My love, you do understand hes going through a rough patch. His wife booted him out, lost his job what, you want him sleeping at Kings Cross? Hes my brother, Jules. My actual brother. Simon twisted the tea towel in his hands and looked so guilty, youd think hed knocked over her favourite vase, not that his little brother planned to visit for just a week.
Julia exhaled, grocery bags thumping to the kitchen floor. They seemed heavier than ever, after a ridiculous day at the officequarterly numbers, a surprise audit, and a back twinge proving, once again, that she was definitely not nineteen. The absolute last thing she wanted was a debate about her brother-in-law, who she’d only clapped eyes on maybe three times in fifteen years of marriage.
Simon, this is a two-bed semi, not a hostel for wayward ex-officers, she groaned, toeing off her boots. Toms got a perfectly good flat in Coventry. Why cant he go crash there?
Hes sublet it, apparently. To pay the mortgage on a shoebox he bought for his son in Milton Keynes. Dont ask. Hes got this scheme, says he just needs to stick around London for a week, topsline up some interviews, get his feet under the table
Julia poured herself a glass of water. Simon hovered behind, sporting the hopeful expression of a spaniel expecting a treat. He was a good husbandgentle, loyal, hardworkingbut truly rubbish at saying no to his relatives. Especially Tom: the familys official black sheep and long-time champion of getting into scrapes.
Fine, she waved her hand, too tired to argue. One week. But he needs to know: this isnt Butlins. Were up at six, in bed by eleven. No parties, no randoms waltzing in.
Tom arrived the next night. He barrelled into their hall dragging a giant checked bag that reeked of budget train carriage and faintly of old cheese, instantly increasing the houses square footage just by standing in it. Tom was taller, louder, and infinitely cheekier than Simon.
Jules! The queen of the castle! he boomed, going in for a hugshe sidestepped just in time. Hope Im not puttin you out. Ill be as quiet as a church mouse! Just need a bed and a plug socket, ha ha.
The first three days, Tom actually kept a low profile: sleeping until midday on the lounge sofa, then allegedly hitting the pavement job hunting, and back each night for tea. He did eat for three men, though. Julia discovered their family-sized stew had vanished overnight, along with the mountain of fish fingers meant to last till Thursday.
Trying to grow, are we? Tom roared with laughter, mopping gravy with the last heel of bread. London does wonders for the appetite.
She said nothing, only made a mental note to up the Tesco order. He was a guest. One doesnt start rationing sandwiches.
As weeks end approached, Julia innocently enquired over roast:
Hows the job search, Tom? Anything promising?
Dark clouds crossed Toms face. Fork down, look sorrowful.
Wouldnt believe it, Juleslies everywhere. They post sixty grand, flexible hours, turns out its flogging dodgy shampoos door to door, or bicycle courier for pennies. Im skilled, yknow, got proper training. But I do have a leadbig firm, theyll call Monday, just have to hold on a few more days.
A few days? Julia looked at Simon, who chewed his lettuce like it was suddenly very interesting.
Cant chuck me out for the weekend, can you? Tom grinned that wide, hopelessly infectious grin. Besides, me and Si are due a proper brotherly bonding session in the shed!
Fine, two more days. How bad could it be?
Monday slithered into Tuesday, then Wednesday. No call from the firm. Tom stopped pretending to job hunt. Julia came home each night to the same scene: sofa-turned-bed deployed, TV blaring, detritus of digestives and mugs everywhere, and the unmistakable odour of stale man and yesterdays lager clinging to every soft furnishing.
Tom, have you been in touch about work today?
Yeah, he grunted, eyes glued to Bargain Hunt. HR birds off sick, said theyll be in touch next week. Incidentally, are we out of mayo? Theres nowt but tumbleweeds in your fridge.
We. That we made Julia twitch. Tom had started treating their place as his ownpinching Simons fancy shampoo (the medicinal one), stealing her favourite throw blanket, hijacking the remote whenever she so much as considered checking the news.
A month limped by. Icicles melted in the front garden, replaced by sticky mudthe same kind taking over Julias sanity.
It was one Tuesday evening, halfway through mending the toaster, that Julia finally snapped.
Simon, we need to talk. Properly.
Tom? Simons shoulders slumped.
Yes. A month, Si. He doesnt work, doesnt even look. Hes just parked on our sofa, grazing through our food, and honestly, I feel like Im living in a youth hostel. I cant even walk through my own lounge in a dressing gown! When does it end?
I have spoken to him. He says thingsll pick up any second. Hes just down on his luck, love. I cant throw my own brother out. Mum would haunt me forever. You know she always said we had to stick together.
Your mum lives three hours up the M1 and hasnt seen this in person. Our expenses have doubled, our utilities too, and Tom soaks in the bath for hours. Could he at least chip in?
Hes got no cash, Simon admitted. Bank froze his cardscredit debts. Told me yesterday.
Julia sat down, fighting dizziness. Oh, the debts. Of course.
And when were you going to tell me?
He said as soon as he finds something, hell pay us back. Just hang on a bit longer, love. Springs almost here. Hell pick up some work, if not the office then on a building site.
Hang on. That became the family motto.
Spring arrived and vanished. Tom never set foot on a building sitemuttered something about a slipped disc preventing manual labour, though he managed to lift pints in front of the telly with astonishing regularity. Julia noticed gin disappearing from the cupboardslowly at first, till Simons prized bottle of twelve-year-old scotch walked off, sparking genuine domestic war.
I never touched it! Tom bellowed, spitting crumbs. Stop branding me a thief! Maybe you drank it and forgot, or Si swiped it quietly!
Dont speak to my wife like that! Simon attempted to roar, more like a wounded kitten than a lion.
Tell her to calm down, then! Shes quibbling over a glass! Once Ive hit the jackpot, youll be swimming in scotch!
That night, Julia drew her line in the sand: Tom out by end of week, or shed file for divorce, and good luck moving him from a house shed bought with mostly her money and her parents deposit.
Simon panicked. There were midnight balcony conferences, whole packs of cigarettes sacrificed. Tom sulked, glared, and went suddenly quiet. Progress? He announced a room in Croydonmoving out in two weeks, once his security job kicked in.
Relief! Two weeks, she could do. Until Tom trundled in a week later, arm in a cast.
Fell, didnt I? he intoned, bandage aloft. Slipped on the stairs, went straight through a banister. Its a fractured radius, doctors say.
Julia eyed the cast. She knew, in her marrow, they were doomed. No job, no moving out, just high-calibre moaning.
Cant turf out an invalid, can you? Tom all but winked, eyes glittering with glee. Hed found the ultimate life hack for indefinite free sofa rights.
Summer inched past, hellish as a heatwave on the Northern line. Tom lorded it, demanding sandwiches be buttered, and, at his most obscene, Julias help with washing his back. She responded so vigorously that he never asked again, but the mood didnt exactly improve.
Simon started spending dawn to dusk at work, volunteering for overtime and weekend shiftsa transparent bid for house-avoidance. Julia, too, took to lingering in the park, sipping endless coffee alone, anything but go home to King Tom the Sofa.
Half a year, then nine months. Toms cast long gone, but now he was rehabbing his arm and blaming everything on the damp. He rearranged all the lounge furniture for his viewing pleasure, hosted two mysterious friends when no one was home (bless Mrs Sanders next door for reporting that). Any objections, met with the full force of Family Megaphone:
You owe me! Bloods thicker and all that! Its a three-bed, whats the fuss? Not like Im spoiling your bedroom!
By November, exactly a year after Toms one week stay, Julia reached her absolute limit.
Returning home early with a headache, she let herself in and stopped, horrified. Music blasted, female laughter cackled from the lounge.
Unfamiliar battered boots stood in the hall. A knock-off puffer hung on her coat peg. Julia peered in to seetrulya masterpiece of council estate melodrama: the table groaned under borrowed Tesco cheese and their last Waitrose bottle of vodka. Tom, sprawled, snogged an obviously-dyed blonde who rolled a fag direct onto the axminster.
Ah, the lady of the manor! Tom slurred. Thats Claire. My muse!
Something clicked inside Juliacool, bright, and clear as gin. No more pity, no second-guessing, no dread about hurting Simons feelings.
Out, she said, cold as a February night.
Eh? Tom staggered off the sofa, face reddening and confused. Look, Jules, chill out! Clairell go in a tick, were just
Out. Both. Five minutes to get your things.
You what? Are you mad? Where am I meant to go, its pitch black! And this is my home too! My brother lives here! Who even are you, anyway? A hanger-on!
He advanced; Julia didnt flinch. She calmly took out her phone.
Im calling the police.
Go on! Theyll do nowt! Im family, Im a guest, Si wants me here!
Julia dialled anyway.
Yes, police please. I need someone round. My addressyes, theres an intruder, hes threatening, drunk, and not on the tenancy. Yes, Im the homeowner. Ill wait.
Claire sobered up faster than you can say benefit fraud, shoving on her boots and muttering something about didnt know it wasnt legal, vanishing before the ringtone faded. Tom sat himself smugly back on the sofa.
Right, then. Lets see what you do when Simon finds out. Grassing on family, are we? Wicked, you are, Jules.
Julia left him to his grandstanding, called Simon.
Ive phoned the police, she said, without preamble. Your brother brought some random woman home, turned our lounge into a dodgy boozer, and just tried to square up to me. If youre going to defend him, dont bother coming home. Ill file the divorce tomorrow.
A silence. Then Simon, sounding ten years older and a hundred miles lost: …Do what you need to. Im coming.
Policemen arrived within twenty minutesboth tired, both clearly used to much worse, both totally unamused.
Whos the homeowner? the older one asked, sighing at the warm fug of smoke and spilt lager, eyeing Tom with withering indifference.
I am, Julia produced passport, deeds photocopyforethought was a virtue. Jointly owned with my husband. This mans not registered, refuses to go, behaves aggressively. Please remove him.
Documents, mate? the officer asked Tom.
Tom half-heartedly fished out his wallet. Im Sis brother! Family! Ive got rights, dont I? What about Christmas spirit?
The copper flicked through his ID. Registered up in Coventry, no London connection. The lady wants you outyouve no right without her say-so. Start packing.
You cant do that! Ill complain! Simonll prove Im welcome!
If your brother turns up and says youre allowed, you can take it to small claims courtbut for now, your times up. And youre drunk, the neighbours complained about the racket. Either you leave or we take you down the station, up to fifteen days for antisocial behaviour. Your call.
Tom looked at the officers. At Julias stony face and crossed arms. The game was up. His arsenalguilt-tripping and emotional blackmailcrumbled before the dull, officious boredom of proper coppers.
Fine, he hissed. Fine! Choke on your precious square footage, then! Ill remember this.
Packing took twenty minutesangry stuffing of clothes, muttered swearing, the odd strategic knock against the furniture. The police stood rock-solid in the doorway.
Finally, a wild-eyed Tom staggered into the hall just as Simon arrived, looking haggard.
Si! Tom wailed. Tell them! Shes chucking me! Your own brother! Shes heartless!
Simon stared at Tomhis bloated, scowling face. He looked at Juliawhite, determinedand then at the empty whisky bottle on the table, the stumps of cigarette butts everywhere.
Time to go, Tom, Simon said quietly.
What? Youre ditching blood? Over her?
Youve lived off us a year, Simon replied, voice firm. Youve lied. Youve bullied my wife. Youve wrecked our home. I let it go because youre my brother, but you crossed the line. Go back to Coventry. Or wherever. Im done. And dont ask for a penny.
Toms mouth did a fair imitation of a goldfish. He hadnt counted on Simon growing a spine.
Get lost, both of you! Family of losers! he spat, slinging the bag over his shoulder and storming out. The police followed, just to make sure he really left.
Ta, Julia nodded to the officer.
Change the locks, love, the bobby advised. Blokes like that, they love a comeback tour.
When the door shut, silence smothered the house. Simon opened the lounge window, letting in Novembers coldclearing out months of smoke and sour sweatthen quietly gathered up cigarette butts.
Julia put a hand on his shoulder.
Im sorry, Simon said, eyes on the floor. I shouldve sorted it. Ages ago.
Its over. Thats what matters, said Julia.
They spent the next weekend blitzing the place, binning the so-called guest sofa. A locksmith came round to change the locksSimons own suggestion. Tom phoned twice, using withheld numbers, to demand travel dosh, beg, then threaten. Simon hung up each timeno argument, just block and delete.
Gradually, things settled. Julia stopped dreading the homecoming, started cooking again, and the flat finally smelled like clean sheets and dinnernot warmed lager and socks. Simon seemed to have finally learned: family arent the ones who drain you dry, but the ones who fill your life with respect and peace.
Sometimes, it takes a year of sofa-surfing hell to realise your boundaries matterand to remember your own home should be your sanctuary, not someone elses all-you-can-eat buffet.
Ever had to forcibly evict an overstaying guest? Drop a comment below, and dont forget to like and subscribe for more real-life tales from the British front lines of family drama.
