Locked Down & Lonely

By Mark Atkinson

Locked Down & Lonely is a romantic comedy centred on two residents of a Milton Keynes apartment block during the tumultuous 2020 lockdown. With their plans for the year thrown into disarray by the approaching pandemic they are isolated and alone, only seeing friends and family remotely through the black box of online meetings. 

Otis and Sophia find themselves thrown together by necessity and circumstance in these unprecedented times. An unlikely friendship forms as they fight to maintain direction in the neverland of lockdown and their increasing contact becomes the highlight of the monotony of 2020. 

As the year progresses and both adjust to the new normal there begins the first murmurings of romance as each wonder if the friendship of convenience could be the start of something more, although fate seems intent on keeping them apart and ensuring they remain as friends without benefits.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Troubador Publishing Ltd
• Release date: Dec 28, 2021
• ISBN: 9781803138466

Book preview

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Chapter 62

Chapter 63

Chapter 1

Just two more hills. Two more hills to go. Otis repeated the mantra in his head as he tucked low over the handlebars, pedalling hard as he slowly climbed the incline ahead. As with any Sunday he was out with his cycling group, tackling a long ride into the nearby villages around Milton Keynes. This was a loop they’d ridden many times and was taxing at the pace they were pushing. He tucked behind Owen, one of the faster riders from the club, not to slipstream but to provide room for the impatient cars that often sat on his back wheel waiting to pass.

For Otis the weekly ride out was the focus of his week. After days spent largely at home, writing magazine articles or occasional translation work, he was often starved of company. Although never a people person and far from outgoing, he’d found the cycling club provided the perfect level of camaraderie and conversation to bring him out of himself. What had started as an idle attempt to stay healthy and offset the hours of sedentary typing had grown over the years into an all-consuming passion. As his interest grew, so did his need for ever more expensive bike frames and components. He was currently bent double over his latest acquisition, a carbon fibre streak of speed that weighed less than his last dinner. To a casual observer it was a bike, but to true cyclists it was a thing of beauty and his proudest possession. It had been a risk stretching his finances so far, particular with such irregular income, but today it was all worth it as he finally caught and passed Owen at the crest of the hill; surely the extra few grams of weight-saving had made all the difference?

It felt glorious to pull ahead and see the clear road ahead. It was still January but there was almost a hint of spring in the air, the anticipation of a full and glorious year in the saddle. Once sufficiently ahead of Owen to have made his point he slowed a little to let the rest of the riders regroup before the final hill.

Bloody hell, Otis, you’re riding well today, new bike suits you. Owen slapped his shoulder as he pulled alongside, his face red and dripping with sweat from the ascent. All riders sweat but Owen was in a different league and typically left a wet stripe on the tarmac like a wheeled snail.

Cheers, Owen, it feels so good. Perfect weather, perfect bike. This is going to be my year. Races booked, and the club trip to Italy is going to be epic. Otis inwardly cringed at his use of ‘epic’ like a stockbroker or an estate agent. His university tutor would have obliterated that word in a storm of red ink had he used it on any submission.

No doubt about it, mate, you might even keep up with me on the 100-miler in June.

Otis laughed and nodded politely. Secretly he wanted to do more than keep up. He was going to thunder through him and be well into his second beer before Owen joined him at the finish. 2020 was going to be his year.

The group finished the ride and after a quick coffee at the café they disbanded and made their separate ways home. Otis rode to his apartment on one of the newer developments overlooking the canal and marina. Although the estate agent had effused about guaranteed appreciation of property value, the gentrification of the neighbourhood, the views over the canal and down to the nearby lake, it was the secure bike storage that had swung the sale for Otis. A large cage resembling the money store of a casino dominated the entrance to the block. The local planners had forced the developers to include bike storage in the development as a concession to carbon reduction and he suspected that, due to lack of attention on their part, the developers had ordered and installed the ugliest, most industrial bike store available. Otis loved it, and as he slid the heavy door back and locked his bike to the oversized rack, he was reassured that his baby was safe in bed for another week.

Otis climbed the stairs to his flat. He was dripping with sweat and didn’t want to inflict himself on any other residents in the lift. Besides, it was only a couple of floors so no huge issue. He rounded the first landing and leapt to the next steps, nearly colliding with his neighbour and her daughter on their way down.

Sorry Sophia! He sidestepped left to avoid a collision. She sidestepped right and they made full contact with an audible squelch. She recoiled at the sweaty collision. Otis was equally horror-struck. He’d noticed Sophia the day she moved in, a couple of years ago, but in his usual manner had lacked the necessary social skills to strike up a friendship or even find some common ground. Instead, he’d become trapped in a series of awkward nods, waves and ‘alright’ as they passed in corridors and on the stairs. He’d not even been able to send a Christmas card as he immediately forgot the name of her daughter when first introduced and found it far too late to ask again after nearly a year. British reserve meant he lived in fear of ever needing to know her name or use it in public. To ask the name a second time would be rude, to make a wrong guess would be grounds for moving out. He prayed that he would be in earshot when someone else asked but had so far been unlucky. It seemed she would forever be simply Sophia’s daughter.

Even more socially awkward than forgetting someone’s name would be smearing your sweat-soaked body on your neighbour. He stepped back apologetically, unsure what was appropriate in such a situation. What would a normal person do? Run and fetch a towel? Laugh it off? Offer to leave the country and never return?

Sorry. Again. I’ve just been for a ride. Yep, he nailed that. Standing head to toe in coordinated cycling gear, wearing a helmet, and carrying his empty water bottles, it was certainly clear even to a non-sentient life form where he’d been. What wisdom and wit he was imparting. Smooth with a capital stupid.

That’s… nice. Hope you had fun, Otis. Of course, she knew his name; she seemed to know the name of everyone in the building, along with their jobs, likes, hobbies and life dreams. Sophia just seemed to know this stuff. Where, for Otis, people were an unavoidable annoyance, for Sophia they were a constant source of interest and relevant facts seemed to be filed away for later reference during chats in the lift. Otis mostly stuck to the weather and stating the completely obvious for lack of conversational skills.

Otis mumbled his apologies again and made his way up the remaining steps to his flat. He showered quickly and threw his sweaty gear into the washer whilst mixing up his recovery shake. He fought to swallow the chalky-tasting mixture. Something that tasted this bad must be doing him good, surely? As he forced down the final few mouthfuls, each with the same consistency as something found in a used hanky, his phone beeped on the side. It was Scott, a university mate who had fled from the cold of the UK and set up home in Australia, out of choice, not due to a criminal record like most of the settlers. Scott was facetiming him ‘from the future’ as Otis always considered it, due to the twelve-hour time difference. Not long into iPhone ownership Otis still found video calls a remarkable novelty, even more so when from the other side of the world. He would never get bored of seeing his friend’s face beamed into his flat. Video calls were amazing.

They chatted for over an hour as Otis went through his ritual of post-ride stretching, much to the amusement of Scott who still viewed bikes as a very poor alternative to a car. Otis was once again disappointed when Scott refused to stand on his head to undo the effect of being upside down on the Southern Hemisphere but did indulge him by flushing the toilet live on camera so he could observe the whirlpool effect in the opposite direction.

Australia was currently in the grip of wildfires and a catastrophic fire danger had been declared for the Greater Sydney region for the first time. Bushfires were not unusual, but the season had become colloquially known as the Black Summer and Scott was concerned. His colleagues’ responses varied from ambivalence to outright panic. It was a scary start to the year and coincided with an odd virus from China that had started to see a number of cases in the country.

Seriously, Otis, a few people in hospital and people are going stupid. They’re stockpiling like it’s World War II again. We never even had rationing out here. Otis noted that Scott was increasingly adopting Australia as his own. It was no longer a ‘they’ but a ‘we’. He’d gone full native.

You’ll never guess what they’re fighting over in the shops! Have a guess.

Otis cast his mind back to school projects on rationing during the war and had a guess. Tinned meat, maybe first aid kits and long-life milk? Hang on, do they still do powdered eggs? What even is powdered egg?

Scott shot a deadpan look down the camera.

It’s egg. Powdered. I thought you were the literary genius. Anyway, you’re miles off. It’s bog roll. I swear it. Toilet roll and hand sanitiser. I’ve had to stop people stealing it from the office as the shops are all cleared out. I’m not even joking.

Have a word. Bog roll? I can understand soap and stuff for a virus but toilet paper? Does the virus give you diarrhoea?

Not at all. Nobody really knows but someone started a rumour that most of ours is made in China so we might have less supply and they think it started a panic. It’s taking the country over. If you guys get the virus you should fill the flat with it, could make a fortune on eBay. The King of 2 ply.

Pretty sure we’re not as daft as you uneducated convict descendants, Scott. Can’t see Brits fighting over loo roll. The last sausage roll in Greggs, maybe, but not that.

The conversation drifted to work, and Otis cleared his throat to make the important announcement of his new arrival. He was expecting. After years of writing literary drivel for cash, he’d finally got a publisher for his pet project. A labour of love, he’d spent years researching the Tour de France bike race and compiling what he considered to be the definitive work on the topic. With cycling a growing sport, he had high hopes, but had initially struggled to generate much interest in the market. He had been close to self-publishing and running the risk of being stuck with a spare room full of books for the rest of his life, when he’d followed up a lead from one of his articles for a cycling magazine and had been offered a proper old-fashioned book deal.

Can’t believe it, mate, made up for you. Will it be available over here? Scott asked.

Not sure yet, still working that out with publishers. We’re trying to rush it through to get out before this year’s event in August. It’s pretty slow. The stuff I churn out for websites is up in hours. Seems like books they still do actual proofreading. Once I get the samples I’ll see if I can send one down under. You’ll have to get a photo of it with a kangaroo or something for promo!

Scott grinned at the usual UK stereotype that Australia was nothing but kangaroos and deadly snakes. No worries, cobber, how about a photo with some shrimp on the barbie?

Otis paused, missing the sarcasm. Hmm, not sure that would work, maybe stick with the kangaroo. Or a duck-billed platypus?

Yeah, they’re dead common. Pass one every day on the way to work.

You do? Otis was excited and mentally picturing the promo photo already.

No, you bloody goose, they’re about as common as a sober Aussie. They’re rumoured to exist, but none have been sighted.

Scott’s work was also on the upturn. His life was slowly becoming the ideal of any pom. He was renting an apartment on Manly peninsula, close to the beach, and at the weekend lived the life of a surfer bum. Come Monday he’d switch to ‘serious Scott’, pull on a suit and ride the ferry straight into Sydney harbour to work as head of procurement for a large engineering firm. The ferry was still magical and a far cry from the cramped noisy Tube of his London commute. Most of his colleagues warned him he would eventually tire of the boatful of tourists and drive into the city as they did, but for now he was content to use the crossing to admire the view of the harbour bridge as it came around the coast and soak in the view of the morning sun glinting off the buildings. After a few years in Australia, he was gradually getting acclimatised to the heat and could wear a suit in summer without immediate self-combustion. It was now more of a gradual controlled change of phase throughout the day as he shifted from a solid to a liquid pool of sweat, like a snowman in the sun.

They finished the call, and Scott promised he’d make a trip back over soon, once the virus had blown over. It was expected to be much like avian flu, that took a brief hold in a few countries then faded until it was just a memory of a bizarre time when people washed their hands a bit more often.

Chapter 2

Sophia made the rest of the walk down the stairs without bumping into any more middle-aged men in Lycra, or MAMILS, as she had learnt they were called. There was something so unflattering about Lycra on a man, why couldn’t they see that? She realised the irony of assuming men dressed for the visual entertainment of women, but for her it was just about not wanting to see their unmentionables smeared across their inner thigh like a lost hamster under a fitted carpet. She’d lived in the flat for a couple of years now and still hadn’t got the measure of Otis. He always said hello, or nodded, but that was largely where their conversations ended. She couldn’t tell if he was shy or just a bit odd and was yet to see him with a significant other of any gender. She wasn’t entirely sure he was straight, whilst also concerned that he might be the worst-dressed gay in town. It did make a change not to have to fend off the advances of men but he was still a little strange.

It wasn’t just his actions, but his whole demeanour screamed ‘awkward’. He came across as perpetually preoccupied whilst at the same time uncomfortable in his own body, exacerbated by his height. At nearly seven foot his mannerisms weren’t confident or bold, but rather jerky and awkward, those of a person suddenly transported into a body two sizes too big and nervous of breaking something through inattention. He was a giant amongst men, but not in a dashing hero way, more akin to an ogre from a novel trying not to stand on too many villagers.

Sophia and Penelope walked to her car, and she backed it out from the space. It was mild enough that she risked dropping the hood on the Mercedes and turned the heating up full. The air curtain feature funnelled the warmth around their heads and shoulders to isolate them from the coolness. They were outside but still warm. Her car was an extravagance but damn it, she worked hard and could treat herself. The engine burbled as she waited for the automatic barrier at the car park entrance to rise and pulled out onto the road, unable to resist a blip of the throttle to see the traction lights flicker on the dash as the back end squirmed for grip. The exhaust barked loudly as an excessive amount of petrol was dumped into the cylinders, the noise reverberating from the surrounding buildings. Childish? Yes. Fun? Undoubtedly.

Sophia and her daughter, Penelope, often bumped into Otis; she had formed the same view and referred to him as ‘the weird bloke with the bike’ which summed him up well. Nobody in the complex was sure what he did, only that he lived alone, seldom went out except to ride his bike and that his cycling seemed to define him. Sophia owned a bike, but it was a thing she used to get places when the roads were busy, or to enjoy a ride with Penny. It meant nothing more to her than the dishwasher in the kitchen. There was just something about men of a certain age that they became obsessed with a single interest that was their defining character trait. If it wasn’t cycling it was running or golf, or maybe something even more obsessive like attending every football stadium in the league. Her most recent date had been with a guy called Patrick who had made it his life’s mission to drink a pint in every Wetherspoons pub in the UK. They met (in a Wetherspoons) and he broke off mid-conversation to take a photo of the carpet. When she’d asked what he was doing he tutted dismissively and began what appeared to be a well-rehearsed speech into how the pub chain had bespoke carpet in each location and included pictures or scenes inspired by the local history. This was not something Sophia knew, or even cared about, but which she was forced to endure a detailed explanation of, and faked amazement as she was shown some of the more unusual carpets Patrick had photographed. After the twelfth example she struggled to find a suitable comment to show her appreciation of another sticky pub carpet. As with most dates, Patrick talked about himself and seldom asked any questions of her. When he did finally make a token inquiry into her job his lack of excitement at her being a software developer and IT support specialist was noticeable and he swiftly changed the topic back to himself.

In the years since she’d become single again Sophia was noticing a familiar pattern with dating. If it wasn’t the intimidating IT job that turned men away it was her daughter and the fear of picking up a ready-made family. She’d gradually worked through all the apps and online sites and found that whilst there may well be plenty of fish in the sea, most were there because they’d been thrown back by other fisherwomen who, like her, had felt lonely, but not lonely enough to put up with their shit.

Once again, she questioned whether she had been too quick to split with Penelope’s father. Luke had been everything she wanted in a man. Except, as it turned out, faithful. He was a lithe and tanned lothario who floated across the dancefloor during her girls’ holiday to Magaluf and straight into her bed. He’d exuded confidence as he courted her upon their return to the UK (as her nan had referred to it) and eventually they had married. The baby came a few years down the line and Sophia was seemingly living the dream of a hunky husband and beautiful daughter. Evidently it was just a dream, as he tired of the perfect template family and slid out of their lives and into another woman’s bed, on more than one occasion as it transpired during the divorce proceedings. He was a cheating dog but had taken the opportunity to admit to his sins during the divorce and went forward in life with a clear conscience and a cute smile whilst Sophia was left to deal with the wreckage of her life and the full extent of his infidelity. Her aunt, being the miserable bitch of the family, had delighted in reminding Sophia that her holiday romance had failed just as she had predicted many years previously.

Despite all this she still found an occasional flutter in her stomach when Luke picked up Penelope for the weekends and strutted across the road to the flat, seemingly parting traffic like Moses and the Red Sea. There was no denying it, he was the dashing figure used by romance authors the world over, and none of the self-obsessed middle management singles in the local area were doing much to replace him. If only he had kept his dick in his pants, they might still be living the middle-class dream.

With a sigh she shook herself from her reverie and tried to remember the items from the shopping list she’d written before leaving for the shops. In her traditional manner she had neglected to bring the list with her and now needed to guess the items in a poor memory game. The few times she did remember to bring the list it was invariably left on the shelf next to the first item she picked up and she’d have to retrace her steps to find it. Fortunately, today was different as Pen was at home so she called her as she walked the aisles of Tesco. After three attempts she was finally answered, and Penelope’s face filled the screen with a look of disdain.

What?

That’s a lovely way to greet your mother.

Mum, I’m busy. We’re in the middle of a match. As suspected, her daughter was online with her friends playing some age-inappropriate game, typically with rifles, explosives and a side gig of drug running for a crime gang.

"I’m in Tesco and forgot the list; can you read