The flat opposite
Martha got the flat from a stray advert: Studio, central, cheap, urgent. It was suspiciously cheap, with scuffed parquet and peeling windowsills, but the ceilings were high and the windows enormous.
After her divorce, Martha wasnt looking for a home so much as for a hideaway, a place where no one would ask, Are you sure you wont regret this?
She received the keys on a Friday evening. The town already smelled of damp leaves. October was that month when everything falls apart and then gathers itself again.
The first night she barely slept. She curled up on the windowsill with a blanket, staring at the windows opposite. The building across the courtyard was a palmsize map: fifth floor, balcony with a splash of crimson petunias, a soft, warm glow in the living room. A family lived there.
She saw a tall man in a grey sweater, a woman with a sleek braid, thin as a postcard for a yoghurt advertisement, and two childrena little girl and a boy. They were setting the table together. The girl hopped, the boy held her hand, the mother smiled. The father popped a cork on a bottle of wine. Their laughter rippled even through the glass.
Martha sank back onto her pillow. How long had she gone without hearing laughter at a house?
The next morning she sipped coffee on the same sill and watched again. Across the way the family ate breakfast. The man read a newspaper, the woman brushed the girls hair, the boy zoomed around with a toy car.
During the day Martha unpacked boxes. In the evening she walked to the shopjust across the courtyard. At the stairwell she collided with the woman from the opposite flat. She was lugging bags of apples and cherry cola. An apple rolled under Marthas foot.
Oh dear! Sorry! the woman laughed, Everythings slipping from my hands, as usual!
Martha caught the apple and smiled.
No worries. Need a hand?
It would be lovely! Im Olivia. You just moved in, right?
Yes, a few days ago. Martha.
Then you simply must try my strudel! Its a family tradition to treat new neighbours. Shall I bring it over?
Olivia returned an hour later, cradling a hot tin, the scent of cinnamon filling the hallway, and a glass of icecream for dessert balance. She was lightfooted, like a cat in jeans, tailhigh, grin almost spilling.
They teatalked. Olivia told her, We moved here five years ago. Luck smiled on us: an investor showed up, we renovated. My husband works in tech, the kids go to the local academy. Im home now, thinking of opening a mumsandbabies café.
A mumsandbabies café? Martha asked.
Just a cosy spot where you can pop in with a stroller, chat over a cuppa, no rush.
Martha listened, smiled, and felt a quiet, sharp stir insidesomething like envy.
You have it all really, she said.
We try, Olivia nodded.
When Olivia left, Martha turned back to the window. In the opposite kitchen Olivia stood by the stove. Her husband slipped behind her, hugging her from behind. She laughed. The children leapt, tumbled, squealed.
Martha sighed. This was how it should bewarm, safe, lovefilled. She switched off the light, yet, even as sleep pulled her under, she saw the opposite windows like a cinema screen, a film she had missed.
Marare you home? Ive got a honey cake!
Martha opened the door. Olivia stood there, a cake in one hand, a knitted bag in the other, cheeks flushed, eyes glittering. A fresh bruise marked her neck, just under the clavicle, like a strap or a hard hand.
You a bruise. All right?
Olivia tugged at her sweater collar.
Oh, that? Im clumsy. I didnt close the cupboard door, bent over silly thing.
Martha didnt believe her, but said nothing.
Olivia started visiting oftenonce a week at first, then almost daily, bringing pies, salads, stories.
We have a honesty night each Saturday, she said one evening. We say what irritates us about each other, argue for half an hour, then laugh. It really works.
And the kids?
We never argue in front of them. They must see us as a team.
Martha listened, yet the scene felt too neat, too textbook.
One night, walking home from the shop together, Olivia confessed, I used to be a different personworked in advertising, lived on coffee and taxis. Then I met him. He turned me upside down.
In what way?
In a good way, of course! He taught me to be myself, not to act, not to lie.
Martha nodded, but Olivias words sounded rehearsed, as if lifted from a handbook on female happiness.
A few days later, Martha stood at her window out of habit. The opposite flat was dim, then a flash of light, a shoutfirst a mans, then a womans, then a childs cry. The door slammed. The light sputtered out.
The next morning, Martha met Olivia in the stairwell. Olivia wore sunglasses despite the overcast sky.
Everything okay? Martha asked.
Fine. We just burned out. Happens. Dont mind.
Martha didnt know what to say, but she nodded.
When Martha visited later, the children sat on the carpet, silent, clutching toys as if hiding behind them. Olivia set out tea.
Are you sure everythings alright? Martha asked gently.
Olivia froze, kettle in hand, then sat slowly.
Sometimes I feel Im living in a shop windowhappy family, tidy wife, obedient children. At night I wake up thinking Im screaming, but nobody hears.
Maybe
No, its not what you think. He doesnt hit. Hes just tired. Im not sugar either. Whos perfect?
That evening, Martha watched the opposite windows again. The family laughed over tea, but she now saw the girl flinch when her father raised his voice, saw Olivia avert her eyes, heard the husbands words grind through clenched teeth. A pictureperfect tale, but underneath, sharp teeth clicked.
Martha increasingly wondered: what if she was wrong? What if it was all her projection? After the divorce she trusted no man, no relationship, not even herself. Perhaps envy had simply sharpened her vigilance. Yet every new meeting with Olivia added a fresh knot of anxiety.
One afternoon Olivia arrived with pancakes. She held her hand awkwardly, barely bending.
Everything alright? Martha asked.
Just a pulled muscle. Yoga isnt a joke.
Olivias smile was glossy, like a shopfront.
You can trust me if you want.
Suddenly Olivias tone changed, as if a switch had been flipped.
Mardont start, please. Hes not a monster. Hes just exhausted. He works so we can live, and I I can be unbearable sometimes. I know that.
Youre not the only unbearable one You have a bruise, Olivia. You wear sunglasses when its grey. You whisper to the kids.
Thats how it has to be.
What do you mean has to be?
If you dont get it youve never really been married.
Martha had no answer. Olivia left.
That night Martha watched a series, but heard nothing. Her head thumped, her chest tighteneda light panic like before a storm. Then a sound.
First a muffled bang, then a screama womans, then a mans, sharp and suppressed:
Quiet! I said quiet!
It was as if something had been knocked over, a screech of metal.
Martha froze, rose, went to the window. The opposite flat was lit. Shadows flitted like actors rehearsing a drama. A scream rose again, then a childs wail. And thensilence.
She dialed 999, hands trembling. The operators voice was calm, almost soothing.
Are you sure this is violence?
Yes, I heard blows, a scream. Its not the first time.
Did the neighbours call?
I
She stopped. No confirmation, just her, the night, the feeling that if she didnt intervene now, things would worsen.
Well log the call. Patrol will come. But youre better off not getting involved.
The patrol arrived forty minutes later. First footsteps, muffled talk, then the door slammed, and silence returned. Through the window Martha saw the husbandOlivias husbandstanding in the doorway, speaking politely to the officers, papers in hand.
Olivia was nowhere to be seen.
That morning a soft knock on Marthas door.
Olivia, eyes puffy, hair hastily tied, fingers shaking.
May I come in?
Martha let her in, set a kettle on.
Did you call?
I did. Im sorry, I had no other choice.
Olivia sat, staring at a point on the wall.
I thought if I were a good wifesmile, cook, listenhed love me, soften. He only squeezes tighter. Every week a little harder.
You can leave.
Where? With two kids? I have no job, no family, nothing.
You have me.
Olivias eyes filled, then she pressed a palm 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 the daughter goes to, everyone knows but says nothing. A foreign family, hidden in darkness.
Im not darkness.
But youre not a rescuer. Youre just a neighbour.
And youre not a thing.
Olivia fell silent, then rose.
Ill go. Not today, but I will.
Martha nodded, feeling herself become a dim light in anothers windowsoft, not blinding, but warm.
The night was thick like boiled jam. Darkness pressed the windows, silence filled the air, rain whispered faintly on the sill. When Martha heard a knock, she first thought it was imagination, then again, twice, more deliberately.
She opened.
Olivia stood in a halfopen dressing gown, slippers on, no umbrella. Her hair was damp, face tearstreaked, a cut on her lip, a fresh bruise on her cheek, a plush rabbit clutched in her hand.
May may I just sit? she whispered.
Martha let her in.
Olivia curled in the corner of the sofa, hugging the rabbit. She stayed silent, shoulders trembling.
He he said Im ruining his life. If I dont learn to be quiet, hell teach me. Then he struck. Not hard, but its not the first time.
Are the children safe?
Theyre asleep. I didnt wake them. I left when he went to bed.
Stay. Stay for good.
I cant. Ive nowhere else. He has money, connections. Im nobody. I wont find work. With the kids theyll turn me away.
Martha sat beside her, looking not at the wound or the tears but at the core of the person.
Youre human. You can leave. There are helplines, temporary flats. Ill find something. Youre not alone.
But Im scared, Martha. Im tired of fearing and even more tired of hoping.
Im here. Not a hero, but I wont turn away.
Olivia rested her head on Marthas shoulder, hugged the rabbit, and whispered, Thank you. Youre the only one who doesnt look away, who doesnt say its your fault. Who just is.
And Ill stay until you can say enough.
They sat long, wordless, listening to rain erasing old pain.
Olivia left two weeks later, no suitcase, only a backpack, a bag of childrens things, a tidy folder of documents.
Martha held that folder as they stepped out onto the street, almost midnight, the building sleeping. The children walked silently; the girl clutched her brothers hand, the plush rabbit poked out of the bag like a distress signal.
The flat Martha found for Olivia was modest: one room, a flaking bathroom, an ancient fridge. But it was quiet, and there was no one shouting, no one ordering, no one hurling things.
This is our fresh start, Olivia said as the children drifted off on inflatable mattresses. You, Martha youre the first line of this page. Thank you.
Martha only nodded.
Then everything spun. Martha called charities, phoned solicitors, filled forms. Olivia relearned to live: freelancing online, buying groceries from a list, sleeping with the lights off without fear. The children slowly adjusted. One day the boy handed Martha a drawing: two women, two children, the words above it: For Martha.
Spring arrived. One night the snow melted, and something thawed in Marthas heart. She woke early, made tea, and, as always, went to the window.
The opposite windows were empty.
The woman who had lived there was gonenot just from the flat, but from the life she had trapped herself in, from the showcase where shed been displayed as the good wife.
Martha watched and felt no longer jealous, no longer hurt, not lonelyjust calm. Her home was here, in this kitchen, in this life.
A knock sounded, and she went to answer.
Olivia stood on the doorstep in a coat, cheeks pink, the children behind her. The little girl held her rabbit, the boy a jar of jam.
Did you bake anything today? Olivia asked.
Martha laughed.
Come in. I just took it out of the oven.
The door swung opennot just onto a flat, but onto a morning, onto a life where perfection wasnt required, only being real.
