Six months ago, old Mrs. Jenkins from down the hall passed away. Her husband, Tom, was left alone. He sank into sorrow, hunched over as if the weight of grief dragged him down. He barely left the flat. The neighbours pitied him—some brought soup, others ran errands for him.
Tom was hard of hearing and forgetful. He’d turn the telly up full blast and leave the kettle boiling until it nearly scorched. One time, it almost started a fire. After that, his neighbour, Emily, kept a spare key to his flat.
Then his son came and took him away, putting the flat up for sale. The neighbours were relieved—no one should die alone when family’s still around.
Three weeks later, the flat had a new owner. The whole building knew—workmen arrived, tearing out old plumbing, hauling away grimy furniture. The hammering, drilling, and banging went on for days. Emily, living right next door, could barely stand it.
After work, she’d dread coming home. The racket met her on the stairs. Finally, she marched over and knocked. A dusty bloke cracked the door.
“Are the owner? How much longer is this noise going on? I can’t take it anymore,” she snapped.
“Sorry, love. Boss wants it done quick. Two more days, then it’ll just be finishing touches—quieter stuff,” he said.
“Two days?” Emily was speechless.
The drill roared back to life. She stormed outside, where the noise faded.
“New neighbour driving you mad?” asked one of the women on the bench by the door.
“Have you seen him?” Emily countered.
“Oh yes,” they chimed in. “Dresses smart, smells posh. Good-looking, polite—always says hello.”
“We’ve got ourselves a proper gentleman,” cackled toothless Maggie.
The others laughed, flashing their gold crowns and dentures.
“Rather he played the violin,” Emily muttered.
“Did you talk to him?”
“I did. What’s the use? It’s the workmen making noise, not him.”
“You ought to take a proper look at him, Em. Fine bloke. How long’ve you been single? Still young enough for kids. And he’s loaded—drives a flash car.”
“I’m off to the shops,” Emily said, walking away before they could say more.
Her husband had died two years after they married. No children. Thirteen years alone.
“Probably comes when I’m at work. No use complaining—the flat was a mess. Just wait till he moves in. I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine,” she thought, stepping around a puddle.
Two days later, they finally met. Emily trudged home exhausted, just wanting to collapse. The day had been brutal. As she reached the door, it swung open.
A man smiled at her—all thirty-two teeth gleaming. She knew instantly: the new owner. His grin felt smug, his gaze arrogant.
“Thanks,” she said curtly, brushing past.
The door shut behind her. Footsteps followed in the dim hallway. Her pulse jumped. She spun around—there he was.
“Go ahead. I don’t like people breathing down my neck,” she said, masking fear with irritation.
He passed her, taking the stairs two at a time. The building was old, central, with high ceilings—prime real estate.
When she reached her floor, he was at his door.
“So you’re my neighbour? Workers said you came by shouting.”
“I asked nicely. We’ve been living on a building site.” She fumbled for her keys.
“My apologies. Nearly done.”
Emily shot him a glare and slammed her door so hard plaster dust rained down.
From then on, she slammed it at every chance. Petty revenge. She pictured his smirk vanishing.
A week later, furniture arrived. Movers blocked the stairs hauling up a sofa. Emily squeezed past, stealing a glance inside—light walls, honey-coloured floors…
“Care for a look?” He appeared in the doorway. She flushed, scurrying into her flat, forgetting to slam the door. Damn.
On her birthday, her mate Sarah came over, late as usual. The flat buzzed with laughter until Emily gasped, “Forgot the wine. Can’t open bubbly to save my life.”
“Any blokes next door?” Sarah winked.
“Just the neighbour, but—”
Sarah was already knocking. Two minutes later, she returned with him—rolled sleeves, checkered shirt.
He popped the cork effortlessly. Behind his back, Sarah mimed swooning.
“Em’s birthday! Cooked enough for an army,” Sarah announced.
Emily glared, but he stayed, filling glasses. “To our lovely host—and neighbour!”
Emily nearly choked. She’d dressed up—curled hair, red lips.
Sarah clung to him, piling his plate, steering him to dance. Emily fled to the kitchen, fighting tears.
Five minutes later, Sarah burst in, fanning herself. “Blimey, what a man! You said you weren’t keen—mind if I have a go?”
“Take him,” Emily said, voice cracking.
“Think of it—we’d be neighbours! He’ll propose, just wait.”
“He’s got a blonde girlfriend. Not our age.”
“Liar!” Sarah shrieked.
“Stunner. Hollywood’s jealous.”
Sarah’s mascara fluttered. Crushed.
He appeared in the doorway. “Must dash. Happy birthday, Emily.”
Sarah pounced. “Any chance of a lift? Had a bit too much.”
He glanced at Emily. “Be right out.”
When they left, Emily sobbed. “Some mate. Steals my neighbour. And he is lovely…”
She cleaned up, showered, towel on her head—when the bell rang. Sarah, she thought, flinging the door open.
There he stood, holding roses.
“Brought these. Happy birthday.”
Drowning in scent, she forgot her robe.
“Fancy tea and cake?” he asked, not budging.
They drank tea as he talked—divorced, lived up north, missed the city. Bought this flat—just like his childhood home.
“The blonde?” Emily asked.
“My daughter. Ex-wife remarried; she’s at uni, visits often.”
“Sarah fancied you. She’s pretty, yeah?”
“Didn’t notice. Looks like my ex.” He studied Emily until her skin prickled.
That night, she lay awake. “Don’t miss your chance,” her mum’s voice echoed.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Next morning, rain poured. She turned back for an umbrella—but he appeared.
“Wait there. I’ll drive you.”
At a red light, rain blurred the world. Felt like they were alone, drifting.
Then the wipers swished, shattering the moment.
At work, Sarah pestered her. “Did he ask about me?”
“Said you look like his ex,” Emily smirked.
The next day, he invited her to the theatre.
“Ten minutes. I’ll be outside.”
She slipped into a new dress, loose curls, light makeup. His admiring glance warmed her.
After the show, they walked home. On her doorstep, he invited her in to see the finished flat. Champagne, then dancing—his hands hot, her resolve melting like wax…
Two months later, he proposed.
“Could knock through, join the flats.”
“Absolutely not. Our son will want his own space.”
“Our son? Sure about that?”
“I am.”
So it goes—some meet their match young; others find love after loss. People love, die, and others come along to love again…
“Love endures. Lovers change.”
