Emily froze by the front door, key in hand. A faint rustling and muttering came from inside the flat. James was at work, and shed decided to come home early for a half-day break after an exhausting week. Her heart pounded. Burglars? Cautiously, she cracked the door open and heard a familiar voice:
“Oh, Emily, James, youre so untidy! Dust on the windowsills, curtains all crumpled! You ought to hire a cleanerthis is no way to keep a home!”
In the hallway, clutching a broom, stood Auntie Maureen, their neighbour. Emily was stunned.
“Auntie Maureen? How did you get in here?” Her voice trembled with disbelief and irritation.
“Oh, just being neighbourly, dear!” Maureen beamed as if her presence were perfectly normal. “Saw the door ajar and thought Id check everything was alright. What a mess! So I tidied up a bit.”
“The door was locked,” Emily said coldly, gripping her bag. “Im certain of it.”
“Oh, dont fuss, locked or not,” Maureen waved her off like shooing a fly. “Were all friends in this buildingnothing to fear! At least it was me and not some troublemaker!”
Emily didnt know what to say. Her new home, the first flat she and James had ever owned, suddenly felt invaded. She mumbled a half-hearted “thanks” and ushered Maureen out, but indignation simmered inside. How did their neighbour have a key? And why did she act as if she had the right?
This had started six months earlier, when Emily and James, a young couple, moved into an old but cosy house on the outskirts of London. The flat was their pride and joytheyd scrimped for three years for the deposit, took out a mortgage, and cut back on everything from coffee to holidays. When they finally got the keys, Emily nearly cried with joy, and normally reserved James spun her around the empty living room, laughing.
“This is our home, Em! Ours!” he said, eyes shining.
They settled in slowly: bought a sofa, hung pale curtains, placed a potted fern on the windowsill. But the small joys meant the mostmorning coffee in the tiny kitchen, evenings wrapped in blankets watching films, dreaming of future renovations.
The day after moving in, the doorbell rang. On the doorstep stood a short woman in her sixties, neat hair pinned back, holding a basket.
“Hello, dears! Im Maureen Harris, your neighbour from Flat 3. Auntie Maureen, if you like.” She smiled so warmly Emily couldnt help smiling back. “Brought you some cheese scones. A little welcome!”
“Oh, thank you so much!” Emily took the basket, touched but uneasy. “Would you like to come in for tea?”
“Just for a minute,” Maureen said, stepping inside and glancing around. “Oh, what an interesting layout! Though youll want to repaintthese walls are dreary. And the kitchens a bit snug, isnt it?”
Emily floundered but nodded politely. James, making tea, added, “Were saving up for renovations. Slow and steady.”
“Very sensible!” Maureen patted Emilys shoulder. “If you need tips, I know where to find bargains.”
The scones were delicious, and Maureen was chatty. She shared gossip about the neighbours, stories about the buildings history, even advice on convincing the caretaker to clear snow earlier. Emily and James exchanged glancesperhaps theyd found an ally.
But soon, Auntie Maureen overstayed her welcome. She dropped by unannounced, brought more baked goods, offered to “check the plumbing” because “these old pipes burst if you blink.” Emily, raised to respect elders, stayed polite, but the constant comments grated.
Once, while they painted the living room cream, Maureen wrinkled her nose. “Oh, Emily, this colours so cold! You shouldve gone for peach. And that roller will leave streaks.”
“We like cream,” Emily said tightly. “Its our style.”
“Style, schmyle,” Maureen scoffed. “Ive lived here forty yearsI know what works. Take my advice and repaint.”
James wiped his hands. “Thanks, but were happy with it. Fancy a cuppa?”
Maureen pursed her lips but stayed. Over tea, she mentioned the fifth-floor tenant complaining about their “noisy DIY” and the caretaker grumbling about their recycling. Emilys stomach twisted. Theyd been consideratewere they being judged behind their backs?
“Are we doing something wrong?” she whispered to James later. “I dont want feuds with the neighbours.”
“Were fine, Em,” he said, hugging her. “Auntie Maureen just loves meddling. Lets keep our distance.”
But Maureen didnt relent. She ambushed Emily in the lobby, probing about jobs, salaries, baby plans. One evening, Emily found their postbox open, bills neatly stacked on the bench.
“Auntie Maureen, did you take our post?” Emily asked when she spotted her outside.
“I was helping!” Maureen exclaimed. “Your box was overflowingI didnt want you losing anything. Oh, and your electricity bills high! I can show you how to adjust the meter.”
Emilys cheeks burned. She muttered something vague and hurried away, suspicion growing. Why was Maureen so invested in their lives?
Things worsened when a cheaply suited man knocked, claiming to be an estate agent. He pushed them to sell, insisting the building was “falling apart.” Emily refused, but he left a card, adding, “Maureen Harris sang your praisessaid youre lovely people.”
“Auntie Maureen?” Emily frowned. “Whats she got to do with this?”
“Oh, she recommended you!” The man grinned. “Said you might reconsider for the right price.”
Emily slammed the door, furious. Maureen had discussed them with strangers? Why?
A week later came the “open door” incident. Emily confided in James, who rarely lost his temper. “This is too far, Em! She broke into our home! Whered she get a key? We changed the locks!”
“I dont know,” Emily fretted. “Maybe from the previous owners? I think shes up to something.”
Frowning, James suggested checking the buildings new CCTV. The footage shocked them: Maureen, smiling slyly, used a key to enter their flatmultiple times while they were out.
“Is she spying on us?” Emilys throat tightened. “Or stealing?”
“Doesnt seem like it,” James said. “Nothings missing. But this isnt right. We need to confront her.”
The talk was tense. Emily knocked on Maureens door, struggling to stay calm.
“Auntie Maureen, we need to talk. Why were you in our flat? And how do you have a key?”
“Oh, Emily, what nonsense!” Maureen gasped. “I was helping! The door was open, andoh, that old key? Mustve been from the last tenants. Forgot I had it!”
“Youve been inside several times,” James said firmly. “Weve seen the CCTV. Explain yourself.”
Maureen paled but rallied. “How dare you accuse me? Ive lived here forty yearseveryone trusts me! I brought you scones, gave you advice, and this is my thanks?”
“Were grateful for the scones,” Emily said evenly. “But you crossed a line. Hand over the key and stay out.”
Grudgingly, Maureen surrendered it, muttering about “ingratitude.” Relief was short-livedEmily soon overheard Maureen gossiping in the courtyard.
“Those newcomers in Flat 4 are so rude! I helped them, and they threatened to report me! Good thing I tipped off that agenthell have them out soon. This buildings for decent folk, not their sort.”
Emily froze. Agent? “Have them out”? She called James, who consulted a solicitor friend. The truth emerged: Maureen colluded with a shady agent, feeding him info on new residents. Hed pressure them to sell cheaply, and shed get a cut. Their flat, in a rising area, was a prime target.
“Thats fraud,” the solicitor said. “Gather evidence, and well report it.”
They played along, inviting Maureen for tea to “apologise.” Unaware she was being recorded, she gloated:
“Oh, that agents brilliant! Ive worked with him for yearshell give you top dollar. This place is a money pit anyway!”
The recording sealed it. The solicitor filed a complaint. When questioned, Maureen backtracked, but Emily stood firm.
“You chose to betray our trust. We wanted to be good neighbours, but you went too far.”
Within a month, Maureen moved to her daughters in Bristol. The agent was fined, and the flat was left in peace. Emily and James finished decoratingcream walls, just as theyd wanted. A second fern joined the first, and their postbox stayed private.
“You know, Em,” James said over coffee one morning, “I thought a new home was just walls and furniture. Turns out its
