Tom comes home at half past six. Thats a good sign; normally he doesnt show up until gone eight. Emma is just finishing the washing up and hears him fiddling with the front door for ageslonger than usual.
Em, he calls gently from the hallway. His voice has the tone of someone whos carrying something fragile and isnt quite sure where to put it down.
Emma wipes her hands on a tea towel and heads out.
There are two people in the hallway. Tom looks as though hes just done something heroicor disastrous, and hes not sure which. Next to him is a woman in her early fifties, an overnight bag slung over one shoulder and a battered suitcase at her feet.
This is Susan, Tom says, taking a breath. My cousin. Remember I mentioned her?
Emma doesnt, not really. Maybe in passing, long agoSusan from Newcastle. Or was it Manchester? It hardly matters.
She needs to stay for a couple of weeks, Tom adds. Bit of a difficult situation back home.
A couple of weeks, Emma repeats in her mind.
Hello, Emma, Susan says quietly, almost apologising. Im sorry, I know this is awkward. Honestly, Ill try not to be a bother. I cook, I clean, Ill keep right out of the way.
Emma looks at her, then at Tom, then back at Susan.
Well, dont just stand there, Emma says. Come on in.
What else can she say? The woman is standing in their hallway with her suitcase. Its not as if she can just turn her away.
Tom exhales, relieved. Emma feels something tighten inside her. Thats that, then. Already decidedand she was never even asked.
Susan moves into the sitting room, glancing around with quiet restraint, sets her suitcase in the corner.
Youve got a lovely place here, she says, softly. Not to flattersimply to say.
Emma stares at the suitcase and wonders what exactly lurks behind those words difficult situation.
Because a difficult situation, as everyone knows, is a very broad term.
Susan really doesnt get in the way. Shes up at the crack of dawn, moving about as quietly as a cat. She drinks tea in the kitchen before Emmas awake, and by the time Emma comes in, her mug is washed up and not a crumb left behind. She doesnt hog the bathroom. Sometimes she cooksnever asking, never expecting thanks, simply leaves a pot of stew and slips away. The stew is good. Better than Emmas own, if shes honest.
Its a bit irritating.
Honestly. When someones rude, you have groundsa reason to talk, some conflict to address. But when everythings neat, calm, polite, and yet somethings offits harder. Like a splinter you cant see, but you feel it all the same.
A week passes. Then a month.
Tom relaxes. He goes about cheerfully, says, See? Its fine, isn’t it? Emma nods. Yes, fine. In general, fine.
Except: Susan always whispers into her phone.
Emma spots it by chance. Passing the sitting room with the door shut, she catches the low, hurried cadence of Susans voicea tone of anxious urgency. Not the way people chat about the weather or share recipes.
Emma pauses for three seconds. Doesnt eavesdrop, just stands. Then moves on.
Still, it leaves a feeling behind. Like the whiff of gas you cant quite place, though you know its there.
And every time someone rings the doorbelldelivery, neighbour, postmanSusan freezes. Turns to the door with an expression both expectant and dreading.
Emma notices. Says nothing.
She tries once, as gently as possible:
Sue, how are you? Is everything working out for you?
Yeah, getting there, bit by bit, Susan replies, smiling, calm. Dont worry, Emma. Not much longer, Ill be off soon.
Not much longer. Another of those phrases that covers a lot of ground.
Emma watches her walk away, thinking: No, theres more to this. Some story she hasnt shared. But what?
Theres no answer. Until one night. Emma gets up, thirsty, and heads for the kitchen. The sitting room door is just ajar. From inside, Susans voice floats outquiet, but in the still house, unmistakably clear:
Ill stay with them for now. They dont know anything.
Emma freezes at the fridge, bottle in hand.
They dont know anything.
She stands for half a minute. Then, quietly, she slips back to bed. She lies awake, staring at the ceiling while Tom sleeps beside hercontent and undisturbed, blissfully unaware.
She lets him sleep. Hasnt decided what to say yet. What dont they know? She has to figure that out herself first.
The answer comes on Saturday, around noon.
The doorbell rings. Nothing unusual. Emma answers.
On the doorstep stands an unfamiliar woman in her forties, wearing a smart coat and holding a folder. Behind her is a silent, younger man.
Good afternoon. Were looking for Susan Jenkins. Weve been informed shes living here.
A cold chill runs down Emmas spine.
And who are you? she asks.
Collections agency, the woman responds, businesslike, not unkind, but firm. Shes clearly done this before.
Emma glances at the folder, at the man behind her, at the word collections heavy in the airanother unwelcome visitor.
Please wait, she says. Ill get her.
She shuts the door.
Susan is already coming from the sitting room, phone in hand, her face the look of someone whos been expecting bad newswho expects nothing else.
For me? she whispers.
Emma doesnt answer. Just looks at her.
Ill explain, Susan starts.
Best talk to them first, Emma says, stepping aside.
Tom is out at his brothers. Emma dials his number.
Tom, can you come home tonight? We need to talk.
Whats happened? His voice shifts instantly.
Nothing dreadful. Just please come.
The house is quiet. The visitors leave. Susan doesnt reappear.
Emma sits at the table, mulling over the thought that difficult situation isnt just broad, its foreign. And for a month and a half, its been living in her house.
Shes nodded along, endured, said: Its fine.
No. Its not fine.
Tom comes back three hours later. He steps into the hall, sees Emma, and immediately knows something serious has happened.
Whats going on? he asksgone is his lightness.
Come in, Emma says. Susan, as well.
Susan sits in the sitting room, silent, hands folded, bracing herself for a talk shes dreaded for weeks.
Tom takes a chair.
Can someone explain? he asks.
Sue, says Emma quietly. Tell Tom who came today.
Susan stares at the table, then lifts her eyes.
Debt collectors, she says simply. It was debt collectors.
Tom doesnt react straight away. He sits silently for a few seconds, as if the words havent yet sunk in.
Debt collectorswhy? he manages.
I owe money, Susan says. A lot. Two years ago, I got a loanthought I could turn things around. It didnt work out. Tried to borrow to pay it back, failed. I lost my flat. The debt stayed.
She stops. Then, softer, more defeated:
Thats why I was hiding. From them.
Tom is silent, the face of someone whose world just shifted.
Sue, he says, do you realise what youve done?
I do.
You used our address. Without asking.
I know, she repeats.
Emma, I didnt know, Tom says to his wife. Honestly.
I know you didnt, Emma replies.
Susan sits in silence, eyes on her glass of water.
Sue, Emma says, you need to understand something. Helping is one thing. Wed have helpedmaybeif youd told us. But Im not living in my own house under a lie.
Susan looks at her.
Youre right, she says. I know you are. I just I was scared. I had nowhere else. My daughter and her family are squashed in a tiny flat. My friends place is being renovated. Tom always said If you need anything, come to us. So I
showed up, Emma sighs, with a suitcaseand a debt.
Tom stares at the carpet, then asks:
How much do you owe?
A lot, she says. Hesitates. Eighty thousand pounds. Probably more, with interest.
Tom blows out his cheeks.
Listen, he says quietly, I cant give you that money. We just dont have it.
Im not asking! Susan says quickly. I wasnt going to. I just needed somewhere to wait it out. Until they stopped looking, I thought
Sue, Emma interrupts, gentle but firm. They found you. They were on our doorstep at noon.
Silence.
Susan closes her eyes.
Yes, she whispers. I see that.
You cant just wait this out, Emma says. You have to sort it. One way or the other.
I dont know how.
Well, I do, Emma replies.
Tom looks at his wife, surprisedhe hadnt expected her to say that.
Look, Im not a lawyer. But my neighbour went through this three years back. She restructured her debt. It was tough, but she managed. I can give you her number. Alsoare you out of work?
Yes, Susan admits.
I know someone with a little shopshes after a part-time assistant. Its not much, but its something, and itll count if it goes to court. And there are rooms to let nearbycheap, too. I saw a notice last week.
Susan looks up. Her face is changing, like the first light after dawnstill dark, but less so.
Why are you helping me? she asks, after all this?
Because youre in a mess, Emma answers simply. And youre Toms cousin.
Tom looks at Emma, long and thoughtful, then says softly:
Thanks, Em.
Emma doesnt respond. She just stands and puts the kettle on.
After all, tea is always needed after a row like that. Emma knows that for certain.
Susan leaves four days later.
Not straight away. Theres a phone call to the neighbour about debt restructuring. A meeting. Emma phones her friend with the shopshell give Susan a trial week. They find a cheap room five bus stops away; the landlady is an elderly woman who promises not to fuss.
It takes three days. On the fourth, Susan packs her bag.
She lingers in the hallway, as if searching for something to say, but cant find the words.
Emma she begins.
No need, Emma gently interrupts.
Susan picks up her suitcase. Tom goes to see her to the taxi. Emma remains in the hall.
A month later, Susan calls. Shes working, paid the first instalment on the restructured debt, the room is fine, and her new landlady bakes pies on Sundays.
Emma smiles to herself.
Its a good call. Brief, no fuss.
