Margaret Peterson knew everything happening in their building. Who came home late, who argued loudly, whose council tax payments were overdue. Yet she knew nothing about the woman on the fifth floor.
The neighbour arrived quietly. Margaret recalled flat fifty-three standing empty after old Reginald Smith passed. His nephews from Bristol visited occasionally, sorted through belongings, then sold up. Who bought it remained unclear.
“Probably flipping agents,” speculated neighbour Carol Davies, chatting by the mailboxes. “All the rage, buying and selling homes like groceries.”
But soon it was clear someone lived there. Margaret knew from the faint music drifting down and the distinct click of heels on the stairwell—proper high-heeled shoes, a rarity in their crumbling block with its ancient lift and peeling paint.
The first time Margaret saw her was by chance. Peeking through her door’s spyhole at voices in the hall, she froze. A tall woman stood opposite, draped in an elegant beige coat, fair hair swept into a neat bun, cradling white roses.
“Thank you so much,” the stranger said to a middle-aged man in a smart suit. “I’ll be sure to pass them on.”
The man nodded, murmured something inaudible, and headed for the lift. The woman lingered, gazing at the flowers before sighing softly and vanishing inside.
“Carol, have you seen the new fifth-floor tenant?” Margaret asked the next day, sitting on the courtyard bench.
“What new one?”
“In fifty-three.”
Carol shook her head. “No. Young?”
“Not really. Mid-forties, perhaps fifty. Quite elegant, well-kept. Dresses smartly, not like the rest of us.”
“Must be well-off then,” Carol concluded. “Buying a central flat.”
Margaret agreed, yet something felt amiss. Residents with money didn’t choose their dilapidated building; they opted for new builds or serviced blocks.
Margaret began noticing frequent visitors to the fifth floor. Always men, always bearing flowers. They came at all hours—morning, noon, evening. Some stayed twenty minutes, others an hour or more. Without exception, they were well-dressed and confident.
“An artist, perhaps?” Carol suggested when Margaret shared her observations. “Or a musician? They always know lots of people.”
“An artist with that kind of money?” Margaret snorted sceptically. “Have you ever met a wealthy artist?”
Carol shrugged, conceding it was unlikely.
Margaret’s curiosity grew. She strained to hear noises above, timed taking out her rubbish to coincide with footsteps on the stairs. But the neighbour seemed to vanish. Did she tread silently? Or sense being watched?
The mystery unraveled unexpectedly. Returning from the doctor’s after a long wait – leaving only with frustrating test referrals and a foul mood – Margaret met Geoff, the council handyman, in the lift.
“Alright, Margaret?” Geoff greeted her, toolbox in hand.
“Hello Geoff. Where to?”
“Fifth floor. Leaky tap. Job sheet came through.”
Margaret perked up. “Fifty-three?”
“Yeah. Lady there’s interesting. Always offers tea, biscuits too. Pays extra, mind.”
“Really? What’s she like?”
Geoff scratched his head. “Lovely lady. Polite. Seems a bit… sad, though. Lives alone, no family.”
“Alone? But men visit constantly!”
Geoff looked surprised. “What fellas? Been up five times – never seen a soul but her.”
Margaret pondered. Was Geoff lying? Or was her understanding flawed? Perhaps the neighbour hid her visitors.
The answer arrived a week later, unexpectedly. Margaret collided with her neighbour at the grocer’s. The woman stood by the dairy section, intently reading a milk carton label.
“Pardon me,” Margaret began, “you’re from our building? I’m Margaret Peterson, fourth floor.”
The neighbour looked up. Close up, she was even more striking – fine features, expressive brown eyes, flawless skin. But Margaret saw profound weariness and sadness in those eyes that made her shiver.
“Yes, I remember,” the woman replied quietly. “Eleanor Williamson. Pleased to meet you.”
“Settling in alright? Reginald kept it tidy.”
“Thank you, it’s fine. Quiet. Peaceful.”
Eleanor clearly wasn’t chatty, but Margaret pressed on.
“Working somewhere? Or retired already?”
“I work,” Eleanor answered curtly, turning to the cheese aisle.
Margaret took the hint, said goodbye, and left, more unsettled than before.
She immediately phoned Carol. “Carol, I spoke to her! Eleanor Williamson!”
“And?”
“Nothing much. Very guarded. And so terribly sad.”
“Husband died? Messy divorce?”
“Don’t know. Something’s off. Geoff swears she’s always alone, but I’ve seen the men myself.”
Carol paused. “Mags… have you thought… perhaps… well?”
“What?”
“Men visiting, money about, living alone…”
Margaret gasped. “Carol! How could you? She’s respectable! Educated!”
“Educated women need to eat too,” Carol countered.
The idea horrified Margaret. It explained the floral visitors, the money, the secrecy. Yet Eleanor seemed nothing like *that*.
The thought lingered. Margaret observed Eleanor more closely now, her curiosity laced with worry. What if Carol was right? What if poverty forced her…?
One evening, Margaret heard quiet, sustained weeping through the wall. She felt such pity she nearly knocked on Eleanor’s door.
The next day, she met Eleanor in the foyer descending with a heavy bag, face pale, dark rings beneath her eyes.
“Eleanor, may I help? That looks heavy.”
Eleanor stopped, surprised. “No, thank you. I can manage.”
“Please, let me. It clearly is.”
Eleanor hesitated, then sighed. “Alright. Thank you silently.”
They reached the exit. Eleanor paused.
“Margaret… could I ask something?”
“Of course!”
“If someone comes asking for me… say I’m not home. Please?”
Margaret nodded, puzzled. “Who might ask?”
“Different people,” Eleanor evaded. “Just say you don’t know where I am.”
The visits stopped. Margaret heard no more footsteps, saw no more men with flowers. Eleanor became a ghost, coming and going unheard.
Weeks passed. Margaret was forgetting the mystery neighbour when the final piece fell into place.
An evening knock. Margaret opened her door to a well-dressed man, about fifty, holding red roses.
“Excuse me,” he said politely, “do you know if Eleanor Williamson in fifty-three is home?”
Margaret recalled the request. “No, she’s out. Went away.”
The man’s face darkened. “When back?”
“I don’t know. Left some time ago.”
He stood a moment, then offered the roses. “Then please accept these. Could you pass them on? From Michael Stewart. Tell her I must speak with her urgently.”
Margaret took the bouquet, promising to deliver it, though unsure when she’d see Eleanor.
Chance intervened the next day. Eleanor returned, clutching an office folder.
“Eleanor!” Margaret called out. “A visitor yesterday.”
Eleanor halted, the colour draining from her face. “Who?”
“A Mr. Michael Stewart. Left these. Asked you to call.”
Eleanor took the blooms; Margaret saw her hands tremble.
“Thank you,” Eleanor whispered.
“Eleanor,” Margaret began gently, “if there’s trouble… if you need help…”
Eleanor looked up, eyes brimming with tears. “It’s fine. I… I just can’t live like this anymore.” She hurried into the lift, leaving Margaret bewildered.
The explanation came a week later.
Their newfound friendship, blooming quietly over countless cups of Earl Grey and slices of Victoria sponge, became a steadfast anchor weathering the city’s relentless tide.
