Nigel was strolling towards the gate of his cottage in the Cotswolds, arm in arm with a woman his neighbour had never seen before.
“Nigel, hello!” called out Margaret from behind her hedge, curiosity dripping from her voice. “And who’s this with you?”
“Afternoon, Margaret!” Nigel beamed. “Decided to tie the knot. This is Emily, my future wife.”
Emily threw herself into cottage life, working tirelessly in the garden while Nigel kept pace. One day, after he’d popped into town, Margaret peeked over the fence.
“Fancy a cuppa, neighbour?” she asked, a sly twinkle in her eye.
“Don’t mind if I do,” Emily nodded.
She spent a good hour and a half at Margaret’s before slipping back just as Nigel’s car pulled up.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he remarked.
Emily just smiled. She knew the truth now.
“Nigel, love! Who’s this?” Margaret was practically vibrating with nosiness as she eyed his companion.
Nigel, steering his guest along, squinted. “Margaret, ever the watchdog. Getting hitched. This is Emily, soon-to-be lady of the house. Big cottage, need to see if she’s up to it.”
“Emily, is it?” Margaret nodded approvingly. “Lovely name. Nigel’s quite the catch, handy with his tools, heart of gold. Here for the summer or sticking around?”
“Give it a rest,” Nigel waved her off, ushering Emily through the gate.
“Emily, pop round for tea!” Margaret cackled after them.
“Odd woman,” Emily murmured, stepping inside. “What did she mean, ‘for the summer’?”
“Take no notice,” Nigel scoffed. “Locals hire seasonal help—probably got wires crossed. Bit simple, bless her. Best not gossip with the village grapevine, Margaret’s the ringleader.”
The cottage gleamed, only a light dusting from winter’s neglect. Emily marvelled at the curtains, the embroidered table linens, the neat tea towels in the kitchen.
“Nigel, did you do all this yourself?”
“Hardly,” he snorted. “Had half the village throwing themselves at me before you came along. Eligible bachelor, prime property. But I held out for you.”
Emily blushed. He *was* handsome—stocky, salt-and-pepper hair, a roguish glint in his eye. Plus, a cottage *and* a flat in London.
They’d met at a farmers’ market in Bath. Nigel was eyeing raspberry canes; Emily needed basil for her windowsill.
“Take three, love, I’ll knock a bit off,” the vendor urged.
“What would I do with three?” she laughed. “Just me here.”
“Plenty of space in my garden,” Nigel winked. “Fancy a joint venture?”
“Won’t your wife mind?” Emily teased, eyeing his smart jumper and silver fox charm.
“Widower,” he sighed. “But you’ve thawed this old heart.”
A week later, Nigel confessed over tea: “Em, never been so at ease with someone. Hate to part. Off to the cottage for the summer. Fancy joining? Commute’s not bad.”
Emily agreed. “Why not? Kids are grown, only call when they need cash. No husband, not even a cat. Maybe it’s fate?”
At the cottage, they quickly dropped formalities. His talk of marriage thrilled Emily—and amused Margaret.
All summer, Emily transformed the garden: cucumbers and tomatoes thrived in the greenhouse, weeds stood no chance. Nigel dug, fetched water, chopped logs. To outsiders, they were the picture of domestic bliss.
Then Nigel’s mood shifted. Nitpicking replaced sweet nothings. Wedding plans? Forgotten.
“Why’s the greenhouse open?” he grumbled one morning.
“Nigel, it’s warm at night—they’ll rot!”
“Since when are you Monty Don?” he snapped. “Windowsill basil doesn’t make you a gardener!”
“That’s uncalled for,” Emily frowned. “My parents had an allotment. Fine, I’ll do nothing.”
“Alright, alright,” he backtracked. “Just run things by me. Speaking of—can you make jam? Berries are ready.”
She nodded, thinking: *Here we go.* While she stewed fruit, Nigel was sweetness itself. Once jars lined the pantry, the sniping resumed. Emily began plotting how to salvage some harvest for herself.
“Nigel, what’s going on?” she finally demanded.
He opened his mouth to snipe—then his phone rang. As he read the screen, his face cycled through shock, then panic.
“What is it?”
“They’re draining my accounts!” he stammered, scrolling frantically. “Bank’s calling—need to reset my PIN!”
“Nigel, it’s scammers!” Emily warned. “Don’t give the code!”
“Since when did you get a degree in cybersecurity?” he sneered.
“I’m serious!”
“Back off!” he barked. “Go pick tomatoes.”
She heard him recite the code anyway. Moments later, a howl echoed through the cottage:
“They’ve cleaned me out!”
Nigel sat puce-faced, hyperventilating. “You *knew*! You’re in on it! That was my car fund!”
“I *warned* you,” Emily said coolly.
“Worse—they took out a loan!” he groaned. “How will I pay that back?”
“How much?”
He named a sum. Manageable for her, but she wasn’t handing it over—not after Margaret’s revelation: *”You’re decent, Em. But Nigel’s not the marrying kind. Every summer, a new woman. Promises rings, gets free labour, then picks fights till they leave. Time someone turned the tables.”*
“I’ll cover the loan,” Emily said. “But you’ll sell me the cottage for that amount.”
“Are you *mad*? It’s worth triple!”
“Good luck finding a buyer before the bank takes *everything*,” she shrugged, hoisting a basket of veg.
“Fine!” he spat.
At the solicitor’s, papers flew. At the bank, Emily settled his debt. Back at the cottage, she packed Nigel’s things, leaving a basket of produce and a jar of jam on the porch—”for nostalgia.” The locks were changed before he could blink.
“Emily! Fancy that cuppa now?” Margaret trilled, spotting the new hardware.
“Better yet—come to mine!” Emily grinned. “Housewarming party. I’m the landlady now.”
