Look, I was going to be quiet. That was the plan. Then he made that noise and I made a worse one and the plan went out the window with last night’s taxi receipt.
Thin walls. That is the whole story, really. You can dress it up if you want. You can call it architecture or Victorian conversion charm or “character”. I call it being able to hear Sophie sneeze two rooms over and the couple downstairs arguing about oat milk. So yes. They heard. Again.
I knew the risk and I took it anyway
He came back with me after a nothing special Thursday that turned into a something special Friday morning. We were not even that drunk. That is the annoying part. If I was bladdered I could blame the wine. I was just in a good mood and he had a mouth on him and I have never been very good at whispering when I am enjoying myself.
Mia was still out. Sophie was in her room with headphones on, or so I thought. The hallway light was off. I did the usual check in the mirror by the door because I always do. Lipstick, hair, that smug little look I get when I already know how the night ends. Then we went in and shut the door like that was going to help.
It did not help.
These flats were not built for anyone having a decent time. They were built for people who go to bed at ten and own a cafetiere. Every headboard in this postcode is a drum. Every floorboard is a snitch. I have lived here long enough to know that and I still do it. Some girls learn. I just turn the music up afterwards and pretend I am complicated.
The soundtrack from downstairs
They play drum and bass at noon on Sundays. Proper rude with it too. Not a little background thing while they make eggs. Full send. Subwoofer. The kind of bass that makes the mugs rattle in our cupboard like they are nervous.
First time I mentioned it they smiled in that tight London way that means they have already decided you are the problem. Fair. I am often the problem. I still think midday jungle through a shared wall is a choice. So when they bang on the ceiling at two in the morning I do not clutch my pearls. I consider us even.
Last night they waited until the third round of whatever that was and then I heard the broom handle. Classic. Very 2009. Very “we pay council tax actually”. I laughed into his shoulder and he asked if I wanted to stop. I did not want to stop. I wanted to finish and then I wanted a glass of water and then I wanted to write this before Sophie got her version out first.
She always gets her version out first if you let her.
Morning is when the real conversation happens
He left at half seven like a man who has a job and a conscience. I kept the watch he forgot on the side, not because I am collecting trophies, because I am nosy and it was a nice watch. Then I put the kettle on and waited for the inquest.
Sophie appeared in a hoodie looking like a disappointed aunt.
“You do know the layout of this building, yes?”
I know the layout. I also know I am 27 and I am not going to start having silent sex because a man downstairs likes Goldie at brunch. I said that. She said I was being dense. I said she was being a nun. We met in the middle, which for us means she rolled her eyes and I made her a coffee strong enough to take the paint off.
Mia came in later, still in last night’s eyeliner, took one look at my neck and went, “Oh they definitely heard that.” No question mark. Just a statement. Then she stole my toast. That is flat life. You can have the most chaotic night of the week and someone will still pinch your food and rate your performance like it is a group project.
I am not sorry and I will not pretend
People love an apology they do not deserve. I could write one. Sorry you heard me. Sorry the walls are rubbish. Sorry I have a body and I use it. It would sound very grown up and it would be a lie.
I am not sorry.
I like sex. I like it loud enough that I do not drift off into thinking about emails. I like coming home with someone who makes the walk from the night bus feel less tragic. I like the little theatre of it, if I am being honest, the shut door and the mirror and the fact that by lunchtime it is already a story. That last bit is the unpretty truth. I will do a lot of things for a story. I have said that before. I meant it.
Does that make me a nightmare neighbour? Possibly. Does it make me worse than the drum and bass people? I do not think so. We are all just making noise in a city that never asked us to be quiet in the first place.
What you actually hear through London walls
It is never just sex. That is what nobody tells you. You hear the kettle. You hear someone crying on the phone to their mum. You hear a couple deciding whether to stay together in the polite voices they use when they think the building is asleep. You hear next door’s Amazon deliveries. You hear Mia’s terrible taste in 2am cheese. Sex is just the bit everyone gets precious about because it makes them picture you with your knickers off.
Picture away. I do not mind. I posted a blurry hallway photo this morning and three people asked if I was “okay”. I was better than okay. I was hydrated and slightly smug and I had already decided this was going in the blog before I had even washed my face.
That is the other thing. Living with two other girls means nothing is private for long. Sophie does this tight little smile when she is storing material. Mia just says it in the group chat. I would be annoyed if I was not exactly the same. We are three women in a two bed with thin plaster and too much information. Of course the neighbours heard. The neighbours are lucky they only heard the highlight reel.
The note I did not write
I thought about slipping something under their door. Not an apology. A joke. Something like thanks for the review, two stars, the bassline was mid. Then I realised that is how wars start in buildings like this and I quite like this flat. The light in the bathroom is good. The rent is not a hostage situation. Sophie buys decent milk. I can live with a broom on the ceiling now and then.
Instead I put his watch in a bowl by the fruit we never eat and I redid my lipstick even though I was going nowhere. Habit. I looked at myself for a second longer than I needed to. Same face. Same city. Same inability to keep it down.
If they want silence they can move to Surrey. If they want a soundtrack they already have one. Sunday noon is theirs. Friday night is mine. That feels like a fair split to me, even if Sophie disagrees and the man downstairs would rather I took up knitting.
Anyway
He texted at lunch. Asked if I got home okay, which is funny because he left from here. I told him the neighbours have given us notes. He sent a laughing emoji like that made him charming. It did not. It made him average. I still might see him again. I have not decided. The sex was good and the story is better and those two things are not always the same person.
For now I am writing this in the kitchen while Mia hoovers around my chair and Sophie pretends she is not reading over my shoulder. The walls are still thin. The coffee is still too strong. Downstairs has gone quiet, which means they are either at Waitrose or plotting.
Let them plot. I have a neck to cover and a caption to write and I am not spending my one wild and messy youth whispering for people I do not even like.
They heard. Good. At least somebody was paying attention.