**Tuesday Evening**
The row erupted right there in the hallway. “How dare you, Jennifer Parker?!” Catherine Edwards’ voice trembled with fury. “My husband! Mine! And you think I don’t see how you’ve been clinging to him at every residents’ meeting?”
Jen flinched, dropping her expensive handbag with a clatter. The silence in the Victorian terrace hallway was so profound, I could hear the clock ticking near the lift.
“Cath, what on earth are you talking about? I don’t even understand!” Jen tried to defend herself, but her voice betrayed her, shaking.
“Don’t understand?!” Catherine grabbed Jen’s coat sleeve. “Who was chatting with my Geoff by the bins for half an hour yesterday? Who leans over their balcony rail every morning when he leaves for work? Think I’m blind?”
Jen tried to pull free, but Cath held tight. Both women were nearing fifty, but Catherine was sturdier.
“Let go of me this instant!” Jen hissed. “You’ve lost your mind! Geoffrey Edwards simply said good morning, like any neighbour would! What’s so awful about that?”
“Said good morning?” Sarcasm dripped from Cath’s words. “He was mooning over you like a lovesick schoolboy! And you simpered back like some daft teenager!”
Just then, Gran Doris from number seven stepped out of the lift. Spotting the heated exchange, she slowed, pretending to search her bag, but hanging on every word. Scenes like this were rare on our street – not to be missed.
“Cath, love,” Jen softened her tone, “Come inside, let’s have a cuppa and talk properly. No need for this spectacle.”
“Properly?!” Cath shrieked. “I could kill you! Twenty years we’ve been together, twenty! Then you swan in here with your dyed hair, thinking you can steal someone’s husband?!”
Jen flushed. Her hair dye *was* fading unevenly, silvery roots showing through the brassy ginger.
“I’m not stealing anyone!” Jen’s voice cracked into a shout. “You’re mad, Cath! Stark raving! I wouldn’t want your Geoff if you paid me!”
That was the mistake. Hearing such words about her husband, Catherine snapped. She shoved Jen hard, sending her stumbling back against the radiator with a painful thud.
“Oh, wouldn’t you?!” Cath yelled, waving her arms. “Then why d’you gawp out the window every time he walks past? Why slap on the war paint just to pop to Sainsbury’s where he might be?”
Jen tried to rise, but her back throbbed. Tears of frustration welled up.
“Because I’m a woman, not some garden scarecrow!” she blurted. “Because I want to look decent, not wander about in a worn-out housecoat, like some I could mention!”
The barb struck home. Catherine *had* let herself go since their daughter Lisa moved to Manchester and Geoffrey started working double shifts. The housecoat was permanent, her hair in a messy bun, makeup a forgotten habit.
“Right then!” Catherine hissed through gritted teeth. “Want to look *decent*, do you? Let’s see how decent you look now!”
She lunged at Jen on the floor, yanking her hair sharply. Jen shrieked and clawed at Cath’s hands.
“Girls, girls!” Gran Doris finally abandoned her role as silent spectator. “What on earth! For heaven’s sake, neighbours shouldn’t carry on so! Stop this!”
Neither heard her. Cath kept pulling Jen’s hair; Jen scratched back. They rolled on the patterned hallway carpet like furious cats, grunting and gasping.
Suddenly, Cath’s door flew open. There stood Geoffrey Edwards himself, in joggers and a faded tee, barefoot, clearly roused from sleep after his night shift.
“Cath!” he bellowed. “What the bloody hell?!”
Seeing her husband, Cath froze momentarily, loosening her grip. Jen shoved her off and scrambled up. Her hair was wild, scratches marked her face, her coat torn.
“There!” Jen panted, pointing at Geoffrey. “There’s your trouble! Your wife thinks I’m after you!”
Geoffrey looked bewildered from his wife to Jen to Gran Doris, watching wide-eyed from the stairs.
“I don’t have a clue,” he mumbled. “Cath, explain this mess?”
Cath slowly got up, face flushed, hair mussed, a scratch visible on her cheek.
“As if you don’t know!” she rasped. “All cosy with her yesterday! Think I didn’t see?”
“We were discussing council tax!” Geoffrey retorted, indignant. “Mrs. Parker asked what we paid for utilities!”
“Utilities!” Catherine sneered. “Of course! And why were you gazing into her eyes? Why was she smiling like a simpleton?”
“Cath,” Geoffrey stepped towards her, “Have you gone completely barmy? What eyes? I barely remember the chat!”
“Don’t remember!” Cath gave a bitter laugh. “Her darting onto the balcony every morning as you leave for work? Didn’t notice that either?”
Jen, who’d been straightening her clothes, finally exploded.
“Oh, stuff it, Cath! I’m sick of this! I go out to hang washing, not admire that ugly mug of yours! Look at yourself! What sort of wife are you? Walking about like a fright, he must be sick of the sight of you!”
That was it. Cath growled and lunged again. But Geoffrey intercepted her.
“Stop!” he shouted, arms locking around her waist. “Enough! Gone completely bonkers!”
“Let go!” Cath struggled. “I’ll show her who’s ugly! Let me go, Geoff!”
“No chance!” he said firmly. “Inside. Now!”
He started dragging his resisting wife back towards their door. On the threshold, Cath twisted and yelled at Jen:
“This isn’t over! Hear me? Not over! I’ll get you yet!”
The door slammed. Silence fell, broken only by Jen’s ragged breathing and Gran Doris’s worried muttering.
“Oh, dearie,” the old woman whispered, “Whatever next? Neighbours! Beasts!”
Jen didn’t answer. She picked up her handbag, checked inside, and shuffled towards her own door. Her keys shook; she missed the lock twice.
Through the shared wall, Geoffrey’s stern, displeased voice berated his wife. Cath’s replies were muffled, indistinct.
Jen stepped into her flat, locked the door, and faced the hall mirror. She looked dreadful. Scratched face, tangled hair, ruined coat. Tears threatened.
She went to the bathroom, splashed cold water on her face. The scratches stung, but it was nothing to the ache inside. Was her attraction to Geoffrey so glaringly obvious?
It was true. She’d liked him since moving here after her divorce. He was decent, polite, always said hello, helped with heavy bags. Yes, she *had* stepped onto the balcony when he left for work. Yes, she’d bought new makeup, dyed her hair. But she hadn’t done anything wrong! No flirting, just… dreaming.
Dreaming of how lovely it would be to have a husband like him. Steady, reliable, hardworking. Not like her useless ex who drank his wages and hit her.
Jen fetched antiseptic cream for the scratches. The mirror showed a tired woman facing a late realisation: happiness doesn’t just knock.
The phone rang as she pulled on a comfy cardigan. It was Olive Stevens from three doors down.
“Jen? Dear! Are you alright? Gran Doris told me everything! Said you and Cath fought over
The forced civility that settled over the Riverside Avenue apartments tasted like ashes, a constant, bitter reminder of the fragile affection Henry and Margaret now buried beneath layers of careful indifference whenever paths crossed in the shared spaces of their fractured little world.