Long ago, when I was just a girl, my mother imparted a lesson I carried with me through the years. “If ever you’re in danger and cannot speak,” she’d say, “use the code word.”
It was simple—*butter tart*—absurd, really. Yet to us, it meant everything. A silent plea for help when words were too perilous to utter. I never imagined I’d need it again. Not until two months past.
Two months. That was how long I’d been gone, tending to my mother after her hip operation. Days bled into nights at the hospital, sustained by tepid tea, crisps from the shop downstairs, and stolen naps on chairs never meant for sleeping. I ached for my own bed, my feather pillow, the familiar scent of home. But above all, I missed Henry—my husband.
Henry and I had been wed four years. We weren’t flawless, but we had our ways. Both of us worked long hours, yet we clung to our rituals—Friday curry nights, the Sunday roast at the pub. Being away so long left an emptiness. He sent tender notes, rang me every other evening, swore he was keeping the flat tidy (though his idea of “tidy” was dubious). Still, his voice across the miles was a solace.
The day I returned, it was as though I could breathe properly again. I indulged in the longest bath of my life, wrapped myself in my quilted dressing gown, and twisted my damp hair into a towel. I was just about to pour a sherry when I heard it—the front door unlocking.
I stilled. At first, I thought Henry had forgotten something. Then I realised—I hadn’t heard his old Rover pull up. Barefoot, I padded toward the hall, my pulse quickening.
There, in the doorway, stood a woman I’d never seen.
She was polished, in smart heeled brogues and a tailored coat, clutching a set of keys. Her gaze met mine, confusion giving way to annoyance.
“Who are *you*?” she demanded, as though *I* were the trespasser.
I arched a brow. “Who am *I*? I live here. Who might *you* be?”
Her frown deepened. “I’ve never laid eyes on you.”
“I’ve been away two months,” I said, crossing my arms. “Who handed you keys to *my* flat?”
“Henry did,” she replied airily. “He said I could drop by whenever.”
*Henry.* My Henry.
My stomach turned.
I steadied my breath. “Did he now?” I said, measured. “Because I—his *wife*—was unaware.”
Her eyes widened. “Wait… he told me he wasn’t married.”
“Naturally,” I muttered.
She glanced between me and the keys in her hand. “Perhaps I should—”
“Not just yet,” I cut in, my voice steel. “Come with me.”
She hesitated, uncertainty flickering, but something in my manner must have persuaded her. She followed me inside.
Henry sat at the kitchen table, shovelling cornflakes straight from the box. His hair was tousled, and he wore my favourite jumper—the one I’d been longing to reclaim.
“Who’s *that*?” the woman asked, eyeing him.
“That,” I said, “is Henry. My husband.”
Her brow furrowed. “That isn’t Henry.”
I looked between them. “Pardon?”
Henry paused, spoon halfway to his mouth. “Now I’m properly befuddled.”
The woman pulled out her mobile and thumbed through a dating app. After a moment, she thrust the screen forward—a profile picture.
It wasn’t Henry.
It was *Oliver.*
Henry’s younger brother. The one who’d quit uni twice. The one who’d “borrowed” Henry’s car and left it in a tow yard. The one with grand schemes and no discipline. And apparently, the one impersonating Henry while using our flat as his courting parlour.
Henry groaned. “Of course. He kept pestering me about when I’d be home. Thought he was just being odd. Again.”
I turned to the woman, who now wore the dawning horror of realisation. “Let me guess—he never let you visit while I was about?”
“Never,” she admitted, voice thin. “Always said his flatmate was in. I assumed he had some nosy friend.”
Henry sighed. “I’ll throttle him. Or make him scrub the loo. Whichever’s worse.”
The woman gave a wry smile. “Can’t believe I fell for it. He claimed he was a solicitor. Should’ve known when he called it ‘soll-iss-itor.’”
I nearly laughed. “Let’s begin anew. I’m Beatrice.”
She shook my hand. “Margaret.”
“Right,” Henry said. “What now?”
Margaret straightened. “I want vengeance.”
Henry grinned. “I like her.”
A quarter-hour later, the scheme was set.
Henry texted Oliver:
*”Roast’s on tonight. Come round.”*
Oliver replied at once:
*”Brilliant! Be there in twenty.”*
We laid the table like a proper Sunday supper. Margaret freshened her rouge. I warmed a shop-bought roast. Henry uncorked a bottle of claret and poured us each a glass.
Right on time, Oliver swaggered in, all smiles.
“Smashing! Where’s my—”
Then he saw Margaret.
“Oi, love! Fancy seeing you here!”
Margaret folded her arms. “Spare me, *Henry*.”
Oliver shot Henry a look. “Erm—brother?”
Henry rose. “We know all about it, ‘Henry.’”
Oliver went rigid.
Then Margaret, with West End-worthy dramatics, seized her glass and flung its contents at him. Water splashed his face, dripping onto the floorboards.
Oliver blinked, rivulets coursing down his cheeks. “Right. Deserved that.”
“You’re paying our rent this month,” Henry said.
“*What?!*” Oliver squawked.
“And returning everything Margaret gave you,” I added.
Oliver winced. “Even the wireless earbuds?”
“*Especially* the earbuds,” Margaret snapped.
Oliver slunk out, thoroughly chastened.
The moment the door shut, we dissolved into laughter.
Margaret dabbed her eyes. “Better than a visit to the magistrate.”
Henry raised his glass. “To roast beef and retribution.”
Margaret clinked hers against ours. “Just tell me there aren’t more brothers.”
I smiled. “Only a tabby who loathes us all equally.”
And that, dear reader, is how I returned after two months, unmasked my deceitful brother-in-law, gained a new confidante, and finally had a proper supper. Life may be unpredictable, but on occasion, it spins quite the tale.
