I make an easy meal of baked beans on toast and a cup of tea, then find the materials and spread them out on the kitchen bench. Nothing to it, really, though the glue smell is not ideal with the simple dinner... I take it into the living room to enjoy, then fish out more materials and make five more lampshades before midnight, all in different colors.
The orange one with lime green pompoms is so eye-catching, I decide to make another in reverse colors, to go with it. I must keep an eye out for some more black bases.
Next day, I go hunting for stray bases in thrift stores and pick up some bargains, nabbing some gardening gloves and new clippers while I’m at it. That evening, I make a couple of adjustments to the pompoms on one of Mrs B’s shades, then plug in all my new lamps to take a photo for Instagram – but there’s a “phut” and all my lights go out.
I stumble to my door, grasp for the key on its hook, and stare out into a pitch black stairwell. All around me, neighbors’ doors open. I wish I’d thought to bring a flashlight. I know exactly where to find them back at ... I almost said “home” but Brighton Court is my home now.
“So sorry,” I call out into the stairwell. “My fault. I think.”
“Lucy?” It’s Dirk.
“Yes.”
“Are you alright?”
“Is Davey there?” It’s a voice I don’t recognise, soft, with an Irish lilt to it.
“Who’s that?”
“Amaryllis. Ask Davey. He fixed the fuses last time.”
“I’m trying to study!” It’s another voice, a young woman.
“What about my lesson plans?” says another stranger.
“We’ve got visitors for dinner and the oven’s going cold.” It’s an older woman. She doesn’t sound happy.
“Sorry!” I sing out again. “I’ll phone an electrician. Any recommendations?”
“S’okay. Davey here. I’m onto it.”
“While you’re all here, I’m Lucy in number Forty One and you’re all invited to drinks on Saturday night from six o’clock. Did you get your invitations? Spread the word. Everyone at Brighton Court is welcome, with Plus Ones.”
“Hmmph.”
“Thanks.”
At least some of the voices are warm.
“Do I bring something?” It’s the woman with the accent again.
“Just yourselves.”
I’m about to close the door when a flashlight illuminates the stairwell above me, as if we’re on the set of a television crime series.
“Lucy?”
It’s Dirk. “Need one of these?”
“I do, actually. Thank you so much.” He gives me one of his flashlights, warm from his hand, then leans in close, so deliciously close my heart jolts. Will he kiss me in this darkness? I’m ready. I lean in and tilt my face to his.
“There’s orange fluff on the side of your nose,” he says.
I step back, blush and rub it off. Yes. A bit of pompom.
“Oh. I’ve been making Lucy’s Lamps. I was testing them. Stupid. I must have overloaded the circuits or something.”
“Happened to me, too, two days after I moved in. It’s Brighton Court, not you. This is an old building.”
