Oliver was slow to realise that standing on a stool with a rope in his hands might send the wrong message.
He sat on the edge of his bed in just his boxers, feet flat on the floor. Again, he thought he heard his mother calling.
“Oliver, love… Oliver…”
Nearly every night, her voice woke him. He knew it couldn’t be real—she’d died three weeks ago—but still, he’d sit up, listening, waiting.
For the last six months, she hadn’t left her bed. Oliver had worked from home to care for her, hiring a nurse once—but the woman stole their savings and his mother’s gold jewellery after just three days. He never risked it again.
Between typing reports, he’d strain his ears for any sound from her room, rushing at her first murmur. Exhaustion kept him nodding off at his desk. That last night, he’d jolted awake at her call and sprinted in—only to find her motionless. He’d wept, begging forgiveness for feeling relief alongside grief. Her suffering was over. He was free.
Yet three weeks alone hadn’t brought peace—just crushing emptiness.
She’d been cheerful, youthful. Humming while ironing or dusting. It seemed she’d always be that way. Oliver never imagined her fading.
Sleep was pointless now. He checked the clock—half six. Outside, grey autumn gloom pressed against the glass, seeping in, leaching colour from the room. Quiet. Still. Dull.
He felt grey too. Lifeless. Dressing mechanically, he approached her door—only entered once since her death, to pick a dress for the funeral. He shoved it open. The stench of medicine, sickness, and stale air punched him in the throat. Avoiding the crumpled bed, he yanked open the curtains and shoved the window wide.
Cold, damp air rushed in, mingling with the waking city’s hum. Strange—the room seemed brighter suddenly. Energised, Oliver stripped the sheets, avoiding the dust, and dumped them with her dressing gown—still hanging where she’d left it. The pile went into the washing machine.
Back with a bin bag, he swept pill bottles and a used glass from her bedside stool into it. He smoothed the quilt, dusted, mopped. The room didn’t revive, but breathing grew easier. Spurred on, he cleaned the entire flat.
Admiring his work, he waited by the window as the kettle boiled. As if feeding off his energy, sunlight tore through the clouds—a jagged strip of blue in the distance. His mood lifted.
The fridge was nearly empty. Oliver couldn’t recall his last proper meal. Near the end, his mother could only stomach puréed food, and he’d lacked the will to cook separately. Later, he’d nibbled funeral leftovers. Now, only a half-empty jar of pickled gherkins (mould floating atop) and curdled milk remained. He binned them.
Black coffee turned his stomach. Shoving his wallet into his jacket, he took out the rubbish. On his way back, he ducked into Tesco for bread, milk, pasta, sliced ham, apples… He could’ve bought the whole shop but restrained himself.
At home, he boiled pasta while wolfing down two ham sandwiches. The washing machine beeped.
The laundry wouldn’t all fit in the tiny bathroom. No balcony, no dryer. Scratching his head, Oliver weighed options. The hallway and kitchen were too narrow. Only one solution: string a line across the lounge. Who’d see it?
Digging through the hall cabinet—where his mum hoarded “just-in-case” junk—he found a coil of rope.
Unbidden, Natasha came to mind. His ex. Two years together. His mum had approved of marriage, but Oliver stalled. He loved her, yet her presence suffocated him. Natasha planned their future relentlessly—maybe that was it. His mum warned he’d die a bachelor if he waited. He’d caved. Then she fell ill, and Natasha “postponed” the wedding. Who’d nurse a dying mother-in-law?
At first, she’d visited, helped cook. Then just calls, citing work. Eventually, silence. He hadn’t chased her. What was there to say?
After his mum’s death, he’d rung Natasha. She offered hollow condolences but skipped the funeral. Honestly? Good riddance.
Oliver eyed the room. Right—tie one end to the radiator, the other… He grabbed a nail from the cabinet and hammered it into the doorframe. Thank God they’d kept the old painted wood, not swapped it for cheap laminate. Clambering onto the stool, he looped the rope.
*”Would this even hold my weight?”* He froze. *”Christ, where did that come from?”*
High heels clicked outside. New neighbour—a young woman he’d glimpsed once. The flat belonged to an elderly couple who’d retired to Devon and rented it out. He’d heard her comings and goings: the door slam, heels on tiles, the click of the lobby lock. No visitors. Nights in. Her perfume lingered in the hallway.
Not a student. Not a tourist. He noted it idly. Hadn’t cared to introduce himself.
Now the heels paused at his door. Perched on the stool, rope in hand, Oliver listened. The door creaked open. A slim, pretty woman gaped at him, eyes wide with alarm.
Belatedly, he grasped how this looked.
“Your door was open,” she said. “Sorry to interrupt your… project, but could you help me?”
Oliver jumped down. She stepped back. No surprise—he was a mess. Stubble, tangled hair, hollow cheeks. His joggers were threadbare, his T-shirt stained. The picture of a man ready to quit.
“What’s wrong?” he grunted.
“I—I think I lost my keys,” she murmured, rummaging in her handbag.
Oliver frowned. How’d she open the lobby door, then? Unless he’d forgotten to lock it…
“Nope.” She looked up. “How do I get in?”
“Call the letting agent. Get a locksmith.”
“It’s Sunday.”
Sunday? He’d lost track.
“Fine. I’ll try.” Digging out tools, he jimmied the lock for an hour, sweating and swearing. When it finally gave, the woman thanked him stiffly but lingered.
“Can I smoke in here?”
“Go ahead.” He widened the window.
As she lit up, he heard keys jingle in her bag. The penny dropped—she’d faked losing them. Sacrificed her lock to stop a stranger’s suicide. He said nothing. Then remembered the laundry. Tying the rope, he fetched the basket and began hanging clothes. She watched, unmoving.
“I heard about your mum,” she said.
“Three weeks ago.” He pinned up a sock. “But I wasn’t going to hang myself, if that’s what you’re thinking. Do I look that pathetic?”
“Absolutely,” she deadpanned.
“Get a locksmith tomorrow. This one’s wrecked.” He ducked his head, embarrassed by her bluntness.
“I made roast beef. Too much for one. Want some?”
“Why cook so much, then? Odd woman.” He surprised himself. “Alright.”
“Eleanor,” she introduced herself properly. “Your place or mine?”
“Yours. I’ll shower first.”
After she left, Oliver shaved, showered (ducking under the laundry line), and dressed in fresh jeans and a shirt. The mirror showed a nearly handsome man.
Eleanor’s flat smelled divine. The table held salad, wine, two glasses. His stomach growled. She smirked. They ate, chatting lightly—skirting sore topics—and soon slipped into first names.
“When did you last just… walk?” Eleanor asked. “It’s warm out.”
“Can’t remember.”
She cleared up, arranging dishes meticulously—plates sized, cup handles aligned. A towel hung precisely centre, then, with a twitch, she offset it.
“Why rent? You’re no student.”
“Left my husband. Didn’t want to crawl home. Mum adores him—she’d nag me back.”
“Ah. Too tidy for you?”
“How’d you guess?”
“You lined the plates up like soldiers.”
“Observant.” She sighed. “Everything had its place. ‘Order is life’s foundation.’” Her voice dripped mimicry. “A neatness fanatic. Even sex was… scheduled. No spontaneity.”
“Bloody dull.”
“Worse. He’d rage if a fork was crooked. Decent bloke otherwise, Mum says. The roast? Habit. Sundays were meat days.” She stood. “Walk?”
“What about your door?”
“The lobby locks. Nothing to steal.”
They wandered for hours, returning late, exhausted. In the lobby, neither moved to leave. Oliver dreaded his empty flat. Her perfume coiled around him.
“Your place or mine?” Eleanor murmured. “Will you call me strange before or after bed?”
He grinned. “You *are* strange. Extraordinary. This hall always smells of you.”
Then he scooped her up, nudgedThey married the following spring, and on Sundays, the hall smelled of roast beef and laughter instead of perfume.
