Kate grew up in Cheshire and now lives in Cambridge with her husband, children and too many pets. She has a degree in French and Philosophy from the University of Sheffield and has managed communications for the past twenty years, including for the Lucy Cavendish Fiction Prize and its first writing festival. She is a Non-Executive Director at Goalball UK, a Paralympic sport for the blind and visually impaired. This short story was written during and about the COVID-19 lockdown in 2020.
Twitter @Kate_Cogs
Email: Katherine.coghlan (@gmail.com)
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Stay Home
It only took a few days after Boris Johnson’s historic speech, “Stay home, protect our NHS, save lives” for Sally and her boyfriend Robert to establish a new daily routine. Sally cleared the breakfast dishes, then Robert helped her drag the oak dining table to the corner of the kitchen, out of shot for her live-streamed fitness classes. Furloughed and at a loose end, Robert volunteered to film her on her mobile phone, which meant the first few attempts were shaky and lopsided. Sally ordered a tripod online and explained to Robert that it was a necessary expense; it was important to look professional.
“Lovely work, ladies. Well done!” She beamed at her own image on the screen, marching up and down the linoleum and swinging her arms. “Step, ball-change! Who watched Strictly then last night? Marvellous, wasn’t it? Lots of talking though this series, not enough dancing. Same again, everyone!”
She kept them going through the final sets of push-ups and planks. Thirty-five viewers and a cluster of ‘likes’ on the screen. She streamed her classes on a private group page on Facebook, which had the advantage of familiarity. The problem though – as Robert was quick to point out, peering at the screen – was that she couldn’t see the participants. He grumbled as she shooed him away, “Alright then. Wouldn’t want to keep you from your precious ladies, would I?”
She smiled wider at her own image. Her cheeks were flushed and her blonde ponytail bounced as she skipped towards the camera. She tried to see herself as her ladies described her: inspirational, positive and energetic in the face of adversity. She corrected their imaginary mistakes, “Keep your heads up now, no slouching. Try to get even lower this time – pretend you’re sitting down on a chair.”
Sally drew the blue curtains during classes to filter out the dazzle of the day and improve visibility on the screen. Light shone through them, lending the room a sub-aqua glow. She pictured herself as a synchronised swimmer holding her breath, balletic above the water level, turbulent below. She learned to eat cereal for breakfast to avoid pots and pans cluttering the backdrop (she’d still do a fry-up at the weekend, she promised Robert). A tangle of string, elastic bands and Sellotape in one kitchen drawer was scooped out and replaced by three sets of weights.
In April, she caught Robert loitering in the corridor, filming himself as he imitated her squats and shimmies, a silly smirk on his face. She shut the door with a slam, and she remembered watching him adoringly as he squatted and sprinted at high school; captain of the rugby team, first to be invited to every party and last to leave. Sally had hovered in his orbit, hard-working and shy. Her proudest teenage achievement had been to turn his curly dark head, to draw him in and ground him. They revelled in their love for the first few years, surrounded by friends, although the friendships faded away following a few unpleasant rumours (just jealous, Sally reassured herself). Robert overheard her chatting at the screen during the slower numbers, and he complained about her candidness, “They don’t need to know when you last shaved your legs, Sal,” and, “It’s none of their bloody business where you bought your new leggings.” Robert was a private man; he wouldn’t tell her when he had toothache, let alone discuss plans for their future. “But I think they do need a bit of chat,” she argued, “For some of them it’s the only conversation they get. And I bet none of them are shaving their legs either – what’s the point?” He sighed and left the room.
Money always scraped the surface of their arguments; they struggled inexplicably to cover their bills and extra expenses. Although they both still had a regular income, Robert’s was down to eighty percent on furlough, and Sally’s client numbers had decreased due to people’s difficulty or reluctance with technology (Joe Wicks wasn’t helping either). Their 1950’s semi had the bad habit of hoarding problems for months at a time before revealing them in one go, like Robert putting off a GP visit until he had multiple issues to report. The house waited until the third month of their reduced income to develop black mould in the bathroom and a hole in the threadbare hallway carpet. Several roof tiles gave up the fight one night and shattered into grey icicles across the driveway. Despite this, Robert’s first concern was to make the garden more presentable. He used his credit card to order stone slabs and wooden sleepers for a corner patio, and Sally only found out when she saw someone delivering pallets through the side gate. She retaliated by ordering a new washing machine.
By mid-June, Robert had busied himself with the garden project. Sally encouraged this by handing him a coffee five minutes before her class, with the suggestion that he took it outside to see what needed doing next. She slid the French door shut as he left, so as not to disturb the neighbours with her music. He could always use the side gate and front door if he needed to come back in. Back with her ladies, she exchanged live Facebook messages about whichever Netflix series they were following. She reminded them of the continued importance of planning healthy meals, in spite of current challenges. They all agreed it was hard to stay on track when their grocery shopping consisted largely of substitutes. Her most loyal fan, Cynthia, swore that she was delivered apple pie once instead of her usual bag of Granny Smiths. Those with husbands moaned about them getting under their feet. “It’s not that he’s done anything in particular,” said Cynthia, “it’s just that he’s around all day.”
Sally and Robert didn’t qualify to have their shopping delivered, and Sally took her weekly expedition to Tesco’s seriously. She planned meals for the week, then wrote her list in the order of the supermarket’s one-way system, starting with fruit and vegetables and ending with alcohol. She examined food labels to compare salt and sugar content, and she enjoyed the rare exchange of pleasantries with other people.
In addition to the essentials, Sally always bought beer and crisps for Robert. This made it all the more disappointing that the one time he went, he returned without her favourite things. After nearly two hours away, he crashed in, as triumphant as a caveman dragging a gazelle. He marched around the kitchen, touching every surface as he unpacked, until Sally guided him to the sink to wash his hands.
“I’ll take over here,” she said, pulling antibacterial wipes from their pack and retracing his steps. After emptying the bags, Sally asked, “What happened to the lentils, Rob? I can’t believe they’d run out of lentils.”
He sighed, “I just couldn’t find them, Sal. It was overwhelming, the mask and the arrows everywhere.”
“And my skimmed milk? That would have been right next to yours in the fridge.”
“I know, but the trolley was full by then. I’d had enough. I’m sorry.”
“You’d have gone past the milk before getting to the beer, and you found space for that, I see.”
“Oh Sal, don’t make such a fuss. Honestly, there’s nothing wrong with blue top milk. There’s no need to be so faddy.”
“I’m not faddy. It matters to me to be healthy,” Sally’s voice rose higher. “I don’t expect you to understand though, sitting on the sofa with your crisps and beer. Every week I’ve bought them for you, without complaining.”
“For God’s sake Sal, there are thousands of people dying every day in a global pandemic, and you’re wound up about the wrong type of milk! You need to think about your priorities.” Sally left the room. Of course her shopping list was of low importance in the grand scheme of things, but it still mattered to her. She saw more clearly than ever before that he did not understand her needs. That night, as she lay in her own deep trench on the memory foam mattress, she imagined them both as pandas, paired in captivity but unwilling to mate. When she watched TV adverts of happy couples buying homes, opening wine or smiling while changing nappies, her heart squeezed tight. She had never felt that closeness with him, she’d always hoped it would come.
Disconnected and alone, Sally missed meaningless chats about the weather and meaningful chats about relationships. Who knew it would be so hard, staying home and saving lives all day long? Only the thought of her ladies mirroring her movements across the village made her feel like a real person again. They needed her to stay resilient in these hard times. She was part of a community, that was the important thing.
The messages on her Facebook page were gratifying: “Loved the class today, Sal – I’ll be aching tomorrow!” “Great set! Watched with my husband and he really enjoyed the stretches.” “Where’s that crop top from?” She asked her class to post photos of themselves working out, and they responded with pictures of children and cats sprawled unhelpfully on fitness mats.
As the weeks blurred on, a relentless influx of private emails from a few clients became demanding on her time. She felt a strong responsibility to respond, so she took her time replying with advice about managing jobs, children and husbands. She spent every evening on her laptop and signed off with kisses, while watching box sets and drinking wine. Last year, she had visited an aquarium at Hunstanton Beach and she watched as the coral sent out suckers to draw in prey. She felt zooplankton, stung and consumed. When she got to bed, her mind raced and she had trouble sleeping. Meanwhile, Robert spent his evenings in the local beer garden, celebrating that the pub had reopened at last.
Performing to her mobile phone was losing its appeal by July. As she danced in her kitchen, she thought of the hundreds of times she had stood in front of the group in a sports hall, the music pumping over the buzz of the air con. Her favourite moments in ‘real’ classes fell in between the tracks, when she could hear them breathing heavily and mock-groaning about their poor, tortured glutes – welcome evidence that her instruction was working. The only background noise now was the whir of her struggling fridge, one of many appliances just biding its time.
Sally realised she could wear the same gear several days in a row, without fear of the front row smelling her. She didn’t bother moving the oak table from its corner, and Robert ate in his study or at the pub. She finally hit the jackpot with a salon appointment, but that morning she had to get undressed and shower again because she couldn’t remember when she’d last washed her hair. Sally envied Robert’s evenings at the local pub. She had dropped a few hints about joining him, but he hadn’t suggested it. The day after her haircut, she said, “We’re out of food here, Rob. I’ll have to pop to the village unless you fancy a pub tea together tonight?” She was surprised when he offered to go to the shop to pick something up. They ate a ready meal together on the sofa, watching the news, before Robert sprang up and said he fancied a drink after all, and he’d see her later.
She made herself wait for half an hour before following him into the village, then tried to walk slowly despite a tug of anxiety pulling her on. The windows of the thatched pub framed an empty interior, but Sally followed the thrum of conversation from the beer garden around the corner. Normally confident in crowds, the return of her old shyness surprised her as she entered the garden and walked alone among the groups of six. A lady from her class jumped to her feet and they exchanged a few words before Sally resumed her search, but Robert was nowhere to be seen, so she ventured inside.
The landlady looked startled and greeted her, “Hello Sally, long time. I didn’t know you were still in the village.”
Sally frowned, “What do you mean? Why wouldn’t I be?”
“Well I assumed you’d moved away, after you and Rob split up.”
“But we haven’t split up. I came here looking for him. Have you seen him?”
“Oh, I see,” said Bev, looking down at the ice bucket and tongs in her hands, as if she’d forgotten why she was holding them. A pink flush spread from her chunky fringe down to her chin. “Sorry Sally, I must’ve got confused. I think he’s around, maybe gone to the loo.” She put the ice bucket and tongs down on the bar and rubbed her cheeks. Looking up again, her eyes were wet and wide, “I tell you what, take a drink outside and I’ll send him out when he’s done.”
A snaking fear coiled around Sally’s chest, and she ordered a double gin with slimline tonic. She found an empty table in the last chink of evening sunshine and she waited. Back in the early years together she’d sometimes had doubts, when Robert came home late and was vague about the details of names and places. He’d always greeted her with such enthusiasm though, he hugged her like a child returning with a grazed knee. It was clear that he needed her. He wanted nobody else. Had she believed him then, or was it simpler to pretend? He was the most solid thing in her life. Doubting him felt like stepping onto the Millennium Bridge, feeling it tremble over the cold, brown expanse of unknown.
“Sal, Bev said you were here!” said Robert when he saw her. He sat down clumsily, splashing the top of his pint through the slats of the wooden table.
“She seemed surprised to see me. Rob, why would she think we’ve broken up?”
Robert shuffled on the seat and scratched his head, “Oh god, this is awkward, Sal. There’s something I need to tell you.” He glanced up towards the pub. “Shall we go home for some peace and quiet? We can talk better there.”
“No Rob, I’ve just arrived and I want to talk here,” she replied. “What’s going on?”
Robert told her that he’d been spending time with Bev in the pub. It began when he first returned in June, and Bev asked him to do a few odd jobs around the place, installing hand gel dispensers on the walls and putting up safety signs. “She made me feel useful,” he said. “I was at a loose end. It was lonely, with you working all the time. I just wanted someone to talk to.”
“That’s not fair Rob. I’ve tried so many times to talk,” said Sally. “And is that all you did then, talk to each other?” asked Sally. “Well that’s all at first, but then one thing led to another…”
He looked down at his wet trainers. “I’m really sorry, Sal. It didn’t mean anything. I still want to be with you.” He met her eyes and smiled, “I’ll make it up to you Sally. It won’t happen again. It’s just a strange time for all of us.”
“It is a strange time, but a global pandemic doesn’t give you the right to cheat on me, Rob. It makes it worse, in fact. I’ve been so careful staying at home, washing my hands and not taking risks, and all the time you’ve been flitting back and forth spreading germs between our house and the pub. What you’ve done is illegal, apart from anything else.”
Rob took a gulp of beer and shrugged, “I really am sorry, Sal. I didn’t think about all that, I just wanted to get away, have a break from it all,”
Sally felt something falling through her, her stomach maybe. She held onto the sticky table edge and took a few deep breaths. “Is this the first time you’ve cheated on me?”
He only nodded in reply, and Sally felt wrong-footed, as if a track had started and she had forgotten the routine. She imagined her class watching her stand stock still as the music played on. Would this make them think less of her? She was ashamed that she hadn’t noticed Robert’s absence more, that she hadn’t missed his presence. She had thought more about supporting her ladies than about him in recent months. If she had been more focused on him, would things be different? Stay home, save relationships? They walked back together and went to bed in silence.
The next day, she clicked through her clients’ staycation photos on Facebook. They all seemed to be having more fun than her, swimming in rivers, learning new languages and live-streaming the musicals of Andrew Lloyd Webber. Yet another old school friend posted about being pregnant, and she ‘liked’ the post dutifully. She did her class as usual but her heart wasn’t in it. Everyone else was moving on with their lives, while she was stuck chanting in fours between the oven and the sink.
Sally ploughed her energy into plans for reopening the business. Government documents filled her August evenings – she sloshed her way through detailed guidelines, eight-page forms and Pinot Grigio. Her online viewers had dwindled, which was normal for August. Reducing to two classes a week felt appropriate, but left her with a lot of spare time to fill.
Robert floated in her peripheral vision like an eye speck, irritating but not demanding attention. She waited for his apology to be backed up by action, but no breakfasts in bed or flowers emerged. As the initial shock dissipated, Sally felt more anger than pain. They’d been together so long, she had been sure they’d spend their lives together. How dare he do that and expect her to just forgive him? She was cross with herself for sticking with him so long, frustrated at wasting her twenties on him with nothing to show for it. She had expected that heartbreak would feel metallic, like a jab or a twist to her chest. What she felt was more like wet concrete, filling her bones and making them heavy. She felt a sense of loss, a new uncertainty about the future.
In September, Robert’s company called him back in, and he grumbled about swapping shorts for long trousers and wearing shirts again. Sally listened and nodded as she switched off the iron. The same month, Sally posted the schedule for face-to-face classes online. She visited the sports hall to admire the newly taped-out crosses on the wooden floor, which reminded her briefly of the pet cemetery at the bottom of her childhood garden (all those poor hamsters). She bought a leopard-print face mask and several bottles of hand sanitizer. The night before the first class back, she shaved her legs and washed her hair, as if preparing for a first date. It took her hours to get to sleep and she then had a nightmare that she couldn’t get to the sports hall in time, and Cynthia had to get on stage and run the class instead.
The long-awaited moment arrived, and Sally watched as her ladies drifted in like jellyfish, hovering around the deathly crosses. “Hello! Welcome back!” she shouted, but she had trouble recognising the hidden faces as they took their places. She peered carefully at their eyes, but the women looked embarrassed and avoided contact. Rubber soles squeaked with friction and avoided the central spots, shuffling sideways to the edges for protection. Sally stood alone and cordoned off on the stage. She felt a murmur of misgiving in her stomach.
A bit of J-Lo would perk them up. Sally started with her ‘On the Floor’ warm-up routine (great for the hips). They followed her dutifully but didn’t look very warm. Sally lined up a few of her favourites from lockdown. They had danced to ‘Blinding Lights’ almost every day throughout the spring; it was guaranteed to bring their bounce back. She stuck to the same routines, starting with leg curls for the opening beats. Grapevines next, and she was puzzled by the confusion in front of her. Half of the group looked floppy, many travelled in the wrong direction. “Come on, you know this one, everyone!” she called out. “Commit to the moves!”
Sally didn’t understand. Even faithful Cynthia looked like she was learning the dance for the first time. She tried to catch Cynthia’s eye but it was harder now that she had moved back to the second row. They did not point their toes and they did not extend their arms. She tried two tracks that back in March had prompted comments like “great routine” and “loved that one” on Facebook. She soared higher and stooped lower, but to no avail, it was like trying to stir lumps out of custard. What happened to the enthusiasm of lockdown? Were they watching from their sofas, dunking biscuits in their tea as she punched and lunged? Did they even put their trainers on before typing “Brilliant – best way to start the day!”.
Sally stopped mid-squat, as the realisation hit her that some of them hadn’t been joining in, after all. She dropped to her knees on the stage and held her head in her hands. Her microphone made a confused squeak, as her workout breathing escalated into a throaty sob. Sally had never stopped mid-song before. Sweat mingled with tears and snot on her face. The class divided, some exchanged worried glances before backing off to their coats and bags, while a few drew nearer. “Oh Sally, what’s happened?” Cynthia perched her bottom on the front of the stage.
Sally looked up, black trails of mascara down her cheeks, “I feel so stupid,” she said. “You weren’t dancing with me all those months, were you? What were you doing? Were you laughing at me behind my back?” “Not laughing, we admire you,” said Cynthia. “We just don’t have the same self-discipline as you, Sal. Look at me, I’ve put on a stone over lockdown.”
A few other women exchanged nods and pointed to their own Lycra bulges.
“I’m sorry Sally. I enjoyed watching you, I just got a bit lazy. I carried on watching because I still needed to see your big smile every day.” Cynthia smiled pleadingly at Sally, who managed a weak shrug in response.
“Now what’s really going on?” said Cynthia. It’s not like you to get so upset. You’re always so perky!” She ushered the others away and edged closer to Sally on the stage.
“I’m not feeling so perky at the moment,” said Sally. “Things at home have been really difficult.”
She wiped a salty hand across her eyes, which made them sting.
“You should have told us,” said Cynthia. “We would have posted more heart emojis.” Her eyes caught Sally’s hopefully, “We might have even got up and danced!” Sally forced a smile. “Seriously though Sally, you should have called me and told me what was going on.” She reached out and squeezed Sally’s arm. It was against new regulations, but Sally just said thanks.
They left the hall together in heavy rain. Reluctant to go home, Sally drove down wet country roads to the next village. The horizontal sidepour pummelled the windows and she pictured her half-finished patio, laden with bags of wet sand. She wondered if Robert would stick around to finish it and she wasn’t sure she wanted him to. A sense of déjà vu hit her when she thought of her relationship and her fitness class. Nobody had been dancing along properly, had they?
She pulled up in an empty car park behind a Tesco Express. Five minutes later, she found herself buying a family-sized chocolate fudge cake under the glare of strip-lighting. She opened it on her lap in the front seat of her Ford Fiesta. There was no easy way to eat it, but she found she couldn’t stop. She plunged her fingers into the sponge and pulled out one forbidden lump after another. She deserved this, she’d been so disciplined, while everyone else made sourdough and scrapbooks, did online quizzes and read novels. Buttery sweetness made her heart race, coated her teeth and made her tongue dry. Halfway through, she paused and a wave of nausea surged from her stomach to her heart. She knew the cake wasn’t fixing anything, but she forced herself to take a few more bites out of stubbornness.
Her phone bleeped and she smeared it with brown finger tips as she opened the message. “Things still aren’t the same between us, are they Sally? Can you ever forgive me?”
Her sickness mounted as she considered her next words. “I can but I don’t want to. It’s over,” she texted back. She started to feel stronger, so she followed with, “I want you gone ASAP.”
Another bleep, and she switched it off, before thrusting the shiny device deep into the chocolate mess on her lap. She rolled her shoulders back a few times and shut her eyes, listening to the rain smacking the metal roof. What would she do if she returned to find an empty house? She reflected on the self-care messages posted daily on Facebook. A hot bath and a glass of wine would be a good start. After that, maybe a first attempt at baking.