Sophie barely had time to skid to a halt at the front door and jam her feet into her running shoes before she threw open the door and scurried across the lane and wrestled with the old wooden gate blocking the drive of Windy Willows, images of the spider making a break for it flashing in her mind.
She finally managed to free the gate, which let out an ungodly loud yowl as she squeaked it open.
Her eyes beginning to adjust to the growing darkness, Sophie scanned the courtyard for signs of her soon to be new plumber, but saw and heard no one.
"Hello?" She called, cautiously entering the courtyard, picturing herself coming face to face with a shotgun or finding Farmer Ted engaged in some sort of naughty barnyard act with a sheep. "Hello?" She tried again, louder this time, her voice less shaky.
"Who is that?" A deep baritone voice called from around the garage. "Who's there?"
Sophie swallowed hard, sudden nervousness replacing the feeling of urgency and fear in her stomach. "It's Sophie. Sophie Roberts, from across the lane? I have a problem?"
After a brief pause, her neighbor strode from around the side of the garage, his long, powerful legs bringing him close to her in a matter of seconds. "What?" He asked, looming over her in the near darkness.
"What?" Sophie parroted unconsciously. "Oh. Sorry. Hi. I'm Sophie. Do you know plumbing?"
"What?" he repeated questioningly, his deep voice reverberating in her chest as she struggled to concentrate on the problem at hand rather than his stubbled jaw line.
He may be a jackass with terrible manners, but he was just as fine looking close up as far away.
"Sorry. Let me try again. I’m Sophie Roberts, and I live in Fairfields," she pointed as though he had never seen the house fifty yards away before, "which belongs to my Auntie Barbara. Anyway, long story short, I seem to have made a rather catastrophic error in judgment of toilet paper while trying to kill a spider like the one from Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, and now my toilet is about to go supernova. Can you help me?"
Farmer Ted blinked once, then twice, very slowly, clearly trying to process the rapid fire delivery of her problem.
"I'm American," Sophie added, as though this would truly explain everything. She waited, and then kept going. "I don’t know where the water shutoff is. Can you help me? I'd really, really appreciate it. And I'm sure Auntie Barbara would really, really appreciate me not caving in her second floor with a flood."
He continued to stare at her, and Sophie began to dance uncomfortably from foot to foot. "Do you speak English?" she asked timidly, thinking perhaps he only spoke Welsh.
Or Martian.
He snorted then, dropping the spade he was holding and beginning to stride towards the gate, leaving her behind. She jogged several steps to catch up with him. "Is that a yes?"
"Yes, I bloody well speak English," he shot back, expertly unlatching her gate and heading for the front door. "Christ. Which loo is it?"
Sophie trailed behind him, her short legs struggling to keep up with his very long ones. "The upstairs one, in the master bedroom."
As he threw open the door, Jon Bon Jovi assaulted them both with a song about Tommy and Gina and the fact that they were livin' on a prayer. The man half turned, staring at her incredulously, and she couldn’t help but burst out laughing at the dichotomy. Bon Jovi was fun, full of energy, exciting… and this man who had just strode into her house couldn't be more wooden and sullen if he tried.
"Uh. Sorry," She stammered, still giggling as she raced to the stereo to turn it down. When she turned back around, he'd vanished – presumably to shut off the water supply.
What kind of person doesn't like Bon Jovi, she thought with another giggle as she ascended the stairs.
She walked purposefully into the master bedroom, her eyes sweeping from side to side, keeping an eye out for the spider. She saw her neighbor crouched beside her toilet – sorry, loo – fiddling with a knob. After a few moments, the sounds of water ceased and she saw him struggle to remove the wad of toilet paper and throw it in a nearby trash can.
She blanched as she watched him do this from the doorway. "Um. Sorry. Did you… did you see the spider? Is he dead? Did he drown? Because if he's still alive, he's going to be really pissed off, and I don't want him taking revenge on me at three in the morning by eating my face off."
The man straightened and stared at her, his brows knitted together.
"I hate spiders," Sophie whispered by way of explanation. "A lot."
"Yes," he said, walking towards her, stopping just in front of her and speaking slowly as though she were dim witted. "The spider is dead. And your loo would have been as well if it had run much longer. Christ, how irresponsible are you, chucking that much paper down it?"
Sophie swallowed nervously, but held her ground. "I said I didn’t realize… it's different in America… the water flow amounts… I'm really sorry."
He shook his head but said nothing.
"Thanks for your help," Sophie tried with a winsome smile. "You really saved the day. I appreciate it."
"I can't believe that Barbara is letting some irresponsible twit from America live in her house. What are you going to do for an encore, hrm? Set the house on fire with the Aga? Incinerate the dustbin? Chuck a mattress out an upstairs window? What the hell kind of person throws that much paper in the loo and doesn't expect it to overflow? Logic or intelligence isn't your forte, I take it? Only a true helpless female would do that." He snarled, his eyes boring into hers.
He pushed past her in the doorway then, careful not to touch her, the vague spicy scent of his cologne tickling her nose as he breezed by and disappeared from sight.
"Hey…" Sophie squawked, indignant. "Hey!" She shouted after him as he strode towards the staircase.
"I'm not a twit, though I am from America," Sophie said, scuttling down the stairs and grabbing his arm before he could throw open the front door. He looked down then back at her as though her touch burned him. "I already apologized, and I told you I appreciated your help. However, instead of standing there berating me or treating me like I'm a five year old with attention deficit disorder, you could have… I don’t know, shown me how to work on the toilet. You could have helped me kill the spider since you know that's a paralyzing fear of mine. Hell, you could have given me your name before you stormed out of my house like the world's rudest man since we're supposed to be neighbors and everything. Didn't your mother teach you any manners at all? Jeez…" Sophie took a deep breath and blew it out, her emerald eyes flashing up at him in confusion and anger. "Rude much?"
He took a step back, his own eyes flaring with emotion. "All I said…" He shot back but Sophie interrupted him, jutting out her chin defiantly and staring him right in the eye.
"All you did was call me a twit and a berk and accuse me of being illogical and idiotic, and treated me like a puppy you'd like to kick. All this in the first minute and a half of our meeting. I don't know how you do things in England, but we sure as hell don't act that way in Indiana – we smile, we introduce ourselves, we help out without lecturing or insulting. And we don't call women 'helpless females' just because they might not know something or have a fear of something. I could call you a 'helpless male' if you aren't able to name the overriding themes in Tamburlaine, a play, by the way, by Christopher Marlowe that I happen to know backwards and forwards, much like you know 'loos', apparently. But I didn't call you a helpless male upon our first meeting, now do I? Well, I won't have this. Thanks for your help, but I think you better leave. Good night, Mr… Mr. Unfriendly Neighbor Man," Sophie said in a rush, opening the front door with a flourish. "Don't let the door hit you on the way out, stranger."
The man marched through the door and into the night, pausing only long enough to say gruffly "Davies."
"What?" Sophie barked, still burning with anger, resentment and a dose of embarrassment for her outburst.
"My name is Daniel Davies," he said, his voice muffled by his refusal to turn around, instead projecting his name to the ground. "Davies… not Unfriendly Neighbor Man. Good night, Miss Roberts."
And with that, he was gone.
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