Margaret Peterson always knew everything that happened in their building. Who came home late, who fought with whom, which families scraped the barrel for the council tax. Yet the neighbour from the fifth floor? She knew precisely nothing.
The woman materialised in their entrance hall as if conjured. Margaret recalled flat fifty-three stood empty for an age after old Simeon Ivanovich passed. His nephews, distant relatives from Liverpool, visited occasionally, bundled things away, then sold up. No one ever learned who bought it.
“Estate agents, most like,” speculated neighbour Carol Henderson, meeting Margaret by the postboxes. “Flipping houses like hotcakes these days, they are.”
But soon it became clear the flat hadn’t been flipped. Someone had moved in. Margaret knew from the faint strains of music drifting down sometimes, and the distinct *clack-clack* of heels on the stairs. Proper heels, mind you – not flip-flops or trainers. A rare luxury in their dowdy block.
Margaret first glimpsed the new tenant by chance. Peering through the spyhole at voices on the landing, she froze in surprise. A tall woman stood framed in the doorway opposite, wrapped in an elegant beige trench coat. Her hair was swept into a neat chignon, a bouquet of white roses clasped in her hands.
“Thank you ever so much,” the stranger murmured to a middle-aged man in a severe suit. “I’ll see they’re passed on.”
The man nodded, said something indistinct, and vanished towards the lift. The woman lingered, gazing at the flowers, then released a quiet sigh and dissolved into her flat.
“Carol, have you seen the new neighbour?” Margaret asked her friend the next day as they lingered near the recycling bins.
“Which new one?”
“Fifth floor. She’s in fifty-three now.”
Carol Henderson shook her head: “Afraid not. Young?”
“Not especially. Forty-five, perhaps fifty. Handsome, very well turned out. Dresses smartly. Not like the rest of us here.”
“Loaded then, I expect,” concluded Carol. “Buying smack central like that.”
Margaret agreed, yet a persistent sense of strangeness clung. Wealthy folk didn’t typically settle in their crumbling Edwardian pile with its wheezy lift and peeling paint. They bought swanky new-builds, places with a concierge.
Gradually, Margaret noticed men visiting the woman upstairs. Always men. Always bearing flowers. Coming at all hours – mornings, evenings, afternoons. Some stayed twenty minutes; others lingered over an hour. All were impeccably dressed, radiating confidence.
“An artist, maybe?” Carol ventured when Margaret shared this. “Or a musician? They’ve always folk drifting in and out.”
“An artist with that sort of brass?” Margaret snorted sceptically. “Ever met a flush painter?”
Carol shrugged, conceding the point. Unlikely.
Margaret’s curiosity swelled daily. She strained to hear sounds from above, timed taking her bins out to coincide with footsteps on the stairs. But the neighbour seemed to dissolve into the air. Either walked whisper-soft or sensed observation, expertly avoiding encounters.
The answer arrived unexpectedly. Margaret returned from the hospital after an interminable queue to see the GP. Her mood was grim – the doctor offered little but a stack of referrals. In the lift she bumped into Mick the handyman from estate services.
“Alright, Mrs P?” Mick greeted, clutching his toolbox.
“Hello, Mick. Off to a job?”
“Fifth floor, fix a leaky tap. Had a request.”
Margaret perked up: “Number fifty-three?”
“That’s the one. Quieter sort lives there. Always offers tea, biscuits. Pays extra too, says she will.”
“Go on? What’s she like?”
Mick scratched his head: “Good sort. Polite. A bit posh. Seems proper sad, mind. Dead lonely. Lives alone, no one visits.”
“Alone? But men are constantly traipsing up!”
The handyman looked surprised: “What men? Been down there five times now – never seen hide nor hair of anyone. Just her.”
Margaret pondered. Either Mick was fibbing, or she’d got it twisted. Or perhaps the neighbour was cautious, hiding visitors.
The solution emerged a week later, entirely out of the blue. Margaret came face-to-face with the neighbour in Tesco. The woman stood by the dairy chiller, intently studying the label on a bottle of kefir.
“Excuse me,” Margaret addressed her. “You’re from our building? Margaret Peterson, fourth floor.”
The neighbour lifted her eyes. Up close, she was even more striking – fine features, expressive dark eyes, flawless skin. But those eyes held a fatigue, a profound melancholy, that made Margaret flinch.
“Yes, I recall you,” the woman replied softly. “Eleanor Williams. Pleased to meet you.”
“Settling in alright? Good flat, that. Old Simeon kept it tip-top.”
“Thank you, it’s fine. Quiet.” Eleanor offered no more, clearly disinclined to chat. Margaret pressed gently:
“Working anywhere? Or retired?”
“I work,” Eleanor answered curtly, turning to the cottage cheese.
Margaret took the hint, bid goodbye, and left, the encounter leaving her more baffled than before. Questions multiplied.
Home, she rang Carol immediately: “Carol, I spoke to her! Eleanor Williams.”
“And?”
“Not much. Clammed up. Seemed dead sad, like she could cry.”
“Husband died? Messy divorce?”
“Dunno. Something’s not right. Mick says she’s always alone, but I’ve seen men going up with my own eyes.”
Carol paused, then probed cautiously:
“Marg… you ever think maybe… well…?”
“What maybe?”
“Well, men visiting, money about, living solo…”
Margaret gasped: “Carol Henderson! How could you? She’s a respectable woman! Cultured!”
“Respectable women get hungry too,” Carol countered. “Life happens. Maybe she got laid off, pension doesn’t stretch…”
The idea jarred Margaret profoundly. On one hand, it explained the flower-bearing men, the money, the secrecy. On the other, Eleanor looked nothing like *that* sort.
“No,” Margaret stated firmly. “Impossible. You haven’t seen her. She’s proper classy.”
“Classy folks eat too,” Carol retorted.
The thought nagged. Margaret observed Eleanor even more closely, curiosity now tinged with anxiety. Could Carol be right? Were Eleanor’s money troubles truly that desperate?
One evening, Margaret heard quiet weeping through the wall. Subdued, prolonged. Something cracked inside Eleanor, and Margaret felt such pity she nearly knocked on her door.
Next day, she met Eleanor on the stairs descending with a heavy holdall. Her face was pale, shadows bruising her eyes.
“Eleanor, need a hand? Looks heavy.”
Eleanor halted, surprised: “Thank you, I’m fine.”
“Go on, let me help! Plain to see it’s a struggle.”
Eleanor hesitated, then sighed: “Alright. Thanks.” They descended silently. At the door, Eleanor paused: “Margaret, might I ask a favour?”
“Anything!”
“If someone asks for me… please say I’m not home. Would you
The following autumn morning dawned crisp and clear, and Marina glimpsed Eleanor through her peephole descending the stairs, her posture holding a newfound, fragile resolve beneath her sensible wool coat.
