“Alright, here’s my phone number—get settled in, and I’ll be off. My flight’s tomorrow night, and I’m heading off on holiday,” said Emily Hartley, the landlady, as she rushed out the door after handing over the keys to Charlotte. “Call if anything comes up. Cheers!”
“Right, thanks—see you,” Charlotte replied, a bit dazed, still holding the rental agreement and a letter of authority for dealing with the building management—just in case.
“She’s sharp and efficient, just how a good landlady should be,” Charlotte mused.
She loved the flat in the new-build, and the view was stunning—a nearby woodland and a little stream that never froze over in winter, no one knew why. Some locals joked it was filled with antifreeze.
Charlotte had been living there nearly two weeks, returning from work after dark—winter nights were long. Her neighbour across the hall, Doris Whitmore, a sweet elderly woman, had popped round on the third day.
“Good evening,” Doris said softly. “Doris Whitmore, from across the hall. Thought I’d introduce myself, now you’ve moved in. Best to know your neighbours, don’t you think?” Whether she meant it as advice or a reminder to herself, Charlotte couldn’t tell.
“Hello, Doris, come in! I’m Charlotte—lovely to meet you. You’re right, I’ve been here days and barely seen a soul,” Charlotte said warmly. “Fancy a cuppa? Though I’ve only got biscuits, nothing fancy.”
“Ah, thank you, dear, but I’ve actually come to invite *you* over. Just baked an apple pie—fresh out the oven. Come along. And forgive me, but I’ll call you ‘love’—you’re young, we’re neighbours, and I was a teacher, so ‘love’ just comes naturally,” she said with a kind smile.
“She must’ve been a wonderful teacher,” Charlotte thought before replying, “Oh, Doris, you’ve caught me off guard with apple pie—can’t say no to that!”
Charlotte ended up staying late at Doris’s, enthralled by her stories of teaching and her pupils. She even admitted she missed work now she was retired—but time moved on.
Charlotte, twenty-eight and single, had split with her boyfriend three months back. He’d been hopeless—couldn’t even rinse a cup, let alone fix anything around the flat. They’d bickered over chores for a year before calling it quits.
She got home late, drained from work, and collapsed into bed. The next day was all spreadsheets, barely pausing for lunch.
“Thank goodness that report’s done,” she sighed later that evening, sprawled on the sofa scrolling her phone. “Few more days ‘til the Christmas break—ski trip’s overdue. Just gotta convince lazy Lucy to come along.”
She grabbed a glass of water, then froze at an odd noise. Water gushed violently from the kitchen tap, spraying everywhere.
“Oh no—flood alert! What do I do?” Panic set in—she’d never dealt with anything like this.
Remembering Emily’s quick demo, she dashed to the bathroom to turn off the mains. The valve was stiff—rusted from disuse. Water kept spewing. She threw a towel down, but it was useless.
“The flat below’s gonna be soaked—who even lives there?”
She wrestled the valve again—it budged slightly, slowing the flow but not stopping it. Frantic, she called Emily—no answer. Of course, she was abroad.
Next, the building management—no luck. Her mum answered in a flap: “We’ll come straight over!”
“Mum, I’m ninety miles away! What’ll you even do? I’ll keep trying the management.”
She mopped up best she could, then knocked on Doris’s door. Doris, in her nightie, grasped the urgency and dialled emergency services.
“Why didn’t *I* think of that?” Charlotte realised.
Doris talked the operator into sending help. “Now what?” Charlotte asked, shaken.
“Now we wait ten minutes with a cuppa—they’ll be here sharpish,” Doris said calmly. Years in a classroom had steeled her nerves.
Just then, Doris’s phone rang. “Yes, Daniel… No, management weren’t answering… Exactly, that’s why I called 999. Her whole flat’s at risk!”
Ten minutes later, boots thudded in the hallway. As Charlotte explained, a bleary-eyed man in joggers arrived—Daniel Wright, the building’s engineer. He nodded at Charlotte before heading to the basement to shut off the water.
Four emergency workers sloshed about her kitchen. By eleven, Charlotte groaned inwardly—clean-up would take ages.
Once fixed, everyone left. Exhausted, Charlotte tidied up, relieved the downstairs flat was spared.
The next evening, Daniel dropped by to check the repairs. Charlotte fumbled his surname—Wright, not White. As he inspected the tap, Doris marched in, berating him over the faulty lift. She trailed off under his stare but invited him for tea anyway, where she aired more complaints about the playground.
Late again, Charlotte headed home. Two days later, she spotted Daniel leaving their block—then nearly collided with him at the entrance.
“Doris, does Daniel live here? I’ve seen him loads,” she asked.
“Maybe he fancies you,” Doris teased.
“Hardly—he’d have asked for my number.”
“Perhaps he’s shy,” Doris mused, then added, “He’s my son. And I like you.”
Charlotte blinked. “Why call 999 if you could’ve just rung him?”
“Because professionals handle emergencies. Mobilising a Friday night repair takes authority. *They* called him. Anyway, has Emily checked in?”
“She did—flies back in three days.”
As Charlotte turned to leave, Doris stopped her. “Daniel’s a good man. His first marriage went sour. Three years single now—capable, cautious. Don’t think I’m meddling, but if he calls, do answer. If you fancy him, that is.”
Charlotte wasn’t keen on matchmaking, but her hectic schedule left little room for romance. She agreed.
Next day, Daniel waited outside with roses and cake. “Charlotte, tea at yours?”
“Come in,” she said, chatting easily. Over tea, he grinned. “I won’t stay long—work’s mad. Next time, cinema?”
They laughed. “I get it—no time for dating with that job.”
The next day, her hot water failed. She texted Daniel—he fixed it and lingered.
A month later, they moved in together—his flat was next door. Two months after that, they married. Lucy gawped. “So fast!”
Charlotte grinned. “No time for moonlit walks—both too busy to say no.”
