Neighbour Spills the Groom’s Secret, and I Got My Revenge
Jeremy was strolling toward the gate of his cottage in the Cotswolds, arm in arm with a woman nobody recognized.
“Jeremy, hello!” called out his neighbour, Margaret Wilkins, peering over the hedge. “Who’s this with you?”
“Afternoon, Mrs. Wilkins!” He grinned. “Decided to tie the knot. Brought my future wife to see the place—this is Emily.”
Emily worked tirelessly in the garden, and Jeremy kept up with his beloved. One day, while he was away in London, Margaret leaned over the fence with a twinkle in her eye.
“Fancy a cuppa, love?”
“I’d love one,” Emily nodded.
She spent a good hour and a half at Margaret’s and returned just before Jeremy pulled into the drive.
“You’ve gone all quiet,” he remarked.
Emily just smiled. She already knew the truth.
“Jeremy, who’s this?” Margaret couldn’t hide her curiosity, eyeing the woman beside him.
Jeremy squinted, guiding his companion forward.
“Always on patrol, eh, Mrs. Wilkins? Getting married. This is Em, my future missus. Big cottage, you see—wanted to check if she’s up for it.”
“Emily, is it?” the neighbour nodded. “Lovely name. Jeremy’s quite the catch—handy around the house, golden touch with DIY. You here for good or just the summer?”
“Off you pop, don’t distract us,” Jeremy waved her off, swinging the gate open for Em.
“Come round for tea sometime, Em!” Margaret called after them, cackling.
“Odd woman,” Emily muttered, stepping inside. “What did she mean, ‘just the summer’?”
“Ah, ignore her,” Jeremy brushed it off. “Locals hire help seasonally—she’s just a bit simple. Best not chat too much with the villagers. Mrs. Wilkins is the biggest gossip this side of the Thames.”
The cottage gleamed, only a thin layer of dust from winter lingering. Emily marvelled at the hand-stitched curtains, embroidered tablecloth, and neat napkins. The kitchen boasted linen napkins with delicate embroidery.
“Jeremy, did you do all this yourself?” she asked, impressed.
“Of course not,” he scoffed. “Had a few ladies try to snare me before you came along. Handsome, single bloke with a cottage—what’s not to like? But I waited for you. And here you are!”
Emily flushed. Jeremy *was* charming—stocky, salt-and-pepper hair, mischief in his eyes. Plus, he had a flat in Chelsea and this cottage.
They’d met at a farmers’ market in Bath. Jeremy was eyeing raspberry saplings; Emily needed dill seeds for her windowsill.
“Take three, love, I’ll give you a discount,” the vendor urged.
“What would I do with that many?” she laughed. “It’s just me—one’s plenty.”
“My garden’s looking bare,” Jeremy winked beside her. “Fancy teaming up?”
“What would your wife say?” Emily teased, sizing him up—well-dressed, handsome, clearly older.
“Widowed, I’m afraid,” he sighed. “But you’ve gone and melted my heart.”
And so it began. A week later, Jeremy confessed:
“Em, you make everything so easy. I don’t want to say goodbye. Heading to the cottage for the summer. Fancy joining? Quick commute to work, too.”
Emily agreed.
“Why not? Kids are grown, only call when they need cash. No husband, not even a cat. Maybe this is fate?”
At the cottage, they quickly dropped formalities. Jeremy’s talk of marriage thrilled Emily—and amused Margaret.
All summer, Emily toiled: vegetable patches flourished, tomatoes ripened in the greenhouse, weeds stood no chance. Jeremy dug, hauled water, chopped firewood. To outsiders, they looked like the picture of domestic bliss.
One day, while Jeremy was in London, Margaret beckoned:
“Cuppa, love? Or does Jeremy forbid it?”
“Why would he forbid it?” Emily frowned. “I’ll come.”
She returned pensive just before Jeremy arrived.
“What’s up with you?” he asked.
“Just thinking how hard it is to lose someone,” she said, holding his gaze. “One day they’re here, the next—gone.”
“Don’t start,” he brushed her off. “If it’s about my late wife, that was ages ago. I’ve got you now—don’t know what I’d do without you!” He hugged her and winked.
Weeks passed. The harvest thrived—cucumbers, carrots, berries, tomatoes. But Jeremy’s mood soured. He nitpicked over nothing; wedding plans vanished.
“Why didn’t you shut the greenhouse?” he grumbled one morning.
“Jeremy, it’s warm at night—the crop will wilt!” she argued.
“Since when are you the expert?” he snapped. “As if you’ve farmed all your life! Bet you’ve never grown more than windowsill herbs!”
“That’s not fair,” she shot back. “My parents had an allotment—I know what I’m doing. Fine, I won’t lift a finger if you’d prefer.”
“Alright, alright,” he relented. “But check with me first. Speaking of—you know how to make jam? Berries won’t pick themselves.”
Emily nodded, thinking, *Here we go.* While she stirred bubbling fruit, Jeremy was sweetness itself. But once jars were shelved, the sniping resumed. She started plotting how to salvage some harvest before leaving empty-handed.
“Jeremy, what’s going on?” she finally demanded.
He bristled, but his phone rang. His face shifted—shock, then dread.
“What happened?”
“They’re draining my accounts!” he gasped, scrolling through alerts. “Bank’s calling—gotta reset my PIN.”
“Jeremy, it’s scammers!” she warned. “Don’t give them the code!”
“Since when are you a banking expert?” he sneered.
“I’m serious—don’t say it!”
“Back off!” he barked. “Go pick tomatoes.”
She stepped away, hearing him recite digits. A minute later, a howl erupted:
“Bloody thieves!”
Jeremy sat purple-faced, panting.
“You knew!” he roared. “You’re in on it! They took everything! My car fund!”
“I warned you,” she said coolly. “But you insisted I was clueless.”
“That’s not all! They took out a loan!” he groaned. “How am I supposed to repay that?”
“How much?”
He named a sum. For Emily, it was manageable—but she wasn’t handing it over freely. Remembering Margaret’s words, she hatched a plan.
“I’ll cover the loan,” she said calmly. “But you’ll sell me the cottage for that amount.”
“Are you mad?” he exploded. “It’s worth triple!”
“Good luck, then.” She shrugged. “By the time you find a buyer, interest will pile up. The bank’ll take your Chelsea flat too.”
She was bluffing—but Margaret’s revelation changed everything: *”You’re decent, Em. Jeremy’s never marrying. He lures women here every summer—promises weddings, works them to the bone, then picks fights and boots them out. You’re just his latest mark. Time he got his comeuppance.”*
“So—selling, or am I off?” Emily repeated, hefting a basket of veg.
“At least bump the price!” he pleaded.
“Good luck.” She turned toward the door.
“Fine! Deal!” he spat.
At the solicitor’s, papers were signed. At the bank, Emily settled the loan. Back at the cottage, she packed Jeremy’s things, leaving a basket of produce and a jar of jam on the porch—”for old times’ sake.” She changed the locks, knowing he might return.
“Em, cuppa?” Margaret called, spotting the new bolt.
“Better you come to me!” Emily grinned. “Housewarming party. I’m the landlady now!”
