Monday, 21October
The flat I took was advertised in a cramped notice: Terraced house, centre, cheap, urgent. It looked suspiciously cheap, with scuffed wooden floors and peeling windowsills, but the ceilings were high and the windows huge. After the divorce I wasnt searching for a home so much as a sanctuarya place where no one would ask, Are you sure you wont regret this?
I got the keys on Friday evening. The city smelled of damp leaves; October in London always feels like everything is falling apart only to be stitched back together. That first night I hardly slept. Wrapped in a blanket on the windowsill, I stared across at the flat opposite.
The building across the courtyard was a fivestorey block, its balcony dressed in crimson petunias, the livingroom light soft and warm. A family lived there. I saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a slender woman with a braid that looked like it belonged in an old yoghurt advert, and two childrena little girl and a boysetting the table together. The girl hopped, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled, and the father popped open a bottle of wine. Their laughter carried through the glass.
I sank onto my pillow later, wondering how long it had been since Id heard laughter in a house.
The next morning I drank tea on the same sill and watched them breakfast. The man read the newspaper, the woman smoothed the girls hair, the boy scurried around with a toy car.
During the day I unpacked boxes. In the evening I walked to the corner shop, just across the courtyard. At the lift landing I bumped into the woman from opposite flat, juggling bags of apples and cherry cola. One apple rolled under my foot.
Oh! Sorry, she laughed. Everything keeps slipping from my hands, as usual!
I caught the apple and smiled.
No worries. Need a hand? she asked.
It would be lovely! Im Olivia. You moved in recently, right?
Yes, a few days ago. Im Marilyn Thompson.
Then you must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. Can I bring it over?
An hour later Olivia appeared with a steaming tray, the scent of cinnamon filling the hallway, and a little pot of icecream for dessert balance. She was lightfooted, dressed in jeans, her smile almost too wide.
We sat with tea and chatted. Olivia told me:
We moved here five years ago. Luck was on our side: an investor came along and we renovated. My husband works in IT, the kids go to the local academy. Im home now but thinking of returning to a mumandbaby café.
A mumandbaby café? I asked.
Yes, a cosy spot where you can have a cuppa with the little ones, chat without hurrying.
I listened, smiling, feeling a quiet, sharp sting insidesomething like envy.
Youve got it all, really, I said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
When she left, I returned to the window. Across the street Olivia stood at her stove, her husband slipped his arm around her from behind and they both laughed as the children tumbled and squealed. I sighed. This is how it should be: warm, safe, born of love.
I switched off the lights, but even as I drifted to sleep the opposite windows glowed like a cinema screen, showing a film I had missed.
—
Marilyn, are you home? I brought a honey cake!
Olivia knocked, holding a cake in one hand and a knitted tote in the other. Her cheeks were flushed, eyes sparkling, but a fresh bruise marked the side of her neck, just below the collarbone.
You a bruise. Are you alright?
She quickly tugged her sweater up.
Ah, that? Im clumsy. I didnt shut the cupboard door properly, then I bent over nonsense.
I didnt believe her, but I said nothing.
Olivia began visiting more often. At first once a week, then almost daily, with pastries, salads, stories.
We have a honesty night every Saturday, she explained one evening. We tell each other what annoys us, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It actually works.
And the kids? I asked.
We never argue in front of them. They need to see us as a team.
I listened, yet a growing sense told me something was off. Too perfect, too textbook.
One night, walking home from the shop together, Olivia confessed:
I used to be a completely different person. I worked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met Mark. He turned my world upside down.
How? I pressed.
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, not to play roles or lie.
I nodded, but her words felt rehearsed, as if lifted from a selfhelp book.
A few days later, as I stood at my window out of habit, the flat opposite was dim. Suddenly a flash of light, a shout, a male voice, then a female scream, a childs wail. The door slammed. The lights went out within a minute.
The next morning, in the lift hallway, Olivia appeared in sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything okay? I asked.
Fine, just weve burnt out a bit. It happens, you know.
She said it as if it were a simple inconvenience.
When I visited later, the children sat on the carpet, silent, holding toys as if they were shields. Olivia set out tea, and I finally asked, Are you sure youre all right?
She froze, kettle in hand, then slowly sat down.
You know, sometimes I feel like Im living in a shop windoweveryone sees the happy family, the tidy wife, obedient kids. But at night I wake up feeling Im screaming and no one hears.
Maybe you should?
Dont, its not what you think. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not sugar either. None of us are perfect.
That evening I watched them again. They were laughing over tea, but I could see the little girl flinch when her father raised his voice, Olivia averting her eyes, the husband speaking through clenched teeth. A beautiful story, but with jagged teeth underneath.
—
I began to wonder: perhaps I was projecting my own doubts? After the divorce I stopped trusting men, relationships, even myself. Maybe envy simply sharpened my vigilance. Yet every new encounter with Olivia raised the alarm.
One afternoon Olivia arrived with pancakes, her hand awkward, barely bent.
Everything alright? I asked.
Just a pulled muscle. Yoga isnt a joke.
Her smile was still that glossy, windowdisplay smile.
You can trust me if you want.
Olivias tone shifted; she seemed to switch off.
Marilyn, please dont start. Hes not a monster, just tired. He works hard for us, and I I can be unbearable. I know.
Youre bruised, Olivia. You wear glasses when its gloomy. You whisper to the children.
Its necessary.
What does necessary mean?
If you dont get it maybe youve never really been married.
I had no answer. Then Olivia left.
That night I tried to watch a series, but the dialogue faded. My heart thumped, a lowgrade panic rising like before a storm.
Then the sound. First a dull thud, then a screama womans, followed immediately by a harsh male voice:
Quiet! I said quiet!
It sounded as if something had been knocked over, a screech of metal.
I froze, then rose, walked to the window. The opposite flat was lit; shadows moved quickly like a rehearsed drama. A scream, then a childs cry, then silence.
I dialed 999, my hands trembling.
Are you calling about domestic violence? the operator asked calmly.
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call?
I I dont have confirmation, just me, the night, and the feeling that if I dont act now itll get worse.
The operator said they would log the call and send patrol, but advised me not to intervene directly.
Forty minutes later, patrol officers arrived. I heard footsteps, muffled conversations, then the flat door slammed and silence fell again. From my window I saw Mark, Olivias husband, standing in the doorway, speaking politely to the police, papers in hand. He seemed calm, courteous. Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
That morning the buildings intercom buzzed softly.
Olivia?
Her eyes were puffy, hair hastily pulled back, fingers trembling.
May I come in?
I let her in without a word, set a kettle on.
Did you call the police? she asked, voice hoarse.
I did. Im sorry.
She sank into a chair, clutching a plush bunny.
I thought if I were a good wife smile, cook, listen hed love me, soften. But each week he just squeezes tighter.
You can leave, I said.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
She stared at me, then pressed her hand to her lips and broke down.
Youre the only one who doesnt look away. Everyone else turns their heads, even at the academy where our daughter studies. Its like were living in shadows.
Im not a rescuer, just a neighbour.
She stayed silent for a long while, then finally stood.
Ill go. Not today, but I will.
I nodded, feeling a strange light flicker inside me, as if my small presence could be a beacon in someone elses window.
—
The night was thick, like overcooked jam. Darkness filled the panes, the air was still, only the faint whisper of rain on the sill. When I heard a knock, I first thought it was imagination, then heard it again, cautiously, twice.
She was in a bathrobe, slippers, no umbrella, hair damp, face streaked with tears, a fresh bruise on her cheek, a plush rabbit in her arms.
May I just stay for a bit? she whispered.
I let her in. She curled up in the corner of the sofa, clutching the bunny, shoulders trembling.
He says Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be silent, hell teach me. Then he hit me. Not hard, but its not the first time.
Are the children awake?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Olivia, stay. Stay forever.
I cant. I have nowhere else. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I wont even get a job. With the kids, no one will take me.
I sat beside her, looking not at the wound but at the core of her being.
You are a person, and you can leave. There are shelters, temporary flats. Ill help. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Marilyn. Im tired of fearing and even more of hoping.
Im here. Im not a hero, but I wont turn away.
She rested her head on my shoulder, hugging the rabbit, whispering, Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say Its your fault. Who simply is.
Ill stay until youre strong enough to say Enough.
We sat in silence, listening to rain washing away old pain.
Two weeks later Olivia left, carrying only a backpack, a bag of childrens clothes, and a tidy folder of documents.
The flat I found for her was modest: a single room, a peeling bathroom, an ancient fridge. But it was quiet, and there was no one shouting or throwing things.
This is our fresh start, Olivia said as the children fell asleep on inflatable mattresses. You, Marilyn youre the first line of this page. Thank you.
I merely nodded.
Then everything spun. I called shelters, spoke to solicitors, drafted statements. Olivia learned to work freelance, bought groceries from a list, slept with the lights off without fear. The children adjusted slowly. One day a boy approached me with a drawing: two women, two children, and the words From Marilyn above.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something thawed inside me as well. I rose early, made coffee, and, as always, moved to the window.
The opposite windows were empty. The woman who once lived there had leftnot just the flat but that whole life she had trapped herself in, the showcase of the good wife.
I watched and felt a calm settle over me. No longer jealous, no longer hurt, no longer alone. My own home was right here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded at the door. I opened it to find Olivia in a coat, cheeks rosy, the children trailing behind. The girl clutched her rabbit, the boy held a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? Olivia asked.
I laughed.
Come in. I just took it out of the oven.
The door swung wide, not just into a flat but into a morning, into a life where perfection isnt requiredonly honesty.
