Working From Home

A new neighbour becomes a friend in this delightful short story by Val Bonsall.

WORKING from home sounds great. My friends were envious when I got my new job and I only needed to go into the office one afternoon a week, usually Friday.

It was true there were advantages. An extra hour and a half in bed for a start. Living in a small flat, the commute to my computer on my dining table was not a long one, and there was no rush-hour traffic to contend with.

There was no need, either, apart from that one half-day, to put make-up on, pacify my unruly hair, or dress in what might be described as ‘business clothes”. I could put on any old thing – no-one saw me.

Yet as I went down to check my mail box in the communal entrance to the flats that particular day, I was feeling . . . not exactly lonely. But sometimes I did miss having a tea-break chat with workmates.

So there I was, opening my box in a pair of awful, baggy, pink-and-polka-dot trousers I’d bought on holiday, my hair in an untidy ponytail, when I heard someone behind me.

I turned. It was a darkhaired guy I’d seen about the place over the past few weeks, though I’d never yet spoken to him.

But I had started talking to a woman in the car park one day, who’d said she was visiting her son.

“He’s just moved in to flat number seven,” she informed me.

It was the same day I’d heard I had been offered my new job, and though she was a total stranger, I found myself telling her about it as we walked together to the entrance to the block.

“Sorry,” I said, suddenly realising I was going on a bit – or a lot! “I’m gabbling.”

“Don’t worry,” she reassured me. “It’s exciting, starting a new job. You don’t know where it might lead.”

Then she smiled.

“I met my husband when I started a new job.”

She told me how, as a hard-up student, she’d had a part-time job at a little restaurant near the college.

“It was a family business. The couple who’d started it were lovely. Italian – it was an Italian restaurant.

“But their son, newly trained as a chef, was a real bossy boots, ordering us all about in the kitchen!”

She laughed.

“But he could cook!” she continued. “After everyone had gone, he’d give the staff a meal, and I saw him differently then. He took pleasure in doing something for other people.”

“I’ve no doubt that’s when he stole my heart – over a plate of pasta!” she finished.

“Is the restaurant still going?” I asked.

“Yes.” She nodded. “Our daughter has now joined us in it, with her husband. Our son, Giovanni . . . his interests are elsewhere.” Giovanni.

Back in the present, I was pretty sure the young man now standing with me at the mail boxes was this son, with his different interests.

I hung about a moment and saw that, yes, it was the box for flat seven he was opening.

There was no mail for him, and he turned to me with a smile. “Nothing for me today.” “A wasted journey,” I returned, smiling back.

“I needed to stretch my legs,” he went on. “I’m a website designer, working from home. It’s too easy to sit all day.”

“I work mostly at home, too,” I told him. “And it’s true. Someone told me about this fashion for desks where you stand.”

He pulled a face.

“I tried one. My knees didn’t like it! But maybe I would have got used to it if I’d persisted.”

We chatted for a few more minutes. Then he said he had to go.

“For a phone call, er . . .” He looked at me questioningly.

“I’m Lyra,” I said, adding that I believed he was Giovanni, based on a conversation with his mother.

“Ah! She said she’d had a nice chat with one of my neighbours – clearly it was you. I’ve enjoyed talking, too.” He nodded. “Yes, that is one thing I miss about working at home – a gossip over a cuppa with colleagues.”

“I was thinking something similar earlier,” I said. “I’m in flat twelve. Pop round for a brew some morning.”

****

You’ll be thinking I fancied him. I didn’t.

Staying at home every day certainly had its advantages!

I’m a shy sort, and I would never have dared make such a suggestion with someone I had my eye on.

No, someone had already stolen my heart, as Giovanni’s mother had phrased it. Dominic, at my new job.

He was totally the type

I’d always gone for, and from the way our eyes kept meeting when I was there for my interview, the message loud and clear was that he liked me, too.

On my half day, when I went into the office, I always saw him. And at each meeting he seemed friendlier. It was just a matter of time before he invited me out.

Sometimes I did wonder if we would have got there quicker if I’d been officebased, and we’d seen each other every day.

But I decided it didn’t matter, and it might even be better as it was. I was always welcomed by everyone when I turned up, and I think they – Dominic, too – liked the brief diversion of someone different in the small department.

So, all in all, I was happy that things were going OK, and therefore I wasn’t interested in Giovanni. He seemed like a nice guy, but just as Dominic was everything I always went for, Giovanni wasn’t really to my taste.

He probably wouldn’t accept my invitation anyway. It had been very casually issued, like when you bump into someone you haven’t seen for years and say, “We must have a drink some time”, but you never do.

That was what I honestly expected.

But at eleven o’clock the next morning my bell rang, and there he was, a carton of milk and a packet of biscuits in his hand.

“Chocolate digestives,” he said. “I don’t know what you like, so I just guessed. But I think most people are OK with them.”

****

So it started. Monday to Friday we alternated, one day at my flat, the next at his.

Whoever was the host provided the coffee. He had a posh machine that made it as good as in the coffee shops. Maybe it was his Italian heritage – don’t they make a big thing about coffee?

Me, I’ve got a kettle and a jar of instant.

The guest brought the biscuits, and soon the guessing aspect was eliminated as we found out more about each other.

His favourite, by the way, turned out to be custard creams, of all things – I hadn’t had one for years!

I learned which films he enjoyed, what he read and watched on telly. It was very much the type of chatter you get in an office, though we didn’t have any shared colleagues to talk about.

We did have the same neighbours, however, so we turned our attention to them instead.

“Does that woman in number ten ever cook? The pizza delivery guy never seems to be away.”

“I know! Every night. She must be their best customer. It’s hardly a balanced diet.”

We both shook our heads in mock disapproval.

I enjoyed the half hour we allowed ourselves before getting back to our respective desks – or, in my case, an increasingly cluttered dining-table.

The highlight of my week, however, remained the afternoon I went into the office and saw Dominic.

I swear he got better looking with each visit.

He certainly became more attentive to me, and I’d started going to much more effort with my appearance.

I once saw Giovanni on the way out.

“Gosh, you look different!” he exclaimed.

Well, he would think that. He’d only ever seen me in my working-at-home clothes – the baggy polka-dot trousers remained my favourite for comfort!

Now and again during the week, I needed to e-mail Dominic at the office with a query.

So I sent him a message first thing one Thursday, and got a phone call minutes later displaying the office number.

Clearly he wanted to speak to me! Was this going to be the expected invitation to go out?

But it was Jen, our senior manager.

“Dominic left us yesterday, Lyra. No proper goodbye – just an e-mail. He didn’t give us any notice, so we’re in a right mess while we look for someone to replace him.”

“Oh.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.

“Mind you,” she continued, “maybe he won’t be that big a miss, because it’s doubtful he ever did a full day’s work. He was always too busy flirting.

“Pam on reception – she was really upset about him going like that – and Sue in accounts, and Julia . . .”

I’d stopped listening by then.

He flirted with all them! I didn’t know. But I wasn’t there, was I?

I wondered for a moment if Jen was exaggerating, miffed because he’d left suddenly and she was one staff member down. But I knew she wasn’t.

Interestingly, I quickly realised I wasn’t bothered.

“With Dominic’s departure,” Jen was now saying, “some restructuring of the department is going to take place.

“We’d like to talk to you when you come in tomorrow about taking over the role of senior co-ordinator.”

I was thrilled.

“It would be a considerable promotion,” I told Giovanni when I’d finished talking to Jen and he’d arrived for coffee. “If, of course, I get it.”

“You will,” he said firmly. And I did.

I was to start immediately, the Monday straight after the weekend.

And it was office-based. No more working from home.

Giovanni was away for the weekend, and I wasn’t sure when he’d be back to tell him, so I left him a note.

I felt quite sad writing it. I would miss having coffee with him. It even occurred to me that it was the reason why I hadn’t been bothered when I’d heard about Dominic.

Sure, in terms of looks, Dominic dazzled. But over the mornings, munching biscuits together – we must have got through every variety going! – I had become rather fond of Giovanni.

For a moment, I considered turning the promotion down. I didn’t want to revert to just seeing Giovanni if we happened to be coming or going from our flats at the same time.

But that would have been daft. It was more money and more interesting work.

“Suggest to him you go on meeting,” a voice inside me said. “Invite him for Sunday lunch.”

But I couldn’t see myself doing that. It was true that it had been me who’d suggested we shared our coffee breaks. But now my attitude to him had changed, I felt shy.

So I was sitting on the Sunday night, pondering all this, when there was a knock on the door.

It was Giovanni. He’d got my note.

“I came to congratulate you,” he said when I answered the door. “Thanks.”

We stood looking at each other.

“I imagine,” he eventually resumed, “you’ll be late home on Monday. Would you like to come round for supper? Pasta, perhaps?”

****

“I fear it won’t be half as good as my dad’s,” he said on the Monday evening, dishing up our meals.

I smiled, thinking back to my conversation with his mother, and how she fell in love with Giovanni’s father when he cooked for her.

Well, even if his pasta is only half as good as his dad’s, I reckon it’ll still do the trick – me being at least half in love with him already!

The End.