Shadows of Doubt Over the English Countryside
Emily sat in her cosy home on the outskirts of Bristol, flipping through an old notebook in search of her neighbour Charlotte’s number. Finally spotting the digits, she dialled. “Charlotte, love, hello!” Emily began warmly. “It’s Em, your neighbour from the cottage. I wanted to ask—how do you grow such perfect radishes? Yours are always so crisp, and mine turn out rubbish.” “Oh, it’s nothing special,” Charlotte replied, a hint of weariness in her voice. “Just soak the seeds for a day or two before planting. I’ll be down next week to sort the garden. Still in the city for now.” “The city?!” Emily gasped, her voice trembling with disbelief. “Then who’s your William brought down to the cottage?” Charlotte went still, her breath heavy. Without another word, she hung up, called a taxi, and raced to the countryside. Stepping inside the cottage, she froze at the sight before her.
Charlotte was absolutely furious. Her face burned, eyes flashing like lightning. If her husband William—who she’d thought was at work—had seen her then, he wouldn’t have recognised the gentle woman who’d straightened his collar and kissed his cheek that morning. But William saw none of it. He was in high spirits, looking forward to Friday night: fragrant beef pies with mash (Charlotte’s speciality), homemade pickles, fresh tomatoes from the garden, and a chilled bottle of cider—no work tomorrow, after all. He had no idea a storm was brewing over his head.
It had all started with that call from Emily, their cottage neighbour. Emily, a retiree, lived in a spacious flat with her daughter, son-in-law, and grandkids. But come spring, she moved to the cottage, staying until late autumn. The family only visited on weekends for barbecues, so weekdays left her bored, glued to the telly. Any hint of drama in the village set her curiosity alight.
That morning, around ten, Emily stepped onto her porch, scanned the quiet lane, and spotted the gate of the neighbouring cottage swing open as a car pulled in. She didn’t know much about cars, but she was sure—that was William’s. Yet instead of parking out front, it rolled further back, vanishing behind thick raspberry bushes. “Right,” Emily thought, narrowing her eyes. “Trying not to be seen. Clever, William, very clever.”
A call from her friend distracted her, so she missed the two figures—a man and a woman—stepping out, the latter immediately labelled “the mistress” in Emily’s mind. Back on the porch, she resumed her watch. Half an hour later, her patience paid off: a young woman in a bright green tracksuit stepped out, arms wide. “You were right—it’s gorgeous here! So peaceful, and the air’s so fresh!” Definitely not Charlotte—this stranger was in her late twenties, a slender brunette with long waves. “Bloody hell, William,” Emily muttered. “Nearly fifty and bagging a stunner like that?” A man’s voice called out, and the woman disappeared inside.
Emily didn’t waste time. She snatched her notebook and dialled Charlotte. “Charlotte, love, hello!” she chirped, feigning innocence. “It’s Em, from the cottage. Wanted to ask—how do you get your radishes so perfect?” “Nothing fancy,” Charlotte replied. “Just soak the seeds. I’ll be down next week to plant. Still in the city.” “The city?” Emily paused dramatically. “Then who’s William brought down with him?” “When?” Charlotte’s voice wavered. “About an hour ago. Parked the car behind the raspberry bushes—barely saw it from the porch.” “Right. Talk later,” Charlotte said tersely, hanging up.
Emily smirked, mission accomplished. Meanwhile, Charlotte’s pulse hammered in her ears. She called William. “Where are you?” “At work, why?” he answered breezily. “Just wondered what time you’d be home. Not late?” “Nah, early if anything—it’s Friday!” he laughed. Charlotte gripped the phone till her knuckles whitened. “We’ll see about that,” she muttered, calling a taxi.
The ride to the cottage took less than an hour—off-season meant no traffic. Paying the driver, Charlotte marched towards the house. There it was: William’s car, gleaming white behind the raspberry bushes. Her heart pounded as she crept up the porch, eased the door open, and stepped inside. The kitchen table was littered with cheese and crackers, pickles, cherry tomatoes, and an open box of chocolates. A half-finished bottle of prosecco and two glasses sat nearby. “Appetiser before dinner, is it?” Charlotte thought bitterly. “Well, I’ll give him an earful instead!”
She stormed into the bedroom—and froze. Two figures shifted under the duvet. A muffled yelp sounded as she yanked the covers, but they clung tight. “Charlotte, what the—?!” a familiar voice cried. There, scrambling up, was… William’s nephew, Oliver, beside a girl Charlotte had never seen. “Aunt Char, what are you doing here?!” Oliver blurted, flushing. “Took a taxi,” she snapped. “This is *my* cottage. Care to explain yourself?” “Uncle Will lent me the keys for the weekend,” Oliver admitted sheepishly. “Said you weren’t coming till June.” “Wasn’t planning to,” Charlotte said coolly. “But the neighbours called about ‘intruders.’ Fine. Enjoy your stay. Though I’ve sent the taxi off—no idea how I’m getting home now.”
Oliver jumped up. “I’ll drive you! Sophie can prep dinner, and I’ll nip you back quick.” The girl—Sophie, apparently—nodded eagerly. Charlotte waited on the porch, letting them gather themselves, still processing how close she’d come to wrecking her trust in William over nothing.
When William got home, dinner was waiting, and Charlotte greeted him with a smile. He dug in, praising the meal, while she said casually, “Emily rang earlier. Swore you’d brought some girl to the cottage.” “And what’d you say?” William asked, wary but calm. “Told her not to be daft—my husband’s loyal as they come.” “Exactly,” William nodded. “Emily’s losing it. Lent Ollie the keys—he’s got a white car too. She must’ve mixed them up.” *Bloody Emily*, he thought privately.
Later, settled on the sofa with a new drama playing, Charlotte watched the on-screen wife fret over infidelity and thought, *I’m so lucky with William. Could’ve ruined everything with my paranoia.* Her heart swelled with quiet gratitude—the storm had passed, leaving their home warm and unshaken.
