System Glitch
Laura, are you home?
Michael, its Sunday morning. Of course Im home. You know that.
Then would you let me in?
She peered through the peephole for a moment. Her brother stood in the corridor in his parka, unzipped, two big bags at his feet, and the glum resignation of a man whos just lost a really important argument. Behind him, two small shapes loomeda tall and a tiny one. Laura closed her eyes briefly. Looked again. They were still there.
She flicked the lock.
Morning, Michael said, and gave her the smile shed known since they were kids. The one that always preceded a favour.
No, she said flatly.
I havent asked anything yet.
Youre giving me that look. The answers no.
Oliver squeezed sidelong past his dad and stared up at his aunt, six years old with a sticky-up bit of hair and a trailing shoelace streaked with, Laura suspected, something brown she didnt want to identify. Next to him, Emily clutched a one-eared rabbit and watched Laura with the serene curiosity only four-year-olds manage with new placesutterly unafraid.
Laura glanced down at her pale oak floorher pride and joy, fitted three months before, after waiting six weeks for a specialist bloke from Kingstonmarred now by the track of Olivers dubious lace.
Alright, come in, she said. Shoes off, all of you.
Her flat on the eighth floor of the brand-new Northern Crescent block was what she considered her true achievement. Not her job as senior sales manager at HomeSpace, not her car, not even the savings account. The flat. One hundred and four square metres, three-metre ceilings, floor-to-ceiling windows with a view over the city park. Shed spent two years picking out lamps and fabrics, getting the blue-grey curtains just so. Her Estelle catalogue sofa was wide, dove-coloured, high-backed; the coffee table had a knot shed grown to adore; everything in its proper place, nothing extra cluttering the sills, even her Belleveitch beauty products arranged by height in the bathroom. Matching towels. Wooden hangers only.
This was a life shed built purposefully. Every detail considered, every item harmonious. The city centre hush of an eighth-floor flat, interrupted only by the quiet hum of her very sensible Livington kettle and, occasionally, rain at the window.
Michael left his bags in the hallway. Children shucked off their shoes. Oliver, immediately, left a mark on the white wall.
Oliver, Laura said.
What?
Hands.
He inspected his palm, then the wall, then looked at her again. What about them?
Laura took a deep breath, three in, three out, the kind they drilled into her in all those stress management workshops.
Michael, she said, spit it out.
He migrated to the kitchen, perching on a high stool at the breakfast bar, hands foldedcompletely done in.
Were off, Amy and I, to a little retreat. For eight days. We really need to talk. You know? Honestly talk. Thats impossible with the kids about.
No other options?
Mums in Eastbourne till next Friday, you know that. Amys parents are up north and theres some virus quarantine, cant take the kids. Laura, Im just asking for this one thing. Eight days.
Eight days, Laura echoed.
Well, give or take. Well be back Sunday.
From the lounge came a small, unmistakable crash.
Emily! Hands off! Michael shouted, without bothering to look roundone of those hundred-times-a-day dad reflexes.
Michael. She kept her voice quiet, because quiet always worked better, another lesson from the workshops. I work from home. Ive got a big online presentation on Wednesday for clients in London, Manchester, Bristol. I dont know how to handle kids. I dont know what they eat, what Im meant to say, how you put them to bed.
Theyll eat anything except onions. Well, Oliver wont eat tomatoes. Say whatever to them, theyre not fussy. Emily needs her rabbit to sleep, Oliver likes a story, theres a book in his bag.
Michael.
Laura. He finally looked up. A different look: not pleading. Just a tiredness too heavy to argue with. If we dont go I dont know what will happen to us. Our family, I mean. Really, I dont.
She was silent. Out past the window, a cloud drifted slowly above the park. So white, so still.
Eight days, she said finally.
Thank you.
Dont thank me yet. Ill probably ring you in three hours.
Ill keep my phone handy. So will Amy.
Michael left quicklya man escaping before someone changes their mind. He kissed the kids, praised Auntie Laura, the best, left a note full of instructions in his large, scruffy writing on the breakfast bar, and fifteen minutes later the door swung shut behind him.
Laura stood in the hall.
Oliver and Emily stared at her.
She stared back.
So, she ventured.
So, Oliver replied.
Hungry?
I want juice, piped up Emily.
What kind?
Orange.
Orange juice?
No, orange, the orange one.
Laura opened the fridge. Two types of sparkling water, a tub of sliced veg, plain Belleveitch yogurt, half a bottle of white wine. No juice. It had never occurred to her to buy juice for children; shed never had a reason.
Well have to pop to the shop, she said.
Hooray! Oliver cheered, his voice bouncing off the three-metre ceilingsa fantastic echo.
Laura grimaced.
The shop was in the next building, five minutes walk. In that time Emily droppedher rabbit four times, Oliver pressed every lift button, including the emergency one, and told Laura in forensic detail about a boy at his nursery, Jack, who could spit through his teeth really far. Laura learned more than she ever wanted to about Jack.
At the shop she bought four juices, milk, bread, strawberry yogurts, pasta, vacuum-packed chicken pies, apples, bananas, and a garish packet of biscuits that Oliver chucked into the basket while she mulled the cheese section. She let it slidea small surrender she wouldnt have forgiven herself a week before.
The rest of the day went alright, for the most part. Emily spilled orange juice on the coffee table, Oliver ran full pelt into a doorframe, howled for five solid minutes. Laura, at a total loss, offered him a glass of water and the comforting promise that it would be alrighther usual tip for frazzled adults, and, oddly, it worked. Oliver gulped down the water, snuffled a final time and went off to binge cartoons on the tablet Michael had packed.
Come bedtime, they refused to go down at nine, then ten, then half ten. At eleven-thirty, Laura read Oliver his bear-and-raspberry storytwice, by request. By then, Emily was already asleep on the sofa, clutching her rabbit. Laura watched her for a long moment, then carefully picked her up and carried her to the guest bed. Emily was light and warm, like a small sun. She didnt stir.
Laura returned to the kitchen, brewed herbal tea in her Livington flask, opened her laptopthree days until the presentation. Two slides and an intro to finish.
She sat there, in the hush of her kitchen, sipping tea, and found she couldnt focus.
The next morning started at 6:37am on the dotshe remembered perfectly because shed checked her phone just as a thunderous crash erupted from the lounge.
Oliver had woken up early and attempted to build a fortress from the Estelle sofa cushionsall four now on the floor, with the throw, and Oliver in the centre calmly munching biscuits hed somehow found up in the kitchen cupboard. There were crumbs everywhere.
Morning, he chirped, wide awake.
Morning, said Laura, resigned.
Can you make pancakes?
Drop scones?
No, round ones with maple syrup.
We dont have maple syrup.
Shame.
She made porridge instead. Oliver ate it, no questions. Emily staggered in at eight, rabbit in arm, said, I want porridge, like Oliver, and climbed onto a chair.
Laura thought maybe, just maybe, she was getting the hang of it.
The flood happened Tuesday, two in the afternoon.
She was editing her slides at the desk. The kids were playing pirates in the bathallowed to float paper boats made from old bills Oliver had scavenged from her bedside drawer. It seemed safe: water, contained, and quiet.
Too quiet, as it turned out.
Laura only noticed later, after shed finished a slide and got up for waterthe sparkle of a puddle crawling along the hallway tile from under the bathroom door.
Oh, bloody hell, she said aloudthe sort of tone you use when its already too late.
Inside, the tap was gushing. The kids, apparently, got distracted and leftto watch TV, Oliver would later explain. One heroic flagship jammed the plughole by some miracle of folding, blocking the drain and sending water all over the floor.
Laura turned off the tap and surveyed the damage. Closed her eyes.
Twenty minutes later, the bell rangjust as she finished mopping, debating whether her Belleveitch slippers could be salvaged.
Whos there?
Downstairs neighbour. Seventh floor.
She opened the door to a man in his early fortiestall, a bit rumpled, in house jeans and a navy jumper. Calm face. In his hand, a phone, displaying a photo of his now blotchy, dripping ceiling.
Im Andrew. Seventy-two.
Laura. Eighty-four, she sighed. Yeah, I know what happened. Kids.
Understood, he pocketed the phone. Need a hand?
She stared at him. Waited. Usually, this is where the neighbourly lament about damages and managing agents and compensation begins. She was readyshe knew how to handle these talks; she did it for a living.
Did you say hand? she checked.
Yes. Sounds like youve still got a lot of water sloshing about. Ive a builders dryer and a proper mop. The one that wrings out nicely.
Olivers head popped round her hip. Youre the downstairs neighbour? Is it our fault your ceilings wet?
It is, Andrew replied, and Laura tensedbut there was no malice. He only cocked his head, asked, Did the boats sail well?
Brilliant! Oliver said, delighted. I had an aircraft carrier!
Thats impressive.
Come in, Laura said. No sense leaving the man in the corridor.
The next hour blurred past. Andrew fetched his mop and genuinely helped her clear up. Unhurried, not a word of complaint; sometimes even letting Oliver wield the cloth, which he took as a mark of trust. Emily observed from the door, hugging her rabbit, saying, Look, its wet over there, and, to her credit, she was always right.
Is your ceiling trashed? Laura asked, once they finished.
A bit. The old whitewash was peeling anyway. The patchll dry out.
Ill pay for repairs.
Well see, he shruggedmore a philosophy than a threat. How long have you had the kids?
Second day.
Yours?
Nephew and niece. I No. No kids.
He nodded. Glanced at Olivernow fiddling with the TV remote, flood already forgotten.
Then a tip: you can get those plug guards at any hardware. And dont run the tap full-blast.
Noted.
Good luck. He grabbed the mop, turned at the door. If you need anything, Im just below. Ring anytime.
Why are you so calm? she blurted, surprising herself.
He paused.
What else was I meant to do? Rant? Wont dry the ceiling any faster.
He left. Laura closed the door and leaned against it. The sun was setting outside. On the kitchen battleground, Emily was protesting to Oliver about the biscuits. He protested. Laura came in and split the biscuits, saying nothing.
Both looked at her as though shed unlocked some secret grown-up level.
The next morning, Laura got ready for her big presentation. The kids watched cartoons in the lounge, iPad recharged, bowls of apple slices and crackers laid out neatly.
The meeting started at eleven. Laura sat at her desk in the study, blazered up over a t-shirt, camera on. Seven people dialled in from London, Manchester, Birminghama couple of directors, some partners, a regional agent.
First fifteen minutes were fine. Laura demoed the new Estelle collection, handled a few questions.
Minute sixteen: the door swung open.
Auntie Laura! Emilys voice carried, easily audible three floors down. Olivers got my rabbit!
Emily, Laura whispered, eyes flicking to her laptop, Im working.
He says rabbits ugly!
It is ugly! came Olivers voice.
Sorry about that, just a moment, Laura told her camera, wearing the bravest smile she could muster.
She muted the feed, stepped into the lounge. Oliver had a hold of the rabbits good ear, Emily the body, both pulling.
Let go, she said. Both of you.
They did. The rabbit crumpled. Emily snatched it up and clutched it to her chest.
Oliver, can you watch another episodesilently?
Its finished. Ooh, adverts.
She glared. He glared back. Eventually, she found CBeebies and got them on some gentle show about talking animals, then returned to the study.
Eight calm minutes passed. Then the door opened: Oliver, alone, stood by her desk, silent.
Still talking, Laura glanced at himhe did not budge.
I need the toilet, he announced, perfectly audibly into the webcam.
The London director was first to laugh, then everyone else joined in. Laura felt herself reddeningthe first time in fifteen years.
Oliver, you know where the toilet is, she managed.
I just wanted to tell you.
Then please go.
He left. Laura picked up her pitchprofessional tone in tatters, but with a new relaxed energy. The Manchester partner said he had three kids himself, absolutely understood. The regional guy liked the pitch and they agreed to speak again.
When it was over, Laura stayed at the desk for a while, simply sitting. She realised she wasnt angry. Shed expected to be furiousand she wasnt.
She made cheese sandwiches for the kids. Oliver pronounced them nice. Emily only ate half, being busy chatting to her rabbit.
At four, the doorbell rang.
I brought the plug guard, Andrew said, holding up a little pack.
You went out specially?
I needed bread anyway.
Come in.
She hadnt meant to invite him in, but the words were out. He pulled off his shoes. Oliver darted from the loungeOh, its the man who helped us!
The very same, Andrew agreed.
You all dried out yet? Oliver demanded. Your ceiling sorted?
Nearly.
Good. Dyou play Jenga? Ive got Jenga, Daddy packed it.
I do, yes.
Brilliant. Ill get it.
And thats how Andrew ended up at Lauras coffee table, stacking tiny wooden blocks. Emily didnt know the rules but insisted on being the rabbits coach. Andrew played seriously, with the care of someone who respects other peoples things, which Laura later thought must be why the kids took to him.
She hovered in the kitchen, pretending to fuss with tea and dinner, but really just watched.
Gently now, Oliverleft side is looser, Andrew explained.
How do you know?
Towers are tricky things. They always have a weak spot. You just need to find it.
Is life like that? Oliver blinked, with surprising depth for a six-year-old.
Andrew paused.
A bit, yeah.
They all ate together. Andrew stayed naturally, helped fry the pies, sliced the breadbecause Laura struggled with her clumsy loaf and he got perfect slices. Slightly presumptuous, but fair, as he did it better.
How long have you lived here? she asked.
Three years. I remember you moved in last yearI saw the removals.
Observant.
Just timing, really. I was leaving for work.
What do you do?
Architects office. Im a structural engineer. Boring stuff, really.
Why boring?
No one ever asks if a beam is pretty. Only if it holds.
But isnt that what matters?
He looked at her like that wasnt the answer he expected. It is.
Kids were asleep by nine, quietly and without protest. Andrew finished his tea, thanked her and stood.
Goodnight, he said at the door.
Goodnight. Thanksfor the plug, for everything. For not shouting about the leak.
He looked at her just a touch longer than usual.
Youre doing really well, he said. Especially first time.
How can you tell its my first?
If it wasnt, you wouldnt look like youre carrying a crystal vase and terrified of dropping it.
She laughed for realnot just politely, but genuinely, which surprised her.
He left. She stood in the hall for a minute. On the hooks were Emilys little blue coat with a bear-shaped button, Olivers jacket, and her own, slightly apart, as if making space.
Thursday and Friday were different. Laura didnt jump at every loud thud. The morning porridge-and-juice routine became almost familiar. Emily liked to sit quietly beside her during work hours, doodling in a spare notebook Laura handed over. The sketches were always rabbit familieshundreds, all named.
Thats mummy rabbit, Emily explained, nose to the page. Thats daddy rabbit. Thats tiny rabbithes called Button.
Why Button?
Hes tiny and round.
Makes sense, Laura agreed.
Friday evening, Andrew knocked with a board game hed dug out of a cupboarda battered set of World Cities, obviously old. The kids didnt know any of the places, but played with wild enthusiasm.
Where did you get this? asked Laura.
From when I was a kid. I kept a few things. Dont know why.
Glad you did.
They all ended up on the floorthere wasnt space at the coffee tableand Laura realised she hadnt sat on a floor in years. The oak parquet was cool and smooth. Emily nestled by her side, fell asleep mid-game, and Laura held her, almost without noticing.
Andrew noticed, but didnt say a word.
Saturday was a park dayAndrews idea, and Laura just went with it. The park, their very view from the flat. Oliver found a puddle, went in boots first, and when Laura said, Go round, he still went straight through. The boots were carried home in a bag, Oliver in socks, which also ended up wetnot that he cared.
Why arent you upset? Laura asked.
About what?
Your boots.
Theyll dry.
You sound just like Andrew, she said, out loud by accident.
Andrews great, Oliver agreed. Is he your friend?
Hes my neighbour.
Is that the same?
No.
Why not?
She had no answer. Behind her, Andrew was carrying Emily on his shoulders, talking to her about trees, and Emily listened as if he were telling her the secrets of the world.
Sunday evening, Michael rang. His voice was differentlighter, warmer.
How are they?
Alive, Laura said. Oliver paddled in a puddle. Emilys drawn forty-seven rabbits.
Michael laughed.
Youre smashing it.
Not bad at all. And you two?
A pause.
Better, he said. Much better. Thank you.
Good, Laura said softly. Im glad.
The second week was calmer. Laura knew now: Oliver wouldnt eat fresh tomatoes but would drink tomato soup if you didnt say what was in it. Emily insisted the window be left just a crack at bedtime. At half-seven they both rode the tiredness train straight to meltdown, so better to just scoop them into bed before arguments. These were little things, but shed learned on her own.
Andrew came by every evening. Sometimes he brought something; more often, just conversation. Theyd talk in the kitchen after bedtimeabout work, the city, books. He read loads, which surprised her given his job. She read too, or used to, before work swallowed her evenings.
What are you reading now? he asked once.
Nothing. Manuals and emails, mostly.
That doesnt count.
I know.
Want me to lend you something?
Go on, then.
He brought her a novel by a Japanese author, about a woman sorting through her mothers belongings and realising she hadnt really known her. Laura started reading at bedtime, the best half-hour of her day.
Thursday, week two, Oliver asked to see her work. She frowned.
I work herethats my office.
I know. Show me.
He stood in her doorway, surveyed her laptop, the Estelle catalogues, and the little cactus on the sill.
Are you happy? he asked.
What do you mean?
At your job.
I suppose I am. I like my work.
Dad says you should only work if it makes you happy. Otherwise its pointless.
Wise man.
Yeah, Oliver pondered. Auntie Laura, why do you live by yourself?
It just worked out that way.
Didnt you want someone here?
I got used to it. I was happy.
Was?
She hesitated. Was.
The last day came faster than expected. Michael arrived Sunday at one, Amy in towshe looked so different, settled at last. She hugged the kids for ages; Emily wouldnt let go at first.
Laura, I cant thank you enough, said Amy.
No need.
Were they good?
They were kids. Laura smiled. Thats normal.
Amy looked surprisedas if expecting a complaint.
It took an hour to pack. Emily cried a little at goodbye, and Laura hugged her and promised theyd visit again. Oliver shook Lauras handso grown up it made her laughand then, suddenly, hugged her for real before darting off.
The door closed.
Laura stood in the hallway. Emilys coat was gone; only her own hung there.
The flat was silent.
She went to the lounge. A cushion was squashed where Oliver had watched TV; a forgotten little picture of bunnies was on the floorEmilys. A bunny family: mum, dad, and little Button. Off to one side, a yellow-haired figure captioned in childish capitals: AUNTEE LORA.
Laura cradled the picture for a while.
Then she went to the kitchen, put on the kettle, fetched her favourite mug. Everything in its placeright, clean, quiet. Just as she liked.
She waited for reliefthat lifting that always came after chaos, after Michaels family visits, office parties, anything that broke up the rhythm. Relief at reclaiming her space.
It didnt come.
Just the picture and the silencewhich now sounded different, like that gap after the music stops. Not sure yet if its good or not, just different.
She sat in the kitchen, drinking tea, staring at the park, and thinking.
About Oliver asking if she was happy. About Emily falling asleep on her arm that rainy Friday, neither of them moving. About how different her study felt now Oliver had stood there asking questions. About Andrew.
The way he sliced bread neatly. His calmnessnot apathy, but steadiness, like a hidden beam holding everything up. The way he showed up without ever expecting anything, just being there.
And about how, for nine days, she hadnt woken at three a.m. panicking about workthe background worry that had run her life for years.
At six, she went and got washed, changed into her favourite navy jumper, the one she told herself suited her. Picked up her phone, put it down, picked it up again.
She didnt call him.
She went down in the lift to the seventh floor and rang flat seventy-two.
Andrew opened in seconds. Looked at hernot surprised, but expectant.
Theyve left, Laura said.
Heard the door slam.
So quiet.
Probably.
Do you want to come up for tea? she asked. I just put the kettle on. Well, itll need boiling again.
He paused.
Id like that, he said.
They took the lift up. Laura put the kettle back on. He sat at the breakfast barsame seat Michael had used on day one. A different conversation, a different man.
You know, Laura said, this is the first day in nine I dont have anything I need to do. I dont quite know what to do with myself.
Is that good or bad?
Just unfamiliar.
Youll get used to the new unfamiliar.
What does that mean?
Well, it was strange being on your own once. Then it wasnt. Now its strange again, in a different way.
You sound like someone whos been there.
He looked at her.
I was marriedsix years. Now its been three since. The hardest thing was not the split, but the quiet after. Realising silence with someone, and silence without, are different.
Laura studied her tea.
I always thought quiet was freedom, she said. That being alone was my active choice.
Maybe it is, he said. But choices change, sometimes.
Yours did?
Theyre changing, he smiled softly. Partially thanks to neighbours kids and their kitchen tsunamis.
She laugheda real laugh.
Andrew
Yes?
She stopped. Here was the moment to retreat, make things lightpractice made her an expert. Instead: I like you. You should know.
He looked at her.
Thats good, he said quietly, warmth in his voice. I like you, too. Been thinking about it.
How long?
Since you asked why I was calm. Nobody ever asked that before.
Weird reason.
I have weird reasons.
They drank tea and talkedabout jobs, life on the seventh and eighth floors, kids, rabbits, Andrews sharpened bread knife. He didnt rush to go; she didnt want him to.
As he left, he squeezed her hand in his, just for a moment.
Goodnight, Laura.
Goodnight.
She leaned against the door, just like that first night. But now the quiet was warm, not empty.
She walked back to the lounge, picked up Emilys bunny drawing, and propped it on the shelf by her vase. Bunny family watched her with little drawn eyesAuntie Laura with yellow hair a bit wobbly but recognisable.
A year later.
The flat had changeda little, but noticeably if you knew her. Childrens books, bright and dog-eared, lived on the bottom shelf since the last nephew and niece visit. Three more plants joined her cactus on the ledgeone crooked, from Emilys enthusiastic watering. Two coats hung in the hall: her navy one, and a grey mens.
On the Estelle coffee table, open at schematic drawings, was one of Andrews massive architecture catalogueshis signature mug nearby, next to a dog-eared novel.
Laura stood at the window, gazing at the autumn-orange park. She loved it best in autumn.
Her bump showed, not huge, but therefive months in. She was learning, bit by bit, that impossible things become normal, then central.
The door opened.
Theyre nearly here, said Andrew, coming into the kitchen. Michael just texted.
So, half an hour?
Oliver rang you?
Three times. Wants to know if he can watch shows on the tablet or if were off to the park first.
He can do both.
Thats what I told him.
Andrew put the kettle on, looked across at her.
You alright?
Im good, Laura smiled. Bit achey. But good.
Sit down.
Im fine standing.
Laura
Alright, alright. She sat. You know, I was thinking A year ago, right now, theyd just left and I was waiting for the feelingthe relief.
And?
It never came.
I remember you showed up.
Were you waiting?
He thought.
Not really waiting. Hoping.
The doorbell rangloud and urgent, only the way kids do, as though the button might spell out their excitement.
Thatll be Oliver, Laura said.
Of course.
Let them in, would you? Its too much effort for me to get up.
Andrew went to the door.
Auntie Laura! Oliver called, barely letting the door open. Were here! Are we going to the park? Are the leaves out? Is your bump big?
Oliver, give us a minute! came Michaels exasperated voice.
Im in!
Emily slipped in quietly as usual, surveying, found Laura, and came straight over for a huga properly grown-up, silent, strong one. Then, retreating just a bit, she asked, Auntie Laura, is my rabbit here?
Hes on the guest room shelf.
Good. I knew hed be there.
The hallway hummed as Michael and Amy bustled in, hugs and road-trip stories flying. Oliver dashed off somewhere, emerging only from squeaks around the flat. When he reappearedbear-and-raspberry book in handhe grinned: You kept our storybook!
I did.
Youll read it to the baby?
I will.
Good. He nodded, confident the world was as it should be. Andrew, are we going to the park? Are there leaves?
Yes, loads.
Lets go!
Tea first, Laura said, firmly. Then park.
You always say that.
And I always will.
Alright, said Oliver, fixing her with that straightforward stare which hadnt changed. Auntie Laura, are you happy now?
Outside, the flat spilled with life and laughterAmy chatting away, Emily hunting for her rabbit, the kettle whistling, city streets and autumn leaves glinting outside, and the small, already-loved someone making their quiet presence known.
Laura looked at Oliver.
Yes, she said.
