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Noisy Neighbor

They say, in this life, there's someone for everyone ... that our soul mate is out there somewhere, waiting to meet us. Some are unlucky and never find that special person, but this story is about two of the lucky ones. They lived on the same street, although if it hadn't been for a rusty motorcycle silencer, they might never have met. But they did ... and that's why I'm here to tell you the tale.

************************************

Derek sighed and reached out a hand to kill the alarm. Four-thirty on a gloomy April morning. Sliding reluctantly out of his warm bed he pulled back the bedroom curtains. His heart sank. It was ark-building weather. He decided to skip breakfast and grab a mug of tea at the dairy. It was best to get an early start when it rained heavily. Several of the streets on his north London milk round were prone to flooding. Derek crept downstairs trying not to disturb old Mrs Griffiths in the ground-floor flat and closed the front door quietly behind him. His old Triumph Bonneville started on the fourth kick.

#

Belinda was wrenched from a deep sleep by the roar of a motorbike starting up. Damn! Who was the idiot who woke her up every morning? Ever since she'd moved into her trendy Islington townhouse she'd been disturbed before dawn ... and Belinda was a night owl. She hadn't made it home 'till two am. There'd been another debut exhibition at the art gallery where she worked. Belinda sighed and reached for the paracetamol. Too much champagne as usual. She decided to stay up and be first into work. Impress the boss with her staying power.

#

Derek skidded to the Cooperative dairy with his boots planted firmly on the wet roads. His electric milk float had charged overnight and the crates of milk were ready to load. He was on his round by five-thirty. By midday, he felt like a drowned rat. His fingers ached from gripping slippery milk bottles, but he was on his last street. He knew his later customers would complain, but what did they expect when the roads ran like rivers?

#

Belinda spent the morning looking at photos of paintings sent in by unknown artists. The gallery specialised in discovering fresh talent. The money lay in getting in early. Before an artist became popular and prices skyrocketed. What she really needed was a big break. Signing a hotshot onto the gallery's books could mean a partnership.

#

Back in his apartment, Derek mixed a cup-a-soup and carried it to his spare room. He gazed at his latest landscape waiting patiently on an easel and selected a fan brush. Five minutes later, he was fully absorbed underpainting thunderclouds.

#

After a Caesar salad and mineral water in a nearby bistro, Belinda had a quick browse around H&M. When she made partner it would be Prada, but that would have to wait a while. The afternoon passed slowly and she had to keep stifling yawns. This isn't good enough she decided. After work, she'd track down motorbike moron and give whoever it was a piece of her mind.

#

By evening, the downpour had subsided to a steady drizzle. As soon as she got home, Belinda went on the warpath. It took her less than ten minutes to locate a likely-looking motorcycle. It was covered with a plastic cover in the minuscule front yard of a house four doors down the street from her own. She was confounded to see three separate doorbells with apartment numbers. Belinda shrugged and rang the ground floor flat. The elderly lady who answered said of course the motorcycle wasn't hers. It belonged to Derek on the top floor. Nice quiet boy. Works for the Co-op as a milkman. Belinda stopped herself from saying he wasn't such a quiet boy at five every morning. The lady let her in and Belinda climbed the stairs wondering how she could insist a milkman be quiet when he left for work.

The guy who answered the door wasn't a boy. He was drop-dead gorgeous with Hugh Grant's floppy hair and Brad Pitt's eyes. Belinda found herself urgently pushing stray hairs behind her ears and wishing she'd touched up her lippy. Then her eyes dropped to the Winsor and Newton paintbrush in his hand and the old paint-splashed shirt worn loose over his jeans.

"If you're the new rent collector I already paid," he said in a voice that Belinda imagined could contribute to global warming.

"You're ... an artist?" she managed.

He glanced down at his shirt before answering.

"How did you guess?"

"The lady downstairs said you deliver milk."

"Yeah ... it pays more than art. At least I get to eat occasionally."

"I came to ask if you would consider being ... oh, never mind."

"No, go ahead ... consider being what?"

"Well, a little quieter when you start your motorbike in the mornings."

"Oh, yes. I'm sorry about that. It's a classic Bonneville you see. The silencer baffles are shot and new ones cost an arm and a leg. Temporary cash flow problem."

"Really? Look ... I might be able to help you with that. Why don't you show me your paintings?"

#

The gallery was packed. The summer art exhibition was proving popular. Entitled 'Stormfront' it displayed the work of an up-and-coming artist called Derek Taylor. Belinda filled out another sales receipt and promised to have the painting delivered to the buyer's home by a specialist courier. It was one of Derek's larger canvasses and commanded a correspondingly larger price. It was also one of Belinda's favourites and she'd be sorry to see it leave the gallery. A wintry north London street popped with brightly coloured raincoats and umbrellas. Derek specialized in dark, rain-lashed scenes, illuminated with splashes of vivid colour.

Belinda looked up momentarily as an immaculate Triumph Bonneville purred to a stop on the street outside. A tall leather-clad young man climbed off and waved at her through the display window.

"Someone you know?" the customer asked.

"My fiancé," Belinda said with a smile. "Come to take me to lunch."

************************************

I gazed at my infant son, now fast asleep in his cot.

"So that was how your gran and grandpa met, more than thirty years ago," I whispered. "And if it hadn't been for that noisy motorbike, I wouldn't be here, and neither would you, my little one."

The bedroom door opened quietly and my wife crept in. She placed a hand on my shoulder as she bent to kiss our sleeping toddler.

"Come on, Liam. Our babysitter's here and your mum's waiting for us at the gallery."

I nodded and followed her downstairs. Our babysitter, my mentor, leapt up from the sofa and grabbed me in a bear hug. The familiar smell of oil paint and turpentine hit me and I wondered if he'd been dragged out of his studio for the occasion.

"Are you sure you're okay with this?" I asked. "We can always ask Melanie next door to ..."

"I'm more than okay with it!" he interrupted. "I'd much rather look after my grandson than listen to a bunch of art critics saying how Liam Taylor is a far better artist than his dear old dad ever was! Now, get your rear end into gear and go impress the cognoscenti. And take an umbrella. It's ark-building weather out there!"

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