Emily, darling, are you free this Saturday? Her motherinlaws voice crackled over the handset, warm and familiar, the inflection Emily had learned to recognise in three short years. We need to get the jam jars down to the cellar; theres no room left on the patio. And the loft is a messno one has the time to sort it out.
Of course, Margaret. Ill be there first thing in the morning, Emily said, pressing the phone to her ear while stirring the soup on the stove. Should I bring Daniel with me?
Oh, no, his project is on fire, you know how it is. Let him stay at home and work in peace.
They agreed that Emily would catch the nineoclock coach. She hit the mute button, returned to the pot and hummed a catchy jingle from a TV advert. Outside, the weak winter sun filtered through the window onto a wilted ficus she could never bring herself to throw away.
Saturday morning found her squeezed into a jampacked coach, the air thick with fuel and the smell of someones homebaked scones. She claimed a window seat and rested her cheek against the cold glass. Beyond the outskirts, fields dotted with hedgerows stretched out, and the low rumble of the engine lulled her into a light doze.
A sudden jolt and a sharp, angry shout snapped her awake. The coach had lurched onto the hard shoulder, tipped onto its right side. The drivers voice came over the intercom, Weve had a blown tyre, the spares rottenwait for a replacement from town.
Two hours at least, he added, arms flailing. Maybe three.
The passengers swarmed the doorway. Emily stood by the bus for ten minutes, then, with resolve, stepped onto the road and raised her hand. A battered Skoda rolled to a halt, an affable old chap behind the wheel.
Going into town? Hop in, love, Ill give you a lift.
She leapt onto the passenger seat, typed a quick text to Margaret: Coach broke down halfway, heading back, can we move it to next weekend? She hit send. The phone buzzed: message delivered.
Forty minutes later Emily stood in front of her fivestorey flat, calmly climbing to the third floor. She fished out her keys, turned the right one in the lock, and the phone rang, flashing Margarets name.
Hello?
Emily! Margarets voice cracked, a scream on the line. Where are you? Did you get there? Are you at the cottage?
No, I wrote that the coach broke down, Im back. Im at the door, Ill be right inside
Dont go in!
Emily froze, key still in the lock.
What?
Dont go inside! Hear me? Dont open the door! Turn around and come to me, now, this instant!
Margaret, are you alright? Emily laughed nervously. Whats with the panic? Im literally standing on the threshold
Emily, I beg you! I need you here, now!
But Emily had already turned the key. The lock clicked. She pushed the door open.
Time seemed to stall.
The hallway was a chaos of shoesher ballet flats, Daniels trainers, someones glossy heelsan abandoned umbrella propped in a stand, the cloying scent of perfume hanging heavy in the air, not hers. In the doorway of the living room stood Daniel, in his jeans and a Tshirt, barefoot. In his arms a woman with dark hair, narrow shoulders, bright red nail polish on fingers that gripped his back.
They kissed as if the world had ceased to exist.
Daniels eyes flew open first, spotting Emily in the doorway, his face drained of colour. The blood drained from his face so fast Emily thought he might faint. The woman spun, a frightened doe, grabbed her bag, her heels clicking on the stair, and vanished through the hallway, leaving a swirl of perfume behind.
Emily still had the phone pressed to her ear.
Emily! Margaret shrieked. Emily, answer me! Did you get in? Emily!
How many times Emily croaked.
What?
How many times have you you know, the 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 buzzing tone. Margaret hung up.
Emily lowered the phone slowly, stared at Daniel, who stood mute in the centre of the room.
So? Emily asked, deadpan. Anything to say?
Emily, I can explain everything
She burst out laughing, a wild, hysterical sound.
Explain? Seriously? You actually think you can just?
It meant nothing! Shes just
Just what? Just dropped onto your face by accident?
Daniel stepped forward. Emily stepped back.
Dont come any closer. Dont you dare.
Listen
No, you listen. Emilys voice rang oddly clear. This flat is mine. I bought it before we were married, with my own inheritance. You have no right here. You have fifteen minutes to pack up and get out.
Emily, lets talk
Fourteen minutes.
You cant just
Thirteen.
He saw it in her eyes, heard it in her toneshe wasnt bluffing. He bolted to the bedroom, slammed the wardrobe doors. Emily leaned against the hallway wall, counting breaths. Inandout. Inandout. Not collapsing. Not now.
Twelve minutes later Daniel emerged with a bag halfstuffed and a jacket over his shoulder, stopping at the door.
Keys, Emily said, flatly.
He fumbled in his pockets, tossed the keyring onto the console, and left.
The door closed softly behind him, almost soundless. Emily stood a moment longer, then clicked the lock twice, chained the door, and sank to the floor, crying.
On Monday she filed for divorce. The paperwork was processed quicklyno children, split assets, no claims. Just a clean break.
Daniel never called. Margaret never called. It was as if their three years together had never happened. Silence.
A week later Emily sat in a café with Maya, her best friend from university, listening as Mayas mouth fell open, latte cooling.
Waitso your motherinlaw knew? She sent you to the cottage on purpose while he was?
Seems that way.
Exactly!
Emily gave a crooked smile.
The funniest part? I thought she was a second mother. I believed Id finally found a real family. Turns out it was a performance. They both pretendedfrom the start.
From the start?
Think about it. When we first met, I already had my flat, a steady job, decent income. He was living in a rented room, doing odd jobs I sipped my coffee, its bitter edge reminding me how quickly he realised he could settle in comfortably.
Do you think he ever?
I dont know. Emily stared into her cup, the frothy surface swirling. Maybe he loved in his own way, but not enough to stop cheating or lying every single day. And his mother she wanted a daughterinlaw whod be a workhorsecanning, gardening, sorting his stuff, while he stayed dependent.
Maya reached across the table, squeezed Emilys fingers.
Im so sorry, Em.
Dont feel sorry. Emily lifted her eyes. Im not going to crumble. I lost three years, sure, but that happens. Im not going to waste another day on them.
What now?
Emily drained her coffee, set the cup down.
Now I live. Start over. From scratch. No fake husbands, no phony mothersinlaw. I still have my flat, my job, my life. Thats enough.
She stood, threw on her coat. Outside the café rain fellfine and relentless. Emily smiled. The bad was behind her. It hurt, yes, teethgrinding hurt. But she would survive. This story was just another painful lesson, a harsh one, but a lesson nonetheless.
Maya caught up with her at the door.
Em, are you sure youre okay?
Ill be fine, Emily turned, Give it time. Ill be happy again.
She stepped into the rain and walked home. Waiting there was a new projecta cake recipe shed been putting off for agesand thoughts of a future she would now build herself.
