Emily has known the woman who lives opposite her on the stairwell for years. The lady, with a neat grey bob and a canvas tote slung over her shoulder, appears on the landing every evening at about eight. She climbs slowly, lightly gripping the banister, and always gives Emily a courteous nod when they meet at the lift.
Emily lives on the sixth floor of a ninestorey council block in Camden, works as a copyeditor for a small independent press, and generally considers her life predictable. In the morning she rides the tube to the office, wades through piles of manuscript pages, and in the evening she returns home for a simple dinner and, occasionally, a TV series. Her husband left two years ago, leaving her a onebedroom flat and a lingering hurt that has slowly dulled. Neighbours are background noise: noisy boys thundering up the stairs, pensioners with shopping bags, the occasional argument through thin walls.
The greyhaired neighbour opposite seems calm and a little detached. At first Emily assumes she is a tired accountant or a schoolteacher. One winter, when the buildings water supply is cut and everyone hauls buckets from the basement, they meet at the entrance and start talking.
Do you need a hand with that? Emily asks, eyeing the bucket in the other womans grip.
It would be lovely, the woman replies, blushing slightly. Im Margaret.
Emily, she says, introducing herself.
They descend the stairs together, fill the bucket, and haul it back up, pausing on each landing to catch their breath. Margaret tells Emily she is fiftytwo, lives alone and works from home.
What do you do? Emily asks, taking the bucket from her.
Translations, bits of copy, Margaret answers briefly, then quickly changes the subject. Youre always lugging folders. Do you work in an office?
Emily describes the press, the endless typo hunts and the authors who take corrections personally. Margaret listens attentively, asks occasional clarifying questions, and Emily finds herself eager to keep the conversation going. By the time they reach the sixth floor they feel less like strangers.
From then on they start stopping at the lift more often, swapping brief remarks. In spring Emily invites Margaret over for tea.
Ive baked a cake, but its a bit much for one, Emily says awkwardly at the door.
If you dont mind a simple companion, Id love to join, Margaret replies.
Emilys flat is typical for the building: a carpet, a modest bookcase, a bright kitchen overlooking the courtyard. Margaret looks around with quiet interest, noting a few detective novels on the shelffavorites of Emilys for evening reading.
You enjoy mysteries, Margaret observes as she takes a seat.
Yes, theyre my way of escaping. I lose myself in them and forget about the writers Im editing, Emily says, pouring tea.
Their chat drifts to trivialities: shop prices, noisy teenagers in the courtyard, the difficulty of getting the management company to fix the lift. Margaret proves calm, slightly ironic, but never sharp. She tells stories as if shes watching people through a magnifying glass, catching tiny details.
Look at the man on the third floor whos always in a tracksuit, she says, glancing out the window. I once saw him at night carrying a huge box wrapped in tape to the rubbish bin. He handled it as gently as if it were a child, then dropped it and walked away without a glance.
What was inside? Emily asks.
I dont know, and I dont want to, Margaret replies. What matters is how he carried itthat says a lot about him.
Emily thinks Margaret merely enjoys profiling characters, something Emily does herself when she guesses an authors temperament from their prose.
Their tea sessions become regular. Sometimes Emily visits Margaret; other times Margaret comes over. Margarets flat is spottier, with more light, a tidy stack of printed pages and a laptop on the table, and a couple of blackandwhite photographs of an old town on the wall.
Did you take those? Emily asks one day.
No, a friend gave them to me. I like having something to look at and think about, Margaret says.
Emily notices Margaret rarely mentions family. No talk of a husband, no children. Once she mentions that her parents have long since died and her brother lives in another city, speaking only occasionally. Emily respects the quiet.
One hot summer evening, while the flat feels stifling, Emily sits at her kitchen table with a laptop, polishing a manuscript for the press. A news popup catches her eye: Interview with the enigmatic crime writer N. Rowe. The pseudonym feels familiar, though she cant place why. She clicks out of curiosity.
The article includes a photograph, but the face is shadowed. From the interview Emily learns that N. Rowe writes urban detective fiction, never shows her face, and refuses to reveal her real name. Her books sell in large numbers and dominate literary blogs.
Scrolling down, Emily reads: I live in a residential suburb and draw inspiration literally from the window. The people around me are an endless source of plots. The phrasing reminds her of Margarets manner of speakingtalk of a residential suburb, of watching people. The surname Rowe also vaguely echoes Rowland, a name that once appeared on a slippedin receipt in Emilys inbox, a receipt that Margaret later retrieved for her.
Emily thinks its a coincidence, but she opens one of Rowes ebooks and reads the first excerpt. It describes a courtyard identical to theirs: a peeling slide, a corner shop, and even a line about a man in a tracksuit who, at night, carries odd boxes to the rubbish. Emilys stomach tightens. She walks to the window, looks out, and indeed sees the tracksuitclad man perched on a bench, smoking and slumping his shoulders.
Back at the table she rereads the paragraph, the match too precise to ignore. Their conversations, Margarets translations, copy line, the printed stacks on her deskall echo in the text. The protagonist is named Emily, works as an editor, and recounts a night of panicked deadlinescrambling, waking up with wet hair and mismatched socks. The details are altered but unmistakable.
A wave of unease washes over Emily. She feels as if someone has lifted a piece of her life and set it down on a page without permission.
She goes to bed late, tossing, listening to the sounds beyond the wall. Margarets flat is quiet, only the occasional click of a keyboard. Emily imagines her neighbour at her desk, turning observed moments into sentences.
The next morning the sting eases. At work Emily catches commas in another manuscript, reminding herself that writers inevitably mine real life. Still, there is a difference between a generic impression of a neighbourhood and a specific, identifiable porch.
On her way home she stops at a bookshop, picks up a paper copy of N. Rowes latest novel. The cover shows the same dark silhouette. She flips through, marks the familiar scenes, and buys it, determined to gauge how far Margarets borrowing goes.
That evening, as she returns with a bag of groceries, Margaret steps out of the lift, clutching a folder.
Emily, hi. Hows your day? she asks with a smile.
Emily returns the smile automatically, though a knot forms in her throat.
Fine, work as usual, she replies, slipping the grocery bag deeper into her tote.
She thinks Margaret glances briefly at the spine of Rowes book protruding from her folder, but says nothing.
A few days later they share tea at Emilys flat again. The conversation drifts to a leaking pipe in the basement and a petition for repairs.
Will you sign? Emily asks.
Of course. I like when neighbours have common goals, Margaret says, then adds, By the way, havent you read N. Rowe? People say she writes well.
Emily feels the same tightening sensation.
Yes, I read her yesterday, she answers cautiously.
And what did you think? Margaret pretends to pour tea, her hand trembling just a fraction.
It seems she lives nearby, Emily says, raising her eyes.
Their gazes lock. In the brief silence everything clicks.
Is that you? Emily asks, trying to keep her voice steady.
Margaret sighs, drops her gaze onto her mug.
Yes. Only a few know. I dont like fuss.
Emily nods, the room humming with unspoken thoughts.
Id like to congratulate you, Emily manages. Your book is well written.
Thank you, Margaret replies softly. Ive been doing this a long time, just not advertising it.
A pause settles. Somewhere beyond the wall a chair creaks.
You you take stories from here. From our building, Emily begins, then stops.
Sometimes, Margaret admits. I alter detailsnames, jobs, circumstances.
Not always, Emily retorts. Remember the mismatchedsock story? That was me.
Margaret smiles faintly.
That scene was vivid. I couldnt resist, she says.
Tears prick Emilys eyes. She doesnt want a drama, but the feeling of being siphoned off without consent hurts.
You could at least ask, Emily says. Tell me you want to use it. Id consider.
I understand, Margaret sighs. If I asked everyone, Id stop writing. People change when they know theyre being watched.
But youre not just watching, Emily replies quietly. Youre making money off it. Readers discuss, laugh, empathise. And we we never knew we were characters.
Margaret stays silent for a long moment, then says, I never take pure tragedies. I stitch together fragments. Its my shield, and theirs.
Still recognisable, Emily says stubbornly. I saw myself, the courtyard.
The tension hangs thick. Margaret tightens her grip on the cup, as if afraid it might slip.
Its uncomfortable, isnt it? Emily asks.
Yes, Margaret admits. I feel like Ive been overheard and recorded.
Margaret nods.
I never expected youd read my stories, she says with a wry smile. Silly, isnt it? We live through the walls.
Emily feels two sides of herself clash: outrage at the breach of trust and a reluctant empathy for a neighbour who survives by turning observation into art.
Lets make a deal, Emily proposes, keeping her tone even. I cant stop you writing, but I dont want to see myself in your books without my consent. And Id like you to respect any personal stories I share.
Margaret looks up, fatigue and cautious hope in her eyes.
Youre proposing boundaries, she says.
Yes. If I disclose something personal, I dont want it to appear in a novel, even under a different name.
Margaret studies her for a while, then answers, Its hard because sometimes I dont notice a fragment slipping into my prose. Its my life. But I can promise not to use the stories you flag as personal. And if I ever recognise you again, Ill discuss changes before publishing.
Emily exhales. The agreement isnt perfect, but its a step forward.
And maybe change the setting a bit more, so the block isnt so recognisable, Emily adds. People here have their own fears and secrets.
I get that, Margaret says quietly. Do you know why I started writing about places like this?
Emily shakes her head.
I used to think nobody cared about ordinary lives. That drama lived elsewhere. Then I realised the real theatre is in these stairwells, where ordinary people have depth. I got carried away and forgot the neighbours are real.
Her voice trembles with genuine confusion. Emily feels her irritation soften.
Showing depth is good, Emily replies. But its also important people dont feel exposed.
I agree, Margaret says. Ill think about how to do that.
They finish their tea in silence. The conversation is heavy, yet theres no rupturejust a new, more honest layer to their relationship.
After Margaret leaves, Emily sits at her kitchen table, the Rowe novel open but untouched. She flips a few pages, then closes it and places it in the cupboard, not wanting to hunt for more familiar scenes right now.
The next day she sees Margaret at the courtyard window, looking down. Her gaze is less hungry, more cautious. Emily catches herself watching the neighbours differentlyseeing them as people who deserve quiet as well as inspiration.
Weeks pass. Their chats continue, though a little less frequent. Before sharing anything personal, Emily pauses, decides if shes comfortable. Sometimes she says, That stays between us, not for your books, and Margaret nods, even writing notes in a little notebook to avoid accidental borrowing.
One afternoon Margaret hands Emily a slim notebook.
Its a draft of a new story, she says. Theres a scene inspired by our courtyard, but Ive altered a lot. Id like you to read itnot as a copyeditor, but as a neighbour.
Emily is surprised but takes the notebook. That evening, settled on her sofa, she reads. The setting is a fictional brick town with an arched garden, characters drawn from various traits, and only vague echoes of their real lives. No editor heroine appears.
She returns the notebook the next day.
It feels different now, Emily says. Its not about our block, yet it still feels alive.
Margarets smile relaxes.
I feared losing vitality if I moved away from specifics, she admits. Looks like I havent.
Vitality isnt just copying, Emily replies. Its understanding people.
The realization surprises herher own work at the press also deals with other peoples stories, just in another form, and she now feels a sharper responsibility for how those stories emerge.
Autumn quiets the courtyard. Children head to school, evenings see people hurrying home. Emily sometimes spots the tracksuit man on a bench. Now she thinks less about the mysterious box and more about his own untold story, which no one has the right to appropriate entirely.
One evening, returning from work, Emily sees a new Rowe book in a newsstand, its cover showing an illustration of an old house. She picks it up, flips through, but finds no scene that mirrors her building.
She places the book on a shelf beside her other detective novels, not as evidence but as part of her lifea reminder that the woman down the hall is not just a silent bucketcarrier but a writer wrestling with the balance between inspiration and respect.
Later, Margaret knocks.
Did you see it? she asks with a light smile. The new one.
Yes, I bought it, Emily replies.
Scary? Margaret jokes.
Not any more, Emily says after a pause. I trust you now, but Ill read carefully.
Exactly, Margaret agrees.
They head to the kitchen, put on the kettle, and pour two mugs of tea. The conversation again drifts to mundane topicsnew light in the lift, a fresh bakery on the cornerbut underneath lies a new understanding: everyone has the right to decide what they share and what they keep.
As the tea cools, Margaret mentions, If you ever want, we could write something together. Not about you, but with you, so you decide what shows up.
Emily thinks it over. The idea feels odd yet tempting.
Maybe, she says. But that would be a different story.
She smiles at the steam rising from their mugs. The simple kitchen scene holds the fragile balance theyve been seeking: friendship with trust and boundaries, narratives that no longer steal voices but negotiate with them.
From the street, teenage laughter drifts, the stairwell door bangs shut. Emily listens and feels the building living its ordinary lifepeople climbing stairs, arguing, reconciling, cooking, watching TV. Knowing now how delicate a story can be, she feels calmer.
She looks at Margaret, who returns the gaze with a weary but warm look. Its their quiet reconciliation, lacking grand speeches but carrying fresh honesty.
Emily lifts the Rowe novel from the table, sets it at the edge, and lets it rest. Reading can wait. Right now, what matters is that behind the wall sits not an abstract author, but a neighbour she can actually talk to whenever something feels off.
