Five past 4

She had thoroughly cleaned the living room by 8 o’clock that morning. The bathroom, too, before breakfast. Were she being honest with herself, she could admit that she would have continued, had Dylan not seized her hand and deposited her, none too gently, at the breakfast bar.

Pushing her thick glasses back up her slightly sweaty nose, she had glowered at her husband, who had merely given her a flat look in exchange and unceremoniously pushed a bowl of cornflakes along the tabletop. She wrinkled her nose as she lifted her spoon and took her first mouthful – they were still drinking their way through the gallons of long-life milk she had bought months ago in the initial panic. For succumbing to that herd mentality, Dylan had teased her mercilessly, a slight irritated edge to his tone suggesting he was more serious than he let on. Yet he had not once complained about the milk itself.

It still tasted vile.

She had gobbled up her cornflakes in record time and taken her coffee – black, fortunately – into the pristine living room, intending to scroll through her inbox and reply to a few WhatsApps. Though that early burst of group chat activity had tapered off, there were still more messages than she could muster the energy to read. Perhaps she would make a quick video call to Mum; that always lifted her spirits.

Dylan was sprawled in his usual armchair, leaning heavily back into the freshly-plumped cushions, his feet –

“Get ‘em off the table!” she had snapped, voice strained with indignation.

Dylan had simply rolled his eyes, moving his feet to the floor and returning his gaze to the Sunday crossword, brow wrinkled in thought.

Tia took her seat, resisting the temptation to polish the tabletop (again) where she could see the marks left by his heels. Instead, she clutched her mug and sipped her coffee – slowly, willing its boiling liquid to seep through her veins and consume her anger.

She knew it was irrational, knew there was plenty of time.

Too much time, she would later admit. Why, oh why, had she suggested 4pm and not 11 in the morning? Several times that day she would glance at the clock on the mantel – or her wristwatch, or her phone display – sure that it was broken. Yet she could see the second hand ticking on, its painfully slow rhythm unaffected by her rising impatience.

Coffee drunk, she had immediately stowed their mugs in the dishwasher, ready to continue her cleaning spree. Racing from room to room, she felt light-hearted – more alive than she had in months – as she polished and swept away the dust of disuse and the cobwebs of listlessness.

Dylan had admitted defeat as she tugged the hoover from its home under the stairs. Setting his pen and newspaper down on the side table (rather demonstratively, Tia huffed) he traipsed into the garden. How there could be anything left to do out there, she was not sure! Yet when she unplugged the hoover to carry it upstairs, as its shrill whirring died away, she could hear the unmistakeable drone of the lawn mower – lower in tone than the hoover, and more distant – competing for dominance.

Dylan had continued his self-imposed exile until lunchtime, when he had marched inside and opened a tin of baked beans. Hearing the microwave’s humming from the upstairs landing, where she was cleaning the wooden banister, Tia paused. Put down her cloth. And ventured downstairs.

There were two places set: two plates; two tall, chilled glasses of water, condensation trickling down their outsides onto the wooden tabletop; two knives; two forks. Recognising the olive branch, Tia moved to the sink to wash her hands before preparing her own lunch.

Dylan surprised her by speaking: “Don’t you think you’re being a bit crazy about all this?”

Although his tone was gentle, not mocking, his head cocked to one side, eyes studying her intently, she felt her hackles rise. “No,” she said shortly, staring sightlessly into the sink. “It’s the first time since–”

“I know, Ti,” he cut her off, his voice still soft, “I know. But you’ve got hours. Time for a walk. Get some fresh air. Get out of the house. Clear your head. I’ll come with you – if you like.”

“No,” Tia replied quickly. Too quickly. She felt, rather than saw, Dylan’s demeanour shift as she turned off the tap. “I was going to change the bedsheets,” she added, inadequately.

His jaw clenched, then released, before he answered. Clenched. Released. “I’m going out anyway,” he muttered. “Going to see a friend.”

At her enquiring look, he added, shortly, “John.”

They had eaten lunch in stone-cold, brittle silence, broken only by the scraping of their forks and the muffled crunch of his ready-salted crisps. Within five minutes of finishing, Dylan was out the front door, complete with a clean shirt and a freshly-washed face. Tia watched him stride away until he was out of sight, round the corner at the end of the street. She pressed her fingertips together, counted to ten, and decided to make some brownies.

She had thought the morning had dragged; the afternoon was worse. At one point, she had resorted to looking through Dylan’s crossword – he’d filled in every word, correctly, she thought, but had misspelled 8 down. She had tried to read a chapter of her latest novel, and would have to re-read it, since she could not remember a word. Even the rich, cloying aroma of cooling brownies wafting in from the kitchen could not settle her nerves. When she cut them into squares, she shaved the edges off several, licking the oozy chocolate from her fingers and then painstakingly washing her hands between each guilty taste.

Sluggishly, relentlessly, the afternoon trailed by. It was 2 o’clock. Half two.

At three o’clock, she permitted herself to arrange half a dozen brownies on a plate and get out the teapot. Then she raced upstairs, almost quivering with excitement, to apply mascara for the first time in a month. As she unscrewed the lid, with shaking, unpractised fingers, she remembered that the last time she’d worn makeup had been that Zoom quiz, where they’d all worn fancy dress. She and Dylan had gone as Jane and Tarzan, to raucous amusement, but no one had known she was wearing her paisley pyjamas out of the camera’s line of sight. Nor could they see Dylan squeezing her knee, gently, whenever he sensed she was getting overwhelmed.

She met her own gaze in the mirror, a deep frown creasing her forehead. She couldn’t remember anyone called John. She narrowed her eyes at herself, took a deep breath in, and forced it out, relaxing her facial muscles as she did. She needed to be calm. Cheerful.

She blotted off her lip gloss and headed back downstairs, her steps studiously slow.

Half past three. She used the downstairs loo and then cleaned it, thoroughly. Washed her hands, thoroughly. For a moment she stared at the lurid blue gel on her fingers, before turning off the tap and massaging in the soap. Twenty seconds. Singing a song had quickly felt banal, so she just counted, exploring the cracks in her fingertips, the folds over her knuckles. Eighteen elephants. Nineteen elephants. Twenty elephants. She turned on the water, washing away the off-white foam with warm relief.

Tucking her auburn hair behind her ear, she stepped back into the hallway, shut the bathroom door, and pinned up the blue-tacked sign she’d made earlier. ‘Guest toilet’, it read. For peace of mind. Just in case Dylan came home.

It was only ten to four. She’d be late, inevitably.

Unable to sit down, she paced downstairs. On her fourth lap, she grabbed a pack of disinfectant wipes and gave the door handles a final wipe-down. She couldn’t remember which she’d done and did most of them twice.

She’d only be coming into the living room anyway. And the ‘guest toilet’, perhaps.

At only five past four, the doorbell rang; shrill and sudden, it shattered the silence. Tia started, gasping an involuntary breath, then made for the front door, flinging it open, a smile splitting her face.

There she stood.

Her usually round cheeks (Hamster, they had good-naturedly nicknamed her in school) were pale and somehow gaunt, but her smile was the same.

“I rang it with my elbow,” she said, gesturing towards the doorbell with said limb as she spoke. Tia grinned.

The friends stared at one another in a moment’s silence. A jerking, aborted movement of the arms as they went to hug one another, remembered they shouldn’t. For want of something to do with them, Tia clasped her hands in front of her. It felt awkward. It shouldn’t feel awkward.

“How are you?” she asked, her voice anxious, tense.

“Better.” Hamster smiled, her cheeks growing rounder – more familiar – and dimpling slightly. “Out of bed, at least. On my feet.”

Tia stepped sideways, further into the house, even though she felt guilty to be inviting an outsider into their sanctuary. Dylan and John. Hamster and herself. That was two extra people in the space of one afternoon. She smiled at Hamster, masking her discomfort.

“This feels naughty,” muttered Hamster, as she stepped out of her sandals. “I’ve not been in anyone else’s house since all this began.” She had taken the words as if from Tia’s mouth.

“You’re our first guest,” she responded. “I’ve cleaned,” she added, in something of an understatement. Unnecessarily, since Hamster would trust her.

She gestured towards the living room. Unnecessarily, since Hamster had been to this house more times than she could count. As she passed, Tia clasped her hands tighter, steadfastly resisting the urge to hug her friend close, just to know she was really there, desperate for real human contact.

In the living room, they sank into opposite ends of the long sofa. They drank their way through the tea, devoured the whole plate of brownies. Cheerful conversation sparked across the metre they guardedly kept between them. The new normal.