Flat Across the Street
Emma landed a flat after answering a vague ad: Onebed, centre, cheap, urgent. It looked a bit suspect peeling parquet, splintered window sills, but the ceilings were high and the windows huge.
After her divorce, Emma wasnt hunting for a home so much as a hideaway. Somewhere no one could ask, Are you sure you wont regret this? She collected the keys on a Friday evening, just as the town was breathing the scent of damp leaves. October, the month when everything falls apart before being stitched back together, was in full swing.
The first night she barely slept. Wrapped in a blanket, she perched on the windowsill and stared at the opposite building. The flat across the courtyard was a perfect little dollhouse: fifth floor, balcony dotted with scarlet petunias, soft warm light spilling from the living room. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a thin woman with a braid that looked like it belonged on a 1950s yoghurt advert, and two children a girl and a boy. They were setting the table together. The girl hopped, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled, the father popped the cork on a bottle of wine. Their laughter rang out even through the glass.
Emma flopped onto her pillow. How long had she gone without hearing laughter at home?
The next morning she sipped coffee on the same sill and watched again. The family were having breakfast. The man read the newspaper, the woman smoothed the girls hair, the boy raced a toy car across the table.
During the day Emma unpacked boxes. In the evening she popped into the corner shop across the yard. By the lift she bumped into the woman from the flat opposite. She was lugging bags of apples and a bottle of cherry soda. An apple rolled under Emmas foot.
Oh! Sorry! the woman laughed. Everythings slipping through my fingers, as usual!
Emma caught the apple and grinned.
No worries. Need a hand? the woman asked.
Itd be lovely! Im Olivia. You just moved in, right?
Yes, a few days ago. Emma, she replied.
Then you simply must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. Shall I bring it over?
An hour later Olivia arrived, cradling a hot tray scented with cinnamon and a tiny scoop of vanilla icecream for dessert balance. She was as lightfooted as a cat in skinny jeans, with a cheeky grin and a tailhigh swagger.
They sat down for tea and chatted. Olivia told her:
We moved here five years ago. Luck smiled on us an investor came along and we redid the place. My husband works in IT, the kids go to the local academy. Im at home for now, but Im thinking of opening a little café for mums on maternity leave.
A maternity café? Emma echoed.
Exactly a spot where you can pop in with a pram, sip tea, have a natter, no rush.
Emma smiled, feeling a quiet, sharp sting inside something like envy.
Youve got it all, really. It looks so genuine, she said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
When Olivia left, Emma turned back to the opposite window. Olivia was still at the stove, her husband slipped his arm around her from behind, and they both laughed as the children tumbled and squealed.
Emma sighed.
Thats how it should be. Warm. Safe. Out of love.
She switched off the light, but even as she drifted to sleep she could picture those inviting windows like a cinema screen, showing a film shed missed.
* * *
Emma, you home? Ive brought a honey cake! Olivia called, standing on Emmas doorstep with a slice in one hand and a knitted tote in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes glittered, but a fresh bruise traced a line just under her collarbone.
You okay? That looks painful.
Olivia tugged at the edge of her sweater.
Ah, that? Im a bit clumsy. I left the cupboard door open, bent over, and
Emma didnt believe her, but she kept quiet.
Olivia began visiting regularly first once a week, then almost daily, bearing pies, salads, stories.
We run a honesty night every Saturday, she told Emma one evening. We openly air what irritates us about each other, have a halfhour rant, then laugh it off. Works like a charm.
And the kids? Emma asked.
We never argue in front of them. They need to see us as a team.
Emma listened, but the more often she visited, the more she felt something was off. Too perfect. Too textbook.
One night, walking home from the supermarket together, Olivia confessed, I used to be a different person. I worked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met Tom. He turned my world upside down.
In a good way, I presume? Emma prompted.
Absolutely! He taught me to be myself, not to play a role, not to lie.
Emma nodded, but the words felt rehearsed, like theyd been lifted from a selfhelp booklet.
A few days later Emma was at her window again. The flat opposite was dim, then a flash of light, a scream first male, then female, then a childs wail. The door slammed shut. The lights went out.
The next morning Emma met Olivia in the lift. She wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything alright? Emma asked.
Fine, just a bit burnt out. Happens, you know.
Emma didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Emma visited later, the children sat silently on the carpet, clutching toys as if those were shields.
Olivia set the tea down and Emma asked gently, Are you sure everythings okay?
Olivia froze, kettle in hand, then sank slowly onto the sofa.
Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop window. Everyone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, the obedient kids. At night I wake up thinking Im screaming, but no one hears.
Maybe you should?
No, Olivia snapped. He doesnt beat me. Hes just tired. Im not sugarsweet either. Whos perfect?
Later that night Emma watched the opposite windows again. The family were still drinking tea, still laughing, but she now saw the little girl flinch when her father raised his voice, saw Olivia avert her gaze, heard the husbands words through clenched teeth. A beautiful fairytale, but the teeth were sharp.
* * *
Emma kept wondering: what if she was wrong? What if it was all her projection? After her divorce shed stopped trusting men, relationships, even herself. Maybe envy had simply sharpened her senses. Yet each new encounter with Olivia added a note of worry.
One afternoon Olivia arrived with pancakes. She held her arm stiffly, barely bending.
Everything okay?
Just a muscle strain. Yoga isnt a joke.
That plastic, showroom smile resurfaced.
You can trust me if you want.
Olivias demeanor shifted suddenly, as if a switch had been flipped.
Emma, please dont start. Hes not a monster, just exhausted. He works so we can live, and I I can be unbearable sometimes. I know that.
The most unbearable still need? Youve got that bruise, Olivia. You wear sunglasses on a grey day. You whisper to the kids.
Its necessary.
What does necessary mean?
If you dont get it then youve never really been married.
Emma had no reply. Olivia left.
That evening Emma watched a drama, but the dialogue faded into a thudding in her head, a light panic like before a storm. Then a sound: first a muffled thump, then a scream. A womans cry, followed by a harsh male voice: Quiet! I said quiet!
It sounded as if something had been knocked over, metal scraping.
Emma froze, rose, and padded to the window. Light flickered in the opposite flat, shadows darted like rehearsed drama. A scream, then a childs sob, then absolute silence.
She dialed 999, hands shaking. The operators voice was calm, almost hypnotic.
Are you sure this is violence?
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call? Any proof?
I Im the only one who heard.
She halted, no proof, just the night and the feeling that if she didnt act now, things would get worse.
Well log the call, a patrol will be sent, but youd be safer not getting involved directly.
The patrol arrived after forty minutes. Emma heard footsteps, muffled conversation, the door slammed, and then silence again.
Through the window she saw Tom, Olivias husband, standing in the doorway, speaking politely to the officers, paperwork in hand. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
That night a gentle knock sounded on Emmas door. It was almost invisible.
Olivia stood there, eyes puffy, hair hastily tied, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
Emma let her in without a word, set a kettle on.
Did you call them?
Yes. Im sorry, I had no other choice.
Olivia sank into a chair, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wife if I smiled, cooked, listened hed love me, soften. He just squeezed tighter. Each week a little more.
You could leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Olivias eyes widened, then she pressed a hand to her lips and began to sob.
Youre the only one who doesnt pretend not to see. Everyone else turns away. Even at the academy, everyone knows but says nothing. Its a dark secret.
Im not a rescuer. Im just a neighbour.
And youre not a thing.
Olivia fell silent, then stood.
Ill go. Not today, but I will.
Emma nodded, feeling suddenly less a bystander and more a modest flicker of light in a neighbours window not bright, but warm.
* * *
The night was thick like jamfilled biscuits. Darkness pressed the windows, silence settled the air, only the rain whispering on the sill.
When Emma heard a knock she first thought it was imagination, then again, twice, cautious.
She opened the door, breath caught.
Olivia, in a halfopen robe, slippers, no umbrella. Her hair was damp, face streaked with tears, a fresh bruise on her cheek, a rabbit plush clutched in her arms.
May I just sit? she whispered.
Emma let her in.
Olivia curled up on the sofa corner, hugging the rabbit. She stayed silent for ages, shoulders trembling.
He says Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be quiet, hell teach me. Then he hit me. Not hard, but it wasnt the first time.
The kids?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Olivia, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I wont even get a job. No one will take my children.
Emma sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of it.
Youre a person. You can leave. There are charities, temporary housing. Ill find something. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Emma. Im tired of fearing and even more tired of hoping.
Im here. Not a hero, but I wont turn away.
Olivia finally rested her head on Emmas shoulder, clutching the rabbit. Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say Its your fault. Who just is.
And Ill stay until youre strong enough to say Enough.
They sat in silence, listening to rain erasing old hurts.
Two weeks later Olivia left, not with suitcases but a backpack, a bag of childrens clothes, and a tidy folder of papers.
Emma held the folder as they stepped out onto a nearly empty street, the house around them sleeping. The children walked quietly, the girl holding her brothers hand, the rabbit poking out of the backpack like a SOS flag.
The flat Emma found for Olivia was modest: a single room, cracked bathroom tiles, an ancient fridge. Yet it was quiet, and there was no one shouting or throwing things.
Here we start fresh, Olivia said as the kids fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Emma youre the first line on this new page. Thanks.
Emma just nodded.
After that, Emma became a whirlwind of calls to support centres, emails to solicitors, paperwork. Olivia learned to earn from freelance gigs, shop from a list, sleep with the lights off without fearing shadows.
The kids adjusted slowly. One day the boy handed Emma a drawing: two women, two kids, and the caption For Emma.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something in Emmas heart thinned.
She rose early, made coffee, and, as always, walked to the window.
The opposite windows were empty.
The woman who once lived there had leftnot just the flat, but the life shed forced herself into, the display of the perfect wife.
Emma watched and felt a calm settle: no more envy, no more pain, no loneliness. Just peace.
Her home was right here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded, and she went to answer.
On the doorstep stood Olivia, coat draped, cheeks rosy, children trailing behind. The girl clutched her rabbit, the boy a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? Olivia asked.
Emma laughed.
Come in. Ive just taken it out of the oven.
The door swung wide, opening not just into a flat but into a new morning, into a life where perfection wasnt requiredjust being real.
