Alright, so here’s the story, all adapted for English culture—names, places, everything.
“Alright, here’s my number—make yourself at home. I’ve got to dash because my flight’s tomorrow night, off on holiday,” said Emily Whitmore, the landlady, already halfway out the door after handing over the keys to Lily. “Ring me if anything comes up. Cheers!”
“Right, cheers,” Lily replied, a bit flustered, still clutching the tenancy agreement and the letter of authority for dealing with the building management—just in case.
“Sharp as a tack, that landlady. Then again, they all should be,” Lily thought.
She loved the flat—new build, lovely view. A proper forest nearby and a little stream that never froze, even in winter. No one knew why. Some joked it was filled with antifreeze.
A week and a half in, Lily was coming home from work after dark—typical winter. The neighbour across the hall, Margaret Bennett, a sweet older woman, popped over on day three.
“Evening,” she said softly. “Margaret Bennett, from opposite. Best to know your neighbours, don’t you think?” She sounded like she was reminding herself as much as Lily.
“Hello, Margaret! Come in. I’m Lily—so glad you dropped by. Bit lonely here, not knowing a soul,” Lily said warmly. “Fancy a cuppa? Though I’ve only got digestives and a bar of Dairy Milk.”
“Ta, love, but I’ve just baked an apple pie. Come over to mine instead. And—forgive me—I’ll call you ‘love.’ Used to teaching, you see. Old habit.” She smiled, the kind that made you trust her instantly.
“She must’ve been a brilliant teacher,” Lily thought before answering, “Blimey, apple pie? Lucky me!”
She stayed ages, no regrets. Margaret was a riot—stories about her teaching days, missing the kids now she’d retired. “That’s life,” she sighed.
Lily, 28, single. Three months since she’d split with her ex. Lovely bloke, but hopeless—couldn’t even rinse a mug, let alone fix anything. They’d rowed over housework, then called it quits after a year.
Back from Margaret’s late, full of tea and pie, Lily crashed. Work was mad—report due, late nights. The next day, glued to her screen, she barely nibbled a sandwich at lunch.
Home at last, she flopped onto the sofa. “Thank God that report’s done. Christmas break soon—I’ll hit the slopes. Just gotta drag Sarah along. Lazy mare hates skiing.”
After supper, she scrolled her phone till thirst dragged her to the kitchen. Plonking down a mug, she froze at a strange noise. Water gushed from the tap, spraying everywhere.
“Oh no—flood alert!” She’d never dealt with this before.
Panicking, she remembered the landlady showing her the stop valve. She sprinted to the bathroom, wrestling the stiff old tap. It budged a bit, slowing the flow to a trickle. She chucked a towel down—useless. The flat below was her biggest worry.
“Who lives there? I’ll drown them!”
Another heave—tap moved, but not enough. She grabbed the contract, rang Emily—no answer. Holiday, probably. Next, the building management—no pickup. Then her mum, who panicked: “We’re coming!”
“Mum, I’m 90 miles away! What’ll you do? I’ll keep trying the management.”
She mopped up, but water still seeped. Desperate, she knocked on Margaret’s door. Margaret, in her nightie, grasped the situation fast and dialled the emergency services.
“Why didn’t I think of that?” Lily realised.
Margaret rattled off details, stressing the urgency. “Right, tea for ten minutes—they’ll be here sharpish,” she said calmly. School had prepared her for chaos.
Then Margaret’s phone rang. “Yes, Anthony, I know—but no one’s answering at management. Water’s everywhere, love. Could flood the lot below.”
Ten minutes later, boots thudded outside. As Lily explained, a bloke in joggers—sleepy and grumpy—walked in. “Anthony Reynolds,” he said. “Building management.” They followed him back to her flat, now swarming with emergency blokes.
“I’ll shut off the mains,” Anthony said, vanishing.
Four blokes tramped through, water sloshing underfoot. Nearly midnight. “How late will I be up cleaning this mess?” Lily groaned.
Eventually, fixed and dried, they left. Lily wiped up, relieved the downstairs neighbours were spared. The emergency lot had checked on them too.
Next evening, Anthony dropped by. Lily, knackered, even fluffed his name. He checked the tap, grunted approval, and turned to leave—just as Margaret marched in, scolding him about the lift always breaking. She invited them for tea—oddly, he agreed—then listed gripes about the playground too.
Late again, Lily headed home. Days later, she spotted Anthony leaving their block, then bumped into him at the door. “Margaret,” she mused, “does he live here? Seen him loads.”
“Fancy you, maybe,” Margaret grinned.
“Hardly. He’d ask for my number.”
“Shy, perhaps.” A pause. “He’s my son. And I like you.”
Lily blinked. “Why call emergency services if you could’ve rung him?”
“Different jobs, love. Friday night, seventh floor—no one’s rushing for that. Emergency lot called him. By the way, Emily rung you yet?”
“Yeah, back in three days. Said she’d pop round.”
As Lily turned to go, Margaret stopped her. “Anthony’s a good lad. Divorced three years ago. Hands like gold—just cautious now. If he calls, answer, eh? If you fancy him.”
Lily wasn’t keen on setups—no romance—but life was hectic. She agreed. Next day, Anthony waited outside with roses and a Victoria sponge.
“Lily, hi. Fancy a cuppa?”
“Hi—come in.” They chatted like old mates. Over tea, he said straight out, “I won’t stay long—work’s mad. Next time, cinema, promise.”
They laughed. “I get it. No time for dating with that job.”
Next day, her hot water died. She texted Anthony. He fixed it—and stayed.
A month later, she moved into his flat next door. Two months after that—wedding. Sarah gawped. “Bit quick, no?”
Lily grinned. “No time for moonlit walks. Neither of us could be bothered to say no.”
