**Diary Entry – 15th October**
When I was a lad, my mum told me something I’d never forget. She said, *”If you’re ever in a bind and can’t speak up, use the code word.”*
It was a silly little phrase—*”buttered crumpets”*—but to us, it meant everything. A silent cry for help when things went sideways. I never thought I’d need it again. Not until two months ago.
Two months. That’s how long I’d been away, looking after Mum after her knee surgery. I practically lived at the hospital, surviving on weak tea, stale sandwiches, and stolen naps in chairs harder than a park bench. I missed my bed, my proper cuppa, and the comfort of home. But most of all, I missed Charlotte—my wife.
Charlotte and I had been married four years. We weren’t perfect, but we had our routines—takeaway Fridays, Sunday roasts, and bickering over who forgot to buy milk. Being away so long felt like a piece of me was missing. She sent me sweet texts, rang every other night, and swore she was keeping the flat tidy (doubtful, knowing her idea of “tidy”). But still, hearing her voice kept me going.
The day I finally got home, it felt like I could breathe again. I had the longest shower of my life, wrapped myself in my dressing gown, and was about to put the kettle on when I heard it—the front door unlocking.
I froze. At first, I thought Charlotte had popped back for something. But then I realised—I hadn’t heard her car. I crept down the hall, pulse quickening.
There, in the doorway, stood a woman I’d never seen before.
She was sharp—smart coat, heeled boots, holding a set of keys. She looked at me like *I* was the stranger.
“Who the hell are *you*?” she demanded.
I folded my arms. “I live here. Who are *you*?”
She frowned. “Never seen you in my life.”
“I’ve been gone two months,” I said. “Who gave you keys to *my* flat?”
“Charlotte did,” she said, like it was obvious. “She said I could drop by whenever.”
*Charlotte. My Charlotte.*
My stomach lurched.
I forced a laugh. “Did she now? Because *I’m* her husband, and this is the first I’m hearing of it.”
Her face paled. “Wait… she told me she was single.”
“Course she did,” I muttered.
She looked between me and the keys, then sighed. “Right. I should go.”
“Not yet,” I said, voice steady. “Come with me.”
She hesitated but followed me inside.
Charlotte was at the kitchen table, eating crisps straight from the bag, wearing my favourite jumper—the one I’d been itching to nick back.
“Who’s *that*?” the woman asked, pointing.
“That’s Charlotte,” I said. “My wife.”
She squinted. “That’s *not* Charlotte.”
I looked between them. “What d’you mean?”
Charlotte froze, mid-crisp. “Wait—what?”
The woman pulled out her phone, tapped a dating app, and shoved the screen at me.
It wasn’t Charlotte.
It was *Sophie.*
Charlotte’s little sister. The one who flunked uni twice. The one who “borrowed” our telly and sold it for concert tickets. The one with grand plans and zero follow-through. And now, apparently, the one catfishing strangers in *our* flat.
Charlotte groaned. “Christ. No wonder she kept asking when I’d be home.”
I turned to the woman. “Let me guess—she never let you over when *I* was here?”
“No,” she admitted. “Always said her flatmate was around. Thought she had some clingy mate.”
Charlotte rubbed her temples. “I’m going to throttle her. Or make her deep-clean the loo.”
The woman smirked. “I *knew* something was off. She said she was a barrister but spelled it ‘barista’ twice.”
I chuckled. “Let’s start over. I’m James.”
She shook my hand. “Megan.”
Charlotte clapped her hands. “Right. What’s the plan?”
Megan’s eyes sparkled. “Revenge.”
Charlotte grinned. “I like her.”
Twenty minutes later, we had our trap.
Charlotte texted Sophie:
*”Roast dinner tonight. Come hungry.”*
Sophie replied instantly:
*”YES! Be there in 15.”*
We set the table like it was Sunday. Megan freshened her lipstick. I nuked a shop-bought roast. Charlotte poured the wine.
Right on cue, Sophie waltzed in, grinning.
“Smells mint! Where’s my babe—”
Then she saw Megan.
“Oi! Fancy seeing *you* here!”
Megan crossed her arms. “Cut the crap, Sophie.”
Sophie looked at Charlotte. “Sis?”
Charlotte stood. “We know *everything*, ‘Charlotte.’”
Sophie’s smile died.
Then Megan, with perfect timing, picked up her water and tossed it square in her face.
Sophie gasped, dripping. “Alright, fair play.”
“You’re covering our rent this month,” Charlotte said.
“*What?!*” Sophie yelped.
“And giving back whatever Megan gave you,” I added.
Sophie winced. “Even the wireless earbuds?”
“*Especially* the earbuds,” Megan snapped.
Sophie slunk out like a scolded puppy.
The second the door shut, we howled with laughter.
Megan wiped her eyes. “Better than a night at the pub.”
Charlotte raised her glass. “To petty revenge.”
We clinked. Megan smirked. “Please tell me there aren’t more sisters.”
“Nah,” I said. “Just a grumpy tabby who hates everyone equally.”
And that, dear diary, is how I came home after two months, caught my scheming sister-in-law, made a new mate, and finally had a decent meal. Life’s a mad old thing—but sometimes, it hands you a story worth telling.
**Lesson learned:** Trust no one. And keep a spare key.
