I trudge slowly, begrudgingly, back up the stairs. My shoes pinch my toes, so I take them off, slinging the straps over my index finger to carry them.
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 this morning, and jiggle the handle for Flat Number 14.
Locked.
Obviously.
I run my tongue over my teeth, weighing up my options, and finally sit down on the floor, 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), as much as the 'You're not in uni anymore, Immy, stop acting like it' advice – from my parents, my friends, my boss, hell, even my little brother.
I do exactly what I would've done back in uni, though, and I phone my bestie.
Lucy answers with a curt, "What have you done this time?"
"Heeeeeey, 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 offence, 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, quiet sigh. "Although, alright, I am... I am in the littlest spot of bother."
"Did you forget to cancel a free trial?"
Lucy's used to my shit enough 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 grimace, and bite my thumbnail. "Remember that guy I told you I matched with, who I've been talking to all week? Honeypot guy?"
"Immy..."
Quickly, the words almost running entirely into one, I blurt out, "I kind of came to his place last night and sort of stayed the night and now I might be stuck quarantined in his building and I only have the one pair of knickers and I didn't even bring a toothbrush with me."
There's quiet on the other end of the line, which I'm fairly used to when I make these kind of calls to Lucy, but this one goes on for longer than usual, which makes me feel properly nervous.
Eventually, she breathes, "Oh, you're properly fucked this time, aren't you?"
"Thanks, Luce."
"How's your overdraft?"
"Not great."
"Did you run up your credit card again this month?"
"A little bit."
We both know that means 'almost completely'.
"I'll lend you some money for an ASOS order. You'll have to get next day delivery. I'm sure they'll have to let shopping orders into the building, won't they? And to be fair, knickers are pretty essential. You'll have to wash yours out in the sink."
"I love you."
"I'll add it to your tab," she tells me. "And send you some extra. If you're stuck with him for a while, you'll have to give him something toward food."
"Shit, good point."
"Was he..." Worth all this hassle? Lucy doesn't say it, but she doesn't need to; she catches herself, though, and asks me instead, "Was he nice?"
"Very. Flat was immaculate, to be fair to him. Looked like a Mr Muscle advert. He even had some plants. Not as funny as he was on the app, but cute. Good hair." I look down, plucking at the Ramones t-shirt. "Nice taste in clothes, too."
"Well. That's something."
Lucy has a way of ending conversations without having to say goodbye – I know her well enough to recognise this is one of them. I tell her goodbye, 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 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 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 on 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. So, um..."
He yawns, loudly, and holds a finger up to shush me before covering his mouth. He shakes his head, blinking a few times, and 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 bit 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 while he reads it, rubbing his eyes. He has to squint, holding it up close to his face.
"Shit."
"I'm not allowed to leave," I tell him. "There's a bloke downstairs and he won't let me leave. I'm really sorry but... unless you wanna take it up with him..."
I step back inside, but I do place my shoes back outside the flat once more.
He stares at me as I put my bag and coat down, speechless.
"I'm just gonna use your loo. You know. Wash my hands." I waggle them at him, as if to prove what a responsible grown-up I am.
When I come back, he's still standing by the door, still clutching the paper.
"So, Nico, listen –"
"It's Nate."
"What?"
"My name?" He raises his eyebrows at me, looking more pissed off than tired, now. "Nate. Nathan, but... Nate."
I bite my lip, grimacing. I'd kind of hoped if I went through enough names, I'd hit on the right one eventually.
"Sorry. You're, um... You're saved in my phone contacts as the honeypot emoji. You know, cause you... you said that if you were gonna be a fictional character, it'd be Winnie the Pooh, and you said you mum kept bees and – and you said your favourite chocolate bar was a Crunchie, and it's got honeycomb in it, and... Well, I thought it was cute at the time, and funny, but then I realised I'd forgotten your name, and you'd deleted your profile off the dating app so I couldn't check that, and..."
Nate's face has softened, at least.
But then, as I take my coat off, he seems to realise what I'm wearing, and lets out a loud, disbelieving laugh. "You're really something, aren't you? Talking your way over here when everyone's meant to be social distancing..."
"I didn't hear you complaining," I mutter, none too quietly.
"...sneaking out without so much as a goodbye, and you were planning to make off with my favourite shirt. Wow."
"Maybe it was just going to be a good excuse to see you again."
He laughs, rolling his eyes. "Imogen, believe me when I say, I have never met anybody like you before."
I curtsey. "Thank you."
That, at least, makes him laugh. Nate-Nathan-Nate runs a hand through his hair, taming it only slightly, and then tells me, "There's spare towels in the bathroom cabinet if you wanna take a shower. I'm gonna see if I can get a food delivery slot online. Then I guess, we'll... I don't know. Figure this out."
I'm not exactly sure what there is to 'figure out', past maybe ordering some frozen lasagnes and a few pairs of knickers, but I nod. "Right. Totally. You got it, Nate."
So much for my swift exit.