ODD NEIGHBOURS
Into flat 222 at number 8, Shakespeare Crescent, moved a new couple. They looked to be in their early fifties, both rather short and slender. He sported a neatly trimmed beard and always seemed to wear a grey overcoat, whatever the weather. She was often seen in a long skirt and a patterned beret, looking as if she’d stepped out of some English countryside romance. Always politesmiling in the lift and holding the door if you were weighed down with shopping bags.
And, in these days of paper-thin walls, the greatest blessingthey were quiet.
At least, everyone thought so at first. But after a couple of weeks, the Smiths in 221 and the Bakers in 223 discovered just how distinctly they could hear their new neighbours.
Soon enough, this became the hot topic round both dinner tables.
Take the Smiths, married since they were barely out of university, now both forty and each others other half for half a lifetime.
Did you catch the new neighbours today? asked Linda Smith over lamb chops one evening.
I didrode up in the lift with them yesterday, replied her husband, Peter, not looking up from his newspaper.
What do you make of them?
Seem perfectly normal. Why?
They’re absolutely insatiable, those two! Linda hissed, blushing beneath her fringe.
What on earth do you mean?
In the day, when you all leave and it’s dead quiet, they play games. You know. Adult… and loud. Its been three days running now. The things Ive heard! Its like living next to a cinema.
Really? Peter grinned.
Oh yes. And with all sorts of imagination, too. Its distracting when Im trying to work from home.
Come now, dont be such a prude. Theyre in their fifties and still so playful.
Not like us, Peter mused silently, though he kept that thought to himself.
On the weekend, Peter became an unwilling spectator himself. That day, it sounded like a typical gardener and lady of the manor scene. The Smiths sat red-faced and silent, pretending not to notice every creak or sigh.
*****
Meanwhile, in the Baker flat, the youngest couple on their stairwelljust shy of thirty, married five years, expecting their first childchatted over breakfast.
Simon, did you bump into the new neighbours?
Yep, yesterday on the stairs. Why?
Theyre so interesting. Shes always cooking him something that smells divine, like we live above a posh bistro, and he showers her with gifts. Every single day!
How do you know?
Im out walking every afternoon, and the aromas from their flat are heavenly. Ive seen him more than once with flowers, and once he had a big gift bag. He rushes back home like he cant wait another minute.
Hm.
Maybe theyre not even married. Maybe theyre having a passionate affair!
Who knows They do live together.
And on the kitchen side, if youre not making a racket with the pots, you can hear them giggling and flirting like teenagers.
Simon shrugged, already turning towards the telly. News is on. Ill just check the headlines.
Later that Friday, Simon Baker ran into the neighbour in the liftflowers in one hand, a bottle of Merlot in the other, his face all expectation for the evening ahead.
*****
A month went by. The odd neighbours in 222 settled in.
By now, the Smiths had grown used to the background whisperings coming through the walls. The mysterious couple never seemed to tire of each other, inventing new games daily, or else sharing sweet sighs and the creak of bed springs. It was as if they were trying to seize every last drop of joy.
One evening, Linda, her cheeks glowing, turned to her husband, embarrassed.
I ended up in the lingerie section at John Lewis. Just look what I bought She spread open her robe with a shy smile.
Peter Smiths eyes lit up. He licked his bottom lip, barely breathing.
And I he stammered, I popped into that shop near the station last week. The adults-only one. Got this. Not sure what youll think
You’ll never know unless you try, Linda murmured, blushing brighter.
*****
Looks like theyre finally at it, whispered the man from 222, pressing his ear to the shared wall with the Smiths.
*****
Simon from 223 decided to nip out at lunchtime to the jeweller’s. He realised it had been ages since he surprised his wife. Not like he used to, with little treats tucked in her handbag, always a suspender or a Dairy Milk just for her.
Suddenly he spotted a familiar coat.
Emily! he called. What are you doing here? Youre miles from home!
His wife turned, flustered. Just fancied a stroll. You?
Bought you a pair of earrings. Here, for you! he said, unable to keep the surprise.
Emilys face lit up. Thank you, love. She rose on tiptoe to kiss him. I was going to make you prawn carbonara for tearemember how I used to? The fishmonger heres the best.
Oh, I remember. My mouths watering just thinking about it.
Dont be late tonight. Ill have dinner ready by seven.
Wouldnt dream of it, Simon replied, making a mental note to pick up flowers too.
*****
So, hows it going? the man in 222 asked, almost conspiratorially.
Shes cooking something fancy, his partner grinned, and the Smiths are clearly joining in the fun.
*****
In another month, the Smiths seemed transformedten years younger, eyes shining, hands always finding each other. They longed for a moment alone, sometimes escaping the kids to book a hotel room, unable to get enough of each other. Conversation sparkled again; even daily chores became a shared delight.
*****
The Bakers, on the verge of parenthood, had started going out on dates once morecinema, that new Italian, or the pop-up gallery in town. Emily had rediscovered her old recipe book, and Simon took to spoiling her anew, never without chocolate or a little something in his briefcase. He couldnt remember the last time evening news had seemed important.
*****
How are they getting on? the woman from 222 asked one evening.
Nice and easy. The Smiths are creaking awaykids must be home. But listen, theres more cheer in their voices. I make a point of listening in, just to be sure.
And the young ones?
Delightful. Always giggling and joking in the kitchen, and it smells like Gordon Ramsays moved in next door.
Brilliant. Weve wrapped this one up in three months. Another couple of weeks, just to be sure.
Fine by me. Whos next?
Simons, flat 65. The family in 66s gone stale, they barely remember their own names. And 64 could do with some, ah, bedroom motivation!
Right. No need to put your cassette tapes away thenkeep up the noise. Ill leave the food deliveries from that Italian place coming. The scented oils havent run out yet. By the way, those roses you kept fresh have wilted. Well need another bouquet.
Ill pick some up. Mind my back tonight, then lets call it a dayAs they poured two glasses of Chianti and toasted quietly in their lamp-lit kitchen, the woman smiled at her partner with a conspiratorial twinkle. Its rewarding, isnt it? she said, her voice low and warm. Most couples never realizeloves muscles need regular exercise, just like any other. Sometimes a little mischief and melody, a savoury recipe, is all it takes.
He chuckled, swirling his wine. A nudge here, a nudge there, and suddenly the air in the whole building changes. You can almost feel it in the corridora little more laughter, a softer look, doors opening with anticipation. He sipped, grinning at a distant crescendo muffled by well-worn plaster. I like to think were invisible matchmakers, modern Cupids with a talent for good acoustics.
She tapped her glass to his. To happy neighboursand a job well done.
A soft knock came at the door. When she opened it, Mrs. Smith stood there, cheeks rosy, eyes sparkling, a freshly baked cake in hand. We just wanted to say thank you. For being such wonderful neighbours. Youve brought something special to this floor.
Emily Baker and Simon appeared a moment later, arms linked, clutching a basket of fresh pastries. Dinner at ours next weekend? Emily offered, her smile wide.
Inside, the couple from 222 exchanged a sly glance.
We wouldnt miss it, the man replied, bowing extravagantly. Its what neighbours are for.
Later, when the halls grew quiet, the two invisible matchmakers packed away their propsperfumed candles, well-worn cassette tapes, and a half-empty bottle of rose oil. Another parcel of roses waited by the door, addressed to Flat 65.
Hand in hand, they disappeared into the night, only the faint sound of laughter and a lingering trace of spice drifting after them.
Above the block at number 8, Shakespeare Crescent, a fresh breeze whispered over the rooftops. And in every flat, loveodd, noisy, delicioushad come noiselessly back to life.
