was an entirely convincing rejection, so I persevered.
