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13
Rebecca
I did up my trainers up, checked my hair in the mirror, strapped my phone to my arm and hung my headphones around my neck. I was going to push myself this evening, add in some hill sprints or something.
Hesitating, I picked up the Amazon package I’d left on top of the microwave. Jack might not be in, but I’d try anyway, on my way out.
I opened the door and took the two steps required to reach Jack’s door, knocking on it softly. After a few seconds, I heard the clattering of something on the hob and then the patter of footsteps coming down the hall. He coughed softly before opening the door. I ran my thumb along the corrugated cardboard edge of the parcel.
‘Hi,’ I said, brandishing the package in his direction the second he appeared in the doorway. ‘This came for you.’
He was barefoot, his feet a bright white in contrast to the elasticated hem of his navy joggers. I could see dark hairs just above his ankles, in the gap before his trousers started.
‘Ah, yes,’ he said, opening the door wide. ‘I got one of those “Sorry I Missed You” cards yesterday. This is becoming a bit of a regular occurrence, isn’t it?’
‘You could say that.’
This was at least the fifth package since he’d moved in, not that I was counting.
‘The problem is, I tend to be out a lot,’ he added. ‘So you might get a few of these, I’m afraid.’
‘Really?’
‘So sorry. If you do.’
I wondered why he kept ordering stuff online, if his riotous social life meant he was never going to be in to sign for them. Bit selfish, I thought, expecting everyone else to keep getting up and down to answer the door, to take in parcels that took up too much space in their miniscule galley kitchens. This particular time, for example, I’d been in the bath when the doorbell rang and I’d jumped out, thrown on my dressing gown and had stood dripping water all over the hallway floor while I spoke into the intercom and directed the courier up to the third floor.
‘What are all these parcels you get, anyway?’ I asked, trying not to sound snippy. I was interested to know what he needed to order all the time, and why perhaps he couldn’t buy it in an actual shop.
He looked taken aback. ‘Um, nothing mysterious. Books, mainly. I read a lot. Sometimes I buy plays, if I’m auditioning for something. Or box sets, if I want to familiarise myself with a particular show before a casting.’
I raised my eyebrows. ‘Oh, right. You’re an actor, then?’
That explained why I was always hearing him muttering to himself; he was probably running lines. It also explained why he strutted around the block in his monochrome jersey lounge pants as though he owned the place. That’s what they all wore, wasn’t it, these pretentious theatre types?
‘I thought I’d mentioned it,’ he said.
I shook my head. ‘Nope, don’t think so.’
We’d barely had a conversation, had we, except for a bit of small talk about running times? Plus he probably imagined it was just oozing out of him, that I should have just looked at him and thought: He’s definitely an actor. Knowing my luck, he was really well known and I’d made a fool of myself by not realising. I was desperate to ask whether I would have seen him in anything, but I’d once read that it was the worst question you could possibly ask. Because if you had to ask, you probably hadn’t ‘seen them in anything’. And also, weren’t they out of work eighty per cent of the time anyway? I didn’t want to rub it in, it seemed soul-destroying enough as it was.
‘I just auditioned for a big Netflix show, actually,’ he said, leaning against the door frame.
‘Did you?’ I asked. ‘What kind of thing was it?’
He stretched the sleeves of his top over his hands. ‘Like a military drama. Messed-up soldiers with PTSD. Secrets and lies. You know the kind of thing.’
I nodded. ‘Homeland-style.’
‘Yeah. Yep, exactly.’
‘How did it go?’ I asked, genuinely curious.
‘Good,’ he said. And then he screwed up his nose so that it went all crinkly. ‘I probably won’t get it, though.’
‘Why do you think that?’
He shrugged. ‘I think they’ll probably go with a bigger name.’
