Six months ago, the elderly neighbour of Gillian passed away. Her husband was left alone. He sank into sorrow, hunched over as if the unbearable weight of grief was pressing him into the ground. He barely stepped outside. The neighbours pitied him—some brought him soup, others fetched groceries from the shop.
He was hard of hearing and forgetful. He’d sit in front of the telly, volume cranked up, and forget the kettle boiling on the stove. Once, he nearly started a fire—and almost suffocated from the smoke. After that, Gillian 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 their children are still alive.
Three weeks later, the flat had a new owner. The whole building knew at once when workmen arrived to renovate. Day after day, they hauled out rubbish, blackened old plumbing, and worn-out furniture. Then came the hammering, drilling, endless noise. Who could endure it? Gillian lived right next door.
Coming home from work felt like walking into a construction site. The racket met her on the stairs. She gritted her teeth—then finally knocked on the neighbour’s door. A man covered in dust and paint answered.
“You the owner? How much longer is this noise going to last? I can’t take it anymore—my head’s splitting,” she snapped.
“Sorry, love, but I’ve got orders to finish quick. Two more days of clatter, then it’s just the finishing touches. Quieter stuff.”
“Two days?” Gillian was speechless.
Behind the closed door, the drill roared back to life. She fled outside, where the noise was muffled.
“Neighbour driving you mad?” one of the women on the bench by the entrance called out.
“Have you seen him?” Gillian shot back.
“Oh, we’ve seen him,” the women chimed in. “Proper gentleman—dressed sharp, expensive cologne. Handsome, polite, always says hello.”
“We’ve got ourselves a lovely new neighbour,” crooned toothless old Polly.
The others cackled, flashing their gold crowns and dentures.
“Rather he played the trumpet than this racket,” Gillian muttered.
“Did you talk to him?”
“I did. Fat lot of good. It’s the workmen making the noise, and they don’t care.”
“You should’ve had a proper look at him, Gill. Man like that—why stay single? You’re still young, could have kids. And he’s loaded—drives a fancy foreign car.”
“I’m off to the shops,” Gillian said, walking away before their chatter could sink in.
Her husband had died two years after their wedding. No time for children. Thirteen years alone.
“Probably visits when I’m at work. No use complaining—the place needed work. Old folks let it go. Just wait till he moves in—I’ll give him a taste of his own medicine,” she thought, sidestepping a puddle.
Two days later, they finally met. Gillian trudged home, desperate to collapse. The day had been brutal—she wasn’t even hungry. As she reached the building, the door swung open before her.
A man stood there, grinning with all thirty-two teeth. She knew instantly—this was the new owner. His smile reeked of arrogance, his gaze smug.
“Thanks,” she said curtly, brushing past.
The door clicked shut. Footsteps echoed behind her in the dim hallway. Her pulse spiked. Fighting fear, she turned. The neighbour was following.
“Go ahead. I don’t like people breathing down my neck,” she snapped, masking her unease.
He passed her, climbing the stairs. The building was old, central, flats spacious with high ceilings—prime real estate.
On the fourth floor, he waited by his door.
“So you’re my neighbour? Pleasure. The lads said you came round shouting.”
“I asked them to keep it down. The whole building’s suffering.” She rummaged for her keys.
“Apologies. Nearly done.”
She shot him a glare, slammed her door so hard plaster dust rained from the ceiling.
From then on, she slammed it at every chance—her petty revenge. She relished the thought of wiping that grin off his face.
A week later, furniture arrived. Moving men blocked the stairs with a sofa, forcing her to squeeze past. As they hauled it inside, she caught a glimpse—pale walls, honey-coloured hardwood…
“Fancy a look?” The neighbour appeared in the doorway. She flushed, caught snooping. Hurried inside—forgetting to slam the door. Damn!
Her birthday fell on a weekend. Monday was the work do, but tonight was just her and her mate, Mags.
Mags arrived late, filling the flat with laughter. They sat to eat.
“Blast, forgot the wine. I’m hopeless with champagne,” Gillian sighed.
“Any men next door?” Mags asked.
“Just him, but—” Before she could finish, Mags bolted for the door.
Two minutes later, she returned with the neighbour—dressed in jeans and a plaid shirt, sleeves rolled up.
He popped the cork effortlessly. Behind his back, Mags gave two thumbs up, mimed clutching her heart. No words needed.
“Gill’s birthday. Cooked enough for a wedding, no one to eat it,” Mags announced.
Gillian scowled—since when was this her party? But the neighbour didn’t mind. He filled their glasses, raised his.
“To our lovely host—and neighbour!”
Gillian nearly choked. She’d dressed up—curled her hair, touched up her lips. She looked good.
Mags fawned over him, piling his plate, batting her lashes—acting like the hostess. Humiliated, Gillian fled to the kitchen.
Five minutes later, Mags barged in, flustered.
“Having fun?” Gillian sneered.
“Gill, he’s dreamy! Dances like a pro. You said you weren’t interested—mind if I have a go?” She winked.
“Take him,” Gillian said, fighting tears.
“Imagine—we’d be neighbours! Married!” Mags gushed.
“He propose?”
“Not yet. But he’s got friends—we’ll find you one too.”
“He’s already got a blonde. Not like us, pushing forty.”
“Liar!” Mags squeaked.
“Stunner. Hollywood eat your heart out.”
Mags’ mascara-clumped lashes fluttered. Crushed.
The neighbour appeared.
“Must dash. Happy birthday again. Lovely meeting you.” He smiled at Gillian.
Mags pounced.
“Any chance of a lift? Had a bit too much—legs won’t hold me.” Chest heaving theatrically.
“Of course. Ready in a tick.” He glanced at Gillian.
When they left, she broke down. “Some friend. Stole him. And he is lovely…”
She cleaned up, showered, towel wrapped around her hair. The doorbell rang. Expecting Mags, she swung it open—and there he stood, holding roses.
“Came empty-handed earlier. Happy birthday.”
The scent enveloped her. She’d forgotten her state—robe, damp hair.
“Fancy tea and cake?” He made no move to leave.
Trapped, she invited him in. As the kettle boiled, she caught her reflection—yanked off the towel, curls tumbling loose.
Over tea, he shared his story—divorced, lived in Scotland awhile, but missed the city. Bought this flat—like his childhood home. His sister lived there now.
“The blonde?” Gillian asked.
“My daughter. Ex-wife remarried, moved away. She’s at uni—visits often.”
“Mags fancied you. She’s pretty, eh?”
“Suppose. Didn’t notice. Reminds me of my ex.” He wrinkled his nose.
His gaze burned—her skin prickled, stomach fluttering.
That night, sleep wouldn’t come. “Don’t let this slip away, Gill,” her mother’s voice echoed in her head.
“I won’t,” she whispered.
Morning brought rain. She turned back for an umbrella—just as he stepped out.
“Wait here. I’ll fetch the car—take you to work.”
The downpour worsened. At a red light, the world blurred beyond the rain-streaked glass. Felt like they were alone on an island. She could’ve stayed forever.
Then the wipers cleared the view—the moment shattered. Why’d she ask if they worked?
At the office, Mags pounced.
“Ask about me?”
“Said you remind him of his ex,” Gillian lied, vengeful.
Next evening, he invited her to the theatre.
“Ten minutes. I’ll wait in the car.”
She slipped into a new dress, let her hair down, swiped on mascara and lipstick. His appreciative glance warmed her.
After the show, they walked home, talking. On the fourth floor, he ushered her insideThey married in spring, their laughter blending with the rustle of new leaves and the promise of years unwritten.
