When I returned home after two months away, a stranger opened the door—and her words left me seething.
Long ago, as a child, my mother imparted a lesson that stayed with me. “If ever you’re in danger and cannot speak,” she said, “use the code word.” A simple phrase—*treacle tart*—absurd, yet to us, it meant everything. A silent plea for help. I never imagined I’d need it again. Not until two months past.
Two months—that was how long I’d been gone, tending to my mother after her hip surgery. I scarcely left the hospital, subsisting on tepid tea, stale biscuits, and fitful naps in chairs never meant for rest. I ached for my own bed, my pillow, the familiar scent of home. But more than anything, I missed Edward—my husband.
Edward and I had been wed four years. Imperfect, yes, but we had our ways. Both busy, yet we cherished our Thursday curry nights and Sunday market strolls. Being away so long left a hollow space. He sent tender notes, rang every other evening, swore the flat was tidy (though I knew his idea of tidying). Still, his voice, even distant, was a comfort.
The day I finally returned, I could breathe again. I took the longest bath of my life, wrapped myself in my plush dressing gown, and twisted my damp hair into a towel. Just as I reached for the sherry, I heard it—the front door unlocking.
I stilled. Perhaps Edward had forgotten something. But then—no sound of his motor. Heart quickening, I stepped into the hall.
There stood a woman I’d never seen.
Smartly dressed in heeled boots and a tweed jacket, she held a key ring. She blinked at me, baffled, almost cross.
“Who are *you*?” she demanded, as if *I* were the trespasser.
I arched a brow. “I live here. Who are *you*?”
Her frown deepened. “I’ve never laid eyes on you.”
“I’ve been away two months,” I said, arms folded. “Who gave you keys to *my* flat?”
“Edward did,” she replied, breezy. “He said I might pop round whenever.”
*Edward. My Edward.*
My stomach lurched.
I steadied myself. “Did he now?” I said coolly. “Funny, as I—his *wife*—was never told.”
Her eyes widened. “He… he said he wasn’t married.”
“Naturally,” I muttered.
She glanced between me and the keys. “I ought to go.”
“Not yet,” I said, firm. “Come with me.”
She wavered but followed.
Edward sat at the kitchen table, spooning cereal straight from the box. Hair tousled, wearing my favourite jumper—the one I’d longed to reclaim.
“Who’s *that*?” the woman asked, eyeing him.
“That,” I said, “is Edward. My husband.”
Her brow furrowed. “That isn’t Edward.”
I looked between them. “Pardon?”
Edward paused mid-bite. “Now I’m lost.”
The woman pulled out her mobile, tapped a dating app, and thrust forward a profile.
Not Edward.
*Alistair.*
Edward’s younger brother. The one who’d left university twice. The one who “borrowed” Edward’s motor and wrecked it. The one with grand schemes and no resolve. And now, apparently, the one posing as Edward while using our flat as his courting parlour.
Edward groaned. “Bloody hell. He kept asking when I’d be home. Should’ve known.”
I turned to the woman, now piecing it together. “Let me guess—he never brought you here when I was about?”
“No,” she said, voice thin. “Always claimed his flatmate was in. I assumed some overbearing chap.”
Edward sighed. “I’ll throttle him. Or make him scrub the loo. Either suffices.”
The woman nearly smiled. “Can’t believe I fell for it. He said he was a solicitor. Should’ve twigged when he spelt it ‘sollissitor.’”
I chuckled. “Let’s begin anew. I’m Margaret.”
She clasped my hand. “Beatrice.”
Edward clapped his hands. “Right. What now?”
Beatrice squared her shoulders. “I want vengeance.”
Edward grinned. “I like her.”
A quarter-hour later, the trap was set.
Edward texted Alistair:
*”Roast tonight. Come by.”*
Alistair replied at once:
*”Brilliant! There in twenty.”*
We laid the table properly. Beatrice touched up her rouge. I reheated a shop-bought roast. Edward uncorked a bottle of claret.
Right on time, Alistair swaggered in.
“Smashing! Where’s my—”
Then he saw Beatrice.
“Darling! Fancy seeing you here!”
Beatrice crossed her arms. “Spare me, Alistair.”
Alistair glanced at Edward. “Brother?”
Edward rose. “We know all, ‘Edward.’”
Alistair froze.
Then Beatrice, with a flourish fit for the stage, hurled her tea at him. It splashed his face, dripping onto the floor.
Alistair blinked, tea streaking his cheeks. “Right. Fair play.”
“You’re covering the rent this month,” Edward said.
“*What?*” Alistair spluttered.
“And returning whatever Beatrice gave you,” I added.
Alistair winced. “Even the pocket watch?”
“*Especially* the pocket watch,” Beatrice snapped.
Alistair slunk out, defeated.
The moment the door shut, we dissolved into laughter.
Beatrice dabbed her eyes. “Better than a tonic.”
Edward raised his glass. “To roast and retribution.”
Beatrice clinked hers. “Just tell me there are no more brothers.”
I smiled. “Only a cat who loathes all equally.”
And so, dear reader, that’s how I returned after two months, unmasked a rogue brother-in-law, gained a friend, and finally had a proper supper. Life may be uncertain, but now and then, it spins a tale worth telling.
