“I don’t care anymore!” Emily stormed across the room, waving her arms. “Mum, how much longer are we supposed to put up with this? My friends are laughing at me!”
“Mum, it’s leaking again! Again!” shrieked Emily, bursting out of the bathroom with dripping hair and a towel in hand. “I told you there was something off about this flat!”
“Keep your voice down! The neighbours will hear!” hissed Sarah Wilson, dropping her mop and rushing to her daughter. “Where’s it leaking?”
“Everywhere! The tap, the shower, there’s even a puddle under the sink!” Emily flailed her arms, splashing water down the hallway. “I told you! I told you we shouldn’t have taken this dump!”
Sarah sighed and trudged into the bathroom, eyeing the spreading water before sinking onto the stool. A month ago, they’d moved into this two-bedroom flat in central London, selling their cosy little house in the suburbs. It had seemed perfect—close to work, shops, the clinic. Now?
“Mum, why are you just sitting there? We need to do something!” Emily hovered in the doorway, wrapped in her dressing gown.
“And what exactly should we do?” Sarah muttered. “Call the plumber? Out of our own pocket? Again? That’s the third time this month.”
“Well, maybe talk to the landlady? Make her pay—it’s her flat!”
“I already did. She says it’s our fault, that we’re ‘using the plumbing wrong.’ How do you use a tap wrong?” Sarah got up, grabbing the mop. “Go have breakfast, or you’ll be late for work.”
“What breakfast? The cooker’s broken again!” Emily huffed. “Yesterday it took me ages to make porridge. Today it won’t even turn on.”
Sarah sighed. The cooker had been dodgy from day one, but the landlady, Margaret Whitmore, swore it worked fine—they just needed to “get used to it.” Get used to burners that lit half the time and an oven with a mind of its own.
“Fine, I’ll pop over to Lucy’s and borrow her kettle,” Emily grumbled, yanking on her jeans.
“Absolutely not!” Sarah snapped. “I won’t have us begging from the neighbours. We borrowed butter yesterday, salt the day before. They’ll think we’re penniless.”
“So what then? Go to work starving?”
Sarah looked at her daughter and felt that familiar lump in her throat. Why had they ever agreed to this move? Their old house had its quirks, but at least they weren’t at the mercy of a miserly landlady.
Emily left for work hungry and fuming, while Sarah tackled the bathroom flood. Wiping up water, tightening taps—useless. A thin trickle still seeped out.
The phone rang just as she was about to call the plumber.
“Sarah? Margaret here. Everything alright? No complaints, I hope?”
“Well… the plumbing’s acting up again.”
“Again?” Margaret cut in. “What on earth are you doing to my flat? I told you to be careful!”
“We *are* careful! We just turn taps on and off, like normal people!”
“Then why do you need a plumber every week? Have you dropped something heavy?”
Sarah clenched her jaw. They hadn’t dropped a thing. The flat just wasn’t the pristine gem Margaret had described. During the viewing, everything worked—now, daily surprises.
“Margaret, could you at least send someone? It’s getting embarrassing…”
“Send someone? It’s your fault! I warned you the fixtures are old—handle them gently!”
“But the contract said everything was in working order!”
“It *is* working! You’re just ham-fisted!” Margaret barked before slamming the phone down.
Sarah set the phone aside and glanced around. The flat *was* central, bright, with high ceilings. But beneath the surface? Ancient wiring, rusty pipes, windows that rattled—and Margaret refused to lift a finger.
By lunch, Emily returned, scowling.
“So? Any progress?” she asked, dumping her bag.
“None. Landlady says it’s our fault.”
“Our fault? How?” Emily threw her hands up. “Because her flat’s falling apart?”
“Keep your voice down. The walls are paper-thin.”
“I don’t care!” Emily paced, arms flailing. “Mum, how much more can we take? My friends are taking the mickey! They say I live like a student—no water, no power, a cooker that’s decorative!”
“Your friends should count their blessings,” Sarah muttered. “Their parents *buy* flats, not rent them.”
“So maybe we should buy one too?” Emily blurted. “We’ve got the money from the house, plus savings—”
“What savings?” Sarah blinked. “Most of it went to your surgery.”
Emily fell silent. The operation *had* cost a fortune—hence the move, to be near the hospital. They’d thought renting would be temporary. Instead, they’d stumbled into a trap.
“Maybe we should find another place?” Emily ventured.
“With what?” Sarah pointed to the stack of bills. “Look. Rent, utilities, your meds. We’re barely scraping by.”
Emily flipped through the papers and whistled.
“Blimey. I had no idea it was this bad…”
“You weren’t meant to. That’s my job.” Sarah gathered the bills. “Now you see why we can’t just up and leave?”
Emily nodded silently, then asked, “Mum… do you regret selling the house?”
Sarah hesitated. Did she? Of course. Their little house had been cramped but cosy—a garden, familiar neighbours. Here, they were adrift.
“I do,” she admitted. “But it’s done. The house is sold. We’ll make do.”
“Or… we could try reasoning with Margaret?” Emily suggested. “Offer to chip in for repairs if she lowers the rent?”
“Repairs? Have you *seen* what needs fixing? We’d go bankrupt!”
Just then, the lights cut out.
“Oh, brilliant!” Emily groaned. “Fuse blown *again*!”
Sarah checked the fuse box—fine. The wiring, then. She sighed, digging out a torch.
“Mum, we can’t live like this,” Emily said quietly in the dim light. “It’s not the Dark Ages.”
“What’s your suggestion?” Sarah asked wearily.
“Dunno. A solicitor? Council inspection?”
“On what grounds? We signed the lease willingly.”
“But she *lied*! She said everything worked!”
“Prove it. She’ll claim we broke it.”
Emily fell silent. They were stuck. No savings, no escape, just daily battles.
The power returned as abruptly as it left. Sarah put the torch away and headed to the kitchen. The cooker, miraculously, worked—though only one hob.
“Mum,” Emily said suddenly, “remember our first day here? You said we’d finally ‘live like proper people’?”
“I remember,” Sarah said, stirring soup.
“I really believed you. Nice flat, central, everything close. Felt like a fairy tale.”
Sarah smirked bitterly. “Just not the one we expected.”
“Maybe… we’re just rubbish at flat-living?” Emily mused. “In the house, we fixed stuff ourselves. Here, we’ve got to ask permission, follow rules…”
“What rules?” Sarah scoffed. “We know how taps work. The flat’s a wreck, and Margaret’s tight as a drum.”
“So what do we do?”
Sarah turned off the hob and faced her daughter. “What do *you* think? You’re an adult. Decide.”
Emily thought, then said slowly, “Maybe we gave up too soon. There’s always another way.”
“Like what?”
“Find better jobs. Side gigs. Save up for a decent place.”
“Emily, you’re fresh out of surgery. You can’t overdo it.”
“I’m not an invalid! There’s light work. And you could sew again—remember how the neighbours begged for alterations?”
Sarah paused. She *had* done odd tailoring jobs back home. Maybe here, too?
“You know what,” she said, “we’ll try. Slowly. But first, we sort this flat.”
“How?”
“Gather evidence. Photos of the leaks. Maybe a council inspection *will* help.”
Emily brightened. “Yes! And I’ll ask at work—someone might’ve dealt with this.”
“Just don’t overshare. I won’t have us pitied.”
“Course not. Just… advice.”
Dinner was quieter, lighter. For the first time in weeks, they had a plan—not just complaints.
Days later, Emily came home buzzing.
“Mum, there’s a housing inspection service!” she announced. “Maggie says they forced her mate’s landlord to fix everything!”
“Really?” Sarah perked up.
“Really! We just need proof—which we’ve got!”
“I’ve already started photos,” Sarah admitted. “Took some when the
