Emma, love, are you free on Saturday? the voice of Margaret, her motherinlaw, drifted through the receiver, warm and familiar, with that particular cadence Emma had learned to recognise in three short years. We need to get the jars of preserves down to the cellar; the garden patio is packed solid. And the loft is a wreck, but I just cant find the strength to sort it out.
Of course, MrsThompson, Ill be there first thing! Emma smiled, pressing the phone against her shoulder while stirring the soup on the stove. Should I bring Charlie?
Oh, no, his project is burning through his time, you know how it is. Let him stay home and work in peace.
They agreed that Emma would hop on the ninehour coach. She hit the snooze button and returned to the kitchen, humming a sticky jingle from an old advertisement. Outside, the sun sputtered weakly; on the windowsill a wilted ficus stared at her, a plant she could never quite bring herself to discard
Saturday morning found her squeezed into a jampacked coach, the air thick with petrol and the scent of someones homebaked scones. She claimed a window seat, pressing her cheek against the cold glass. Beyond the outskirts, fields stretched, interlaced with narrow strips of woodland, and Emma drifted off to the monotonous hum of the engine.
She jolted awake from a sudden lurch and a startled shriek. The coach had tipped onto its right side at the roadside. The driver announced that a tyre had blown, the spare was rotten, and theyd have to wait for a replacement from the town.
At least two hours, maybe three, he added, throwing up his hands.
A chorus of complaints rose from the passengers, who spilled onto the shoulder. Emma lingered by the coach for about ten minutes, then, with resolve, stepped onto the road and raised her hand.
A battered old Ford pulled up, a kindly old man at the wheel.
Heading to town? Hop in, love, Ill give you a lift.
She leapt onto the front seat, texted her motherinlaw: Coach broke down halfway, Im heading home, can we reschedule for next weekend? Sent. The phone buzzed: message delivered.
Forty minutes later Emma stood at the landing of her fivestorey block, calmly climbing to the third floor.
She fished out a key ring, turned the bundle, found the right one and slipped it into the lock. The phone burst into a ring. On the screen glowed Margaret.
Hello?
Emma! Margarets voice cracked, turning into a thin scream. Where are you? Did you get there? Are you already at the cottage?
No, I wrote the coach broke down, Im back. Im standing at the door, about to go in and
Dont go in!
Emma froze, key still in the lock.
What?!
Dont go inside! Hear me? Dont open the door! Turn around and drive to me, now, right this instant!
Margaret, are you all right? Emma laughed nervously. Whats with the panic? Im literally standing on the threshold
Emma, please! I need your help here!
But Emma had already turned the key. The lock clicked. She pushed the door.
And time stopped.
In the hallway lay a chaotic spread of footwear: her ballet flats, Charlies trainers, and a pair of glossy high heels perched on a peg. An unfamiliar umbrella leaned in its stand. A cloyingly sweet perfume hung in the air, not hers.
Beyond the doorway of the sitting room stood Charlie, in his houseshorts and a tee, barefoot. In his arms was a woman with dark hair, narrow shoulders, bright red nail polish gripping his back.
They kissed as if the world had dissolved.
Charlies eyes fluttered open first; seeing his wife in the doorway, his face turned ashen. Blood drained from his cheeks so swiftly Emma thought he might faint.
The woman turned. Young, about twentyfive, eyes wide like startled deer. In a heartbeat she snatched her bag, the heels, the umbrella, brushed past Emma, sending a wave of that sugary perfume, clicked her heels up the stairs and vanished.
Emma still held the phone to her ear.
Emma! Margaret shrieked. Emma, answer! Did you get in? Emma!
How many times? Emma croaked.
What?
How many times have you distracted me, Margaret? Those jars, the garden beds, the loft How many times have you covered for your son? How many times have you laughed behind my back because I dont know the truth?
Silence. Then a low buzz. Margaret simply hung up.
Emma lowered the phone slowly, looked at her husband. Charlie stood silent in the middle of the living room.
So? Emma asked, indifferent. Got anything to say?
Emma, I can explain everything
She burst into hysterical laughter, a wild, unhinged sound.
Explain? Seriously? Youre actually saying that now?
It meant nothing! Shes nobody, just
Just what? Just landed on your face by accident?
Charlie stepped toward her. Emma recoiled.
Stay away from me. Dont you dare.
Listen
No, you listen. She was amazed at how flat her own voice sounded. This flat is mine. Bought before we were married, with my inheritance from my grandmother. Youre nothing here, you have no name. You have fifteen minutes to pack your things and get out.
Emma, lets talk
Fourteen minutes.
You cant just
Thirteen.
He understood. From her face, voice, eyes he saw she wasnt bluffing. He bolted to the bedroom, slammed the wardrobe doors. Emma leaned against the hallway wall, counting her breaths. Inout. Inout. Not falling apart. Not now.
Twelve minutes later Charlie burst out, a sack of random belongings slung over his shoulder, a jacket tucked under his arm. He stopped at the door.
Keys, Emma said plainly.
He rummaged in his pockets, tossed the key ring onto the side table and left.
The door closed behind him soft, almost soundless. Emma stood a moment longer, then clicked the lock twice, securing a chain over it.
She slipped down the wall onto the floor and began to sob
On Monday she filed for divorce. The paperwork was processed swiftly. No children, assets split, no contest. A clean formality.
Charlie never called. Margaret never did either, as if theyd never existed. Three years of shared lifegone, silent.
A week later Emma sat in a coffee shop with Mary, her best friend since university. Mary stared, mouth open, latte cooling.
Wait, so the motherinlaw knew? She sent you to the cottage while he was Mary trailed off.
Seems that way.
Wow!
Emma gave a crooked smile.
You know whats funny? I always thought of her as a second mother. I thought, finally, a real family. Turns out it was a performance. Both of them acting. From the start.
From the start?
Think about it. When we first met, I already had my own flat, a steady job, decent income. He was renting a room, doing odd jobs Emma took a sip of her coffee, the brew bitter. Maybe not from day one, but pretty soon he figured out a convenient place to settle.
Do you think he ever
I dont know. Emma stared into the cup, a frothy white head swirling. Maybe he loved in his own way. Not enough to stop cheating on me. Not enough to stop lying every single day. And his mother She wanted a daughterinlaw and a workhorse. Jars to carry, garden beds to weed, things to sort. And a son who could be kept under her thumb.
Mary reached across the table, squeezed Emmas fingers.
Im so sorry, Em.
Dont be. Emma lifted her eyes. Im not going to wilt. Three years lost, sure, but that happens. Im not going to waste another day on them.
And now?
Emma finished her coffee, set the mug down.
Now I live. From scratch. No fake husbands, no phony mothersinlaw. I have my flat, my job, my life. Thats enough.
She rose, threw on her coat. Outside the café rain fell, fine and relentless. Yet Emma smiled. All the bad was behind her. Was it painful? Yes. Infuriating? To the teeth. But she would survive. This story, a harsh lesson, a painful one, but a lesson nonetheless.
Mary caught up with her at the exit.
Em, are you really okay?
I will be, Emma turned. Give me time. Ill be happy again.
She stepped into the rain and walked home. There, a new project waited: a cake recipe shed postponed forever, and thoughts of a future she would now build herself.
