Page 2 of Lovers in Lockdown

Jesus Christ on a bicycle, Reid’s apartment is clean.

Like super clean.

Like Marie Kondo has broken into the flat and sparked joy all over it.

It’s a far cry from what his dorm room looked like when we lived together during University. It was like a landfill site in there. And the smell…

God, the smell.

Once, he left a half-eaten sandwich in his bag for over a month and by the time it was discovered, it had grown so much mould that it looked like broccoli.

Maybe he got in a professional cleaner to spruce the place up for me. Another thing I need to thank him for ASAP.

For the last eight years, I’ve been living in China and working as a chef in one of Beijing’s top restaurants. I’m only in London because I’m supposed to be attending a six-week long culinary course, which got cancelled when the UK went into lockdown. And because the universe obviously likes to have a good old laugh at my expense, flights back to China have been cancelled and all the hotels have closed until further notice.

Jeez, pandemics are so inconvenient.

But anyway, Reid offered me a lifeline and said that I could stay at his place. If he hadn’t, I’d have had no choice but to swim back to China. And he’s even letting me stay rent-free.

Reid is good people.

And he deserves a totally over-the-top gift to thank him for his generosity when I’m allowed to be within two metres of him again. Like gold-plated toilet paper. Or a parrot that speaks French.

He’d love that.

I drop my things by the door, head into the spacious, white gloss kitchen and dig around for something to eat, but Reid has left very little food in the fridge. I shouldn’t be surprised; the man eats like a horse. If you don’t eat fast when you’re with him, then you don’t eat at all.

He beat me in a hotdog eating competition when we were about eighteen by smashing eight into his mouth in under three minutes. I managed four. And because he’s luckier than a fucking leprechaun, he seems to have inherited a gene that converts six cheeseburgers into an equal number of stupidly defined abs. He literally goes to the gym just to socialise and flirt with the female personal trainers. Whereas I have to actually workout for an hour a day just to stop my abs from disappearing overnight.

I find a questionable block of cheese in the fridge, break it into small pieces and munch on it as I roam around the kitchen. Aside from a rotting banana, a bottle of Russian vodka and a packet of empty pistachio shells, my search comes up empty. Takeout tonight it is then.

I hook my phone up to the sound system that I find in the living room and blast out the Pointer Sisters, because there’s nothing like a bit of ‘Jump’ to put me in the mood to get shit done. Not that I’ve got any shit that needs to get done other than unpacking my stuff and having a shower. But I might fit in some one on one time with Captain Winky,because it’s been a long day and I need to take the edge off.

But that can wait.

Because for now, I’m going to sing at the top of my lungs, swig the Russian vodka directly from the bottle and dance around like Hugh Grant in ‘Love Actually’ to make myself feel at home. Not that Reid’s apartment is anywhere close to the size of 10 Downing Street, but that doesn’t stop me strutting my stuff around the kitchen island and performing pelvic thrusts so aggressively that I almost break a hip.

And I’m not going to mislead you into thinking that I’m a particularly gifted dancer because frankly, it’s difficult to do anything gracefully when you’re six foot four and have shoulders too wide to fit comfortably through a doorway. But what I lack in skill, I certainly make up for in enthusiasm.

And that’s what counts.

When the energetic voices of the Pointer Sisters fade out to make way for The Beatles’ legendary croons of ‘Here Comes the Sun’, I grab my bags and head down the small hallway to the bedroom, where I find a freshly made bed with a set of floral pyjamas laid out beside a large fluffy towel.

Reid really has pulled out all the stops for me.

And while floral pyjamas aren’t usually my style, I appreciate that he’s gone to such an effort to make my stay here a comfortable one.

Pulling my t-shirt over my head and tossing it to one side, my gaze drifts to a painting of a figure that is half frog, half man hanging above the large bed. It would be funny if it wasn’t so ugly, but it is so grotesque and so veryReid,that it has me grinning from ear to ear. But I’ll be taking it down before I go to bed tonight, that’s for sure. No way am I going to sleep with that terrifying frog man staring down at me all night. It’s enough to give nightmares to a marine.

I strip off the rest of my clothes, leave the towel on the bed and go in search of the bathroom.

But I never make it there, because one second, I’m belting out the words to my favourite Beatles song ‘Yesterday’, as emotionally as I possibly can and the next, I’m inexplicably crashing heads with someone. An intruder? Thief? Ghost, maybe? Whatever it is lets out a scream so piercing and shrill that I conclude that it must be a banshee.

‘Holy fuck goblets.’I hiss, my hand flying to my face to cover my eye that the intruder just headbutted.

Spots detonate in my vision.

My head thuds with an ache so intense, I nearly topple over.

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