Lockdown on London Lane, page 1
Lockdown on London Lane
also by beth reekles
The Kissing Booth
The Beach House
The Kissing Booth 2: Going The Distance The Kissing Booth: Road Trip
The Kissing Booth 3: One Last Time
Rolling Dice
Out of Tune
It Won’t Be Christmas Without You
Beth Reekles
Lockdown on London Lane
Contents
Dedication
Sunday
Notice
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Monday
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Tuesday
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Wednesday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Thursday
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Friday
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Saturday
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Sunday
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
This one’s for the Cactus Updates crew. From PowerPoint nights about rom-com meet-cutes to Christmassy murder mysteries, it was fun “not” hanging out with you. Thanks for helping to get me through lockdown.
Sunday
URGENT!!!!!!!
DO NOT IGNORE THIS MESSAGE
NOTICE TO ALL RESIDENTS OF LONDON LANE, APARTMENT BUILDING C
Dear Resident,
As you will be aware from our previous missives on the subject, due to the current situation in which we are potentially facing a global pandemic due to a highly contagious virus, building management has made the decision to impose a seven-day quarantine on any apartment building in London Lane where a resident is found to have the virus.*
Unfortunately, someone in BUILDING C has tested positive.
BUILDING C is now in a seven-day lockdown. Please remain calm, remain safe, and wash your hands regularly. We ask that you avoid use of the elevators except for emergencies and avoid contact with other residents. Most importantly, please remain in your apartment.
Have a good week!
With kind regards,
The London Lane Building Management Team
*PLEASE NOTE: If you think you have contracted the virus, you are to inform your building’s caretaker immediately. If you do not fol ow instructions, management reserves the right to serve notice of eviction to any tenant or to impose significant fines for breach of contract. Your caretaker for BUILDING C is MR. ROWAN HARRIS.
APARTMENT #14 – IMOGEN
Chapter One
It’s starting to get light out; the venetian blinds are a pale-gray color that does nothing to keep the sunshine away. The entire window seems to glow, and pale shadows fall across the rest of the room, obscuring the organized cluster of hair products and cologne on the dresser, playing tricks on the hoodie hanging in front of the wardrobe doors. There’s a knee digging into my thigh. I rub a hand over my face, feeling last night’s mascara congealing around the edges of my eyes, and start to peel myself out of the bed, hissing when I discover an arm is pinning down my hair. I bunch it up into a ponytail, slowly, to ease it free inch by inch.
The mattress creaks when I sit up, but—Nigel? I want to say Nigel—snorts in his sleep, still totally out of it, oblivious to my being in his bed.
I glance over my shoulder at him.
Still cuter than his profile picture, even with a line of drool down his chin.
“This has been fun,” I whisper, even though he’s fast asleep. I blow him a kiss and creep across the bedroom to silently wriggle into my jeans. I look down at the T-shirt of his I borrowed to sleep in. It’s a Ramones shirt, and it feels genuinely vintage, not just some ten-pound H&M version. Actually, it’s really goddamn comfortable.
And cute, I think, catching a glimpse of myself in the mirror leaning against the far wall. Oversized, but not in a way that makes me look like a little kid playing dress-up. I tuck it into the front of my jeans, admiring the effect.
Oh yeah, that’s cute.
Sorry, Neil—Neil? Maybe that’s it—this shirt is mine now.
My long brown hair, on the other hand, looks kind of scraggly and definitely not cute. Yesterday evening’s curls have dropped out, leaving it limp, full of kinks, and looking pretty sorry for itself. I run my fingers through it, but give up. Hey, at least the smeared mascara is giving me some grunge vibes that totally match the Ramones shirt.
Collecting my own T-shirt and bra from the bedroom floor, I tiptoe into the open-plan living/dining room. Where’d I leave my bag?
Wasn’t it—a-ha, there it is! And my coat too. I stuff my clothes into my bag, then look around for my shoes.
Come on, Imogen, think, they’ve got to be around here somewhere. I can’t have lost them. I wasn’t even drunk last night! Where did I leave my damn shoes?
Oh my God, no. I remember. He made me leave them outside, saying they looked muddy. Like it was my fault it rained last night and the pathway up to the apartment block was covered in mud from the flower beds. And I joked that they were Prada and if someone stole them this had better be worth it, even though I’d only bought them on sale from Zara.
I do a final sweep just to make sure I’ve got everything. Phone—check. House key—yep, in my bag.
I hesitate, then do a quick dash back to the tiny two-seater dining table near the living-room door to nab a slice of leftover pepperoni pizza from our delivery late yesterday evening.
Breakfast of champions.
I step over some junk mail as I sneak out of the front door. It can’t be much later than seven o’clock. Who the hell delivers junk mail that early in the morning? Who is that dedicated?
My shoes are exactly where I left them.
And, all right, in fairness, they do look like I trekked through a farmyard. I really can’t blame him for making me take them off outside the apartment. I’m going to have to clean them up when I get home.
I hold the slice of pizza between my teeth as I wriggle my feet into them—and ew, they’re soggy—and then I slip my coat on.
Okay, good to go!
I skip down the stairs to the ground floor, munching on my pizza and already on the Uber app to get myself a car home. These shoes are cute, but not really made for a walk of shame.
“Excuse me, miss?”
Despite there being nobody else around, I don’t realize the voice is directed at me until it says, “Hey you, Ramones!”
When I turn around, I find a tired, stressed-looking guy with a handful of leaflets. Mr. Junk Mail, I’m assuming. He’s wearing a blue surgical mask over his mouth and ugly brown slippers.
“Thanks, mate, but I’m not interested,” I tell him, and make for the door.
Except when I push it open, it . . . doesn’t.
I grab the big steel handle and yank, and push, and rattle, but the door stays firmly locked.
What the fuck?
Oh my God, this is how I die. A one-night stand and a serial killer peddling leaflets. Please, please don’t let anybody put that as cause of death on my gravestone.
“Miss, you can’t leave,” the man tells me wearily. “Didn’t you get the note?”
“What note? What are you talking about?”
I turn to him, my phone clutched in my hand. Should I call the police? My mum? The Uber driver?
The man sighs, exasperated, stepping toward me, but still maintaining a good distance. Like me, there’s a rumpled look about him, but he looks more like he rushed out of the house this morning, not like he’s just heading home. There’s a huge ring of keys hanging from his belt. Then I clock the white latex gloves he’s wearing and get a sinking feeling in my stomach.
“We got a confirmed case from one of the residents. The whole building’s on lockdown. That door doesn’t open except for medical needs and food deliveries.”
I stare at him, all too aware that my mouth is hanging open. After a while, he shrugs in that What can you do? kind of way.
It’s a joke, I realize.
It’s got to be a joke.
I let out an awkward laugh, my lips stretching into a smile. “Right.
<
br /> 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.”
“Don’t you always?”
Lucy has a way of ending conversations without having to say good-bye. I know her well enough to recognize that this is one of those moments. I say good-bye and thank her again for the money she’ll send me, the way she always does, which I will repay in love and affection and memes until one day in the distant future, when I have miraculously gotten my life together enough to pay off my overdraft and have enough left to put a dent in my ever-growing tab at the Bank of Lucy.
Feeling at least a little better, I stand back up, dust myself off, and knock on the door.
It takes a few minutes to open.
He’s disconcerted and groggy and wearing only his boxer shorts.
The carefully coiffed blond hair I’d admired in his pictures is now matted, sticking up at all angles. The dried line of drool is still there on the side of his mouth.
I give him my biggest, bestest grin, cocking my head to one side and twirling some hair around a finger.
“Hey there, Niall. Um . . . ”
He yawns loudly and holds up a finger to shush me before covering his mouth. He shakes his head, blinking a few times, then looks at me, confused and none too impressed.
“I hate to be an imposition, but your building is kind of . . . quarantined.”
“It’s what?”
I look for the piece of paper I stepped over earlier and bend down to pick it up. It’s a printed notice that, at a quick glance, instructs residents to stay indoors for a seven-day period. I hold it out to him, staying silent and swaying side to side, hands clasped in front of me, while he reads it, rubbing his eyes. He has to squint, holding it up close to his face.
