“Alright, here’s my number—get settled in, I’ve got to dash. My flight to holiday leaves tomorrow night,” Emily Rutherford, the landlady, called over her shoulder as she hurried out, having just handed the keys to Alice. “Ring me if anything comes up. Cheers!”
“Right, see you,” Alice replied, a bit flustered, still clutching the tenancy agreement and the maintenance company’s authorisation form—just in case.
“Sharp and quick, that landlady. Suppose that’s how they all ought to be,” Alice thought.
She liked the flat—new build, lovely view: woods nearby, a little stream that never froze in winter. No one knew why. Some joked it must be antifreeze running through it.
Alice had been there a week and a half, coming home from work well after dark—typical for winter. Across the hall lived Margaret Whitmore, a sweet, elderly woman who’d popped round on day three.
“Evening,” she said softly. “Margaret Whitmore, from opposite. Thought I’d introduce myself, seeing as you’ve moved in. Good to know your neighbours, isn’t it?” She might’ve been explaining it to Alice—or just reminding herself.
“Hello, do come in, Margaret. I’m Alice. Really kind of you to stop by. You’re right, I’ve been here days and don’t know a soul,” Alice said warmly. “Fancy a cuppa? Though I’ve only got plain biscuits, I’m afraid.”
“Ta, love, but I’ve actually come to invite *you*. Just baked an apple pie—still warm. Come over. And forgive me, but I’ll call you ‘duck’—you’re young, we’re neighbours, and I was a schoolteacher. Always called my pupils ‘duck.'” Her smile was kind.
*Must’ve been a good teacher,* Alice thought, then said aloud, “Oh, brilliant! Never say no to apple pie.”
She stayed late at Margaret’s, no regrets—Margaret was a brilliant storyteller. Tales from the classroom, her old pupils, how she missed teaching but, well, that’s life.
Alice was single, twenty-eight. Three months since she’d split with her ex—too soft, couldn’t lift a finger, not even rinse a mug. Forget anything proper, like fixing shelves or changing bulbs. They’d rowed over the little things, after a year together.
Back home late, Alice crashed. Work was mad—reports due, another late one tomorrow. She drifted off thinking of the upcoming Christmas break. *Ski trip. Just gotta convince lazy Lizzie to come.*
Next evening, finally home, she sighed. *Thank God that report’s done. Few more days till holiday.* After dinner, she scrolled her phone till thirst sent her to the kitchen. Setting down her mug, she froze at an odd noise—water gushing from the tap, spraying everywhere.
“Blimey—flood incoming!” She’d never dealt with this before.
Panicking, she remembered the landlady’s tour—stopcock under the sink. She jammed the cold tap shut, but it stuck. Old, unused. Water kept coming. She threw a towel down—useless. *The flat below… who even lives there?*
Another shove—the tap gave slightly, slowing the flow but not stopping it. She grabbed the tenancy agreement, rang Emily—no answer. *Right, she’s abroad.*
Next, the housing office. No pick-up. Her mum answered, frantic: “We’re coming!”
“Mum, I’m *ninety miles* away. What’ll you do? I’ll sort it.”
She mopped up, but the drip continued. She knocked on Margaret’s door. Margaret, in her nightie, took charge, phoning the emergency services. Alice blinked. *Why didn’t I think of that?*
Margaret rattled off details, urgency in her tone. “Ticket’s logged.”
“Now what?” Alice asked.
“Now we wait ten minutes. They’ll come running.” Calm as anything—years of school crises had trained her.
Then Margaret’s phone rang. “Yes, Anthony, I know—but no one’s at the office. Water’s everywhere, could ruin the downstairs…”
Ten minutes later, boots clomped outside. While Alice explained, a bleary-eyed bloke in joggers walked into Margaret’s flat. He glanced at Alice.
“Anthony Reynolds—housing maintenance.” They went to her flat, where emergency crews were already assessing.
“I’ll shut off the mains,” Anthony said, vanishing.
Alice watched the crew—four of them—tramping through puddles. *Eleven already. How late will this run?*
Eventually, fixed. Crew gone, Alice mopped up, relieved the downstairs was spared. They’d checked below too.
Next evening, Anthony dropped by—Alice even flubbed his surname. He checked the tap, grunted approval, turned to leave—just as Margaret marched in, scolding him about the lift always breaking. She invited him for tea, odd as it was, and he stayed, enduring her gripes about the playground too.
Later, Alice spotted Anthony leaving the building. Then again by the bins. She mentioned it to Margaret.
“Maybe he fancies you,” Margaret grinned.
“Doubt it. He’d have asked for my number.”
“Shy, perhaps.” Pause. “He’s my son. And I like you.”
Alice gaped. “Then why call emergency services? You could’ve just rung him!”
“Because professionals handle emergencies. Friday night, seventh floor—no one’s rallying a team without authority. *They* called him. Speaking of, has Emily rung?”
“Yeah, she’s back in three days.”
As Alice turned to leave, Margaret stopped her. “Anthony’s a good lad. Divorced three years. Hands like gold—decent, but gun-shy now. If he calls… well, just answer, if you’re keen.”
Alice wasn’t keen on setups—no romance in it—but her busy life left little choice. Next day, Anthony waited outside, roses and cake in hand.
“Alice. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Come in.” They chatted like old mates. Over tea, he met her eyes. “Sorry, can’t stay—work’s mad. Next time, proper date, yeah?”
They laughed. “I get it. No time for much else with that job.”
Next day, her hot water failed. She texted Anthony. He fixed it—and stayed.
A month later, she moved into his flat nearby. Two months after, they married. Lizzie gawped. “Bit quick!”
Alice grinned. “No time for moonlit walks. Both too busy to say no.”
