When I returned home after two months away, a stranger opened the door—and her words left me seething.
As a child, my mum taught me something I’d never forget. She said, *”If you’re ever in danger and can’t speak plainly, use the code word.”*
Ours was *”custard tart”*—absurd, really. But it meant everything. A silent cry for help when words were too risky. I never imagined I’d need it again. Not until recently.
Two months—that’s how long I’d been in Manchester, tending to Mum after her knee operation. I scarcely left the hospital, surviving on stale tea, crisps from the vending machine, and fitful naps in chairs designed purely for discomfort. I ached for my bed, my own duvet, the familiar scent of home. But most of all, I missed James—my husband.
James and I had been married for four years. We weren’t flawless, but we had our routine. Both busy with work, we still made time for curry nights and Saturday market trips. Being away so long left a hollow feeling. He sent loving texts, video-called every few nights, and swore he was keeping the flat tidy (doubtful, knowing his idea of a clean kitchen). Still, even from afar, his presence soothed me.
The day I finally came home, it was as if I could breathe properly again. I took the world’s longest shower, wrapped myself in my cosy dressing gown, and twisted my damp hair into a towel. Just as I reached for the wine, I heard it—the front door unlocking.
I froze. At first, I thought James had forgotten something. But then—no sound of his car. My pulse quickened as I stepped into the hallway.
There stood a woman I’d never met.
She was polished, in leather ankle boots and a tailored coat, clutching a set of keys. She stared at me, baffled and almost annoyed.
*”Who are *you*?”* she demanded, as though *I* were the trespasser.
I crossed my arms. *”I live here. Who are *you*?”*
Her frown deepened. *”I’ve never seen you before.”*
*”Well, I’ve been gone two months,”* I said. *”Who gave you keys to *my* flat?”*
*”James did,”* she replied smoothly. *”He said I could pop round whenever.”*
*James. My James.*
My heart plummeted.
I inhaled sharply. *”Did he now? Because *I*—his *wife*—wasn’t informed.”*
Her eyes widened. *”Wait… he told me he was single.”*
*”Naturally,”* I muttered.
She glanced between me and the keys. *”I should go.”*
*”Not yet,”* I said firmly. *”Come with me.”*
She hesitated but followed me inside.
James was at the kitchen table, shovelling cereal straight from the box. His hair was a mess, and he wore my favourite jumper—the one I’d been itching to reclaim.
*”Who’s *that*?”* the woman asked, pointing.
*”That’s James,”* I said. *”My husband.”*
Her brow furrowed. *”That’s *not* James.”*
I gaped at her, then at him. *”What d’you mean?”*
James lowered his spoon. *”Now I’m properly lost.”*
The woman pulled out her phone, swiped through a dating app, and held up a profile.
It wasn’t James.
It was *Simon*.
James’s younger brother. The one who’d quit uni twice. The one who’d “borrowed” James’s car and wrecked it. The one with grand plans and zero execution. And, apparently, the one impersonating James while using our flat as his dating den.
James groaned. *”Bloody hell. He kept asking when I’d be back. Thought he was just being odd again.”*
I turned to the woman, now piecing it together. *”Let me guess—he never let you visit when I was home?”*
*”No,”* she admitted, voice unsteady. *”Always said his flatmate was about. Thought it was just a nosy mate.”*
James exhaled. *”I’m throttling him. Or making him scrub the loo. Either works.”*
The woman’s lips twitched. *”Can’t believe I fell for it. Said he was a solicitor. Should’ve clocked when he called it ‘soliciting.’”*
I snorted. *”Let’s try this again. I’m Charlotte.”*
She shook my hand. *”Hannah.”*
James leaned forward. *”Right. What now?”*
Hannah squared her shoulders. *”I want payback.”*
James grinned. *”I like her.”*
Twenty minutes later, we had a plan.
James texted Simon:
*”Fancy a roast? Swinging by yours.”*
Simon replied instantly:
*”Mate, yes! Be there in 15.”*
We laid the table like a proper Sunday dinner. Hannah freshened her lipstick. I reheated a ready-made roast. James uncorked the wine.
Right on cue, Simon swaggered in.
*”Smells lush! Where’s my—”*
Then he saw Hannah.
*”Alright, love! Didn’t expect you here!”*
Hannah folded her arms. *”Cut the rubbish, Simon.”*
Simon glanced at James. *”Mate?”*
James stood. *”We know everything, ‘James.’”*
Simon went pale.
Hannah, with impeccable timing, snatched her water glass and tossed it at him. Water splashed his face, dripping onto the floor.
Simon wiped his cheeks. *”Alright… fair play.”*
*”You’re covering our rent this month,”* James said.
*”What?!”* Simon squawked.
*”And returning everything Hannah gave you,”* I added.
Simon winced. *”Even the wireless earbuds?”*
*”Especially those,”* Hannah snapped.
Simon slunk out, thoroughly chastened.
The moment the door shut, we erupted in laughter.
Hannah dabbed her eyes. *”Better than a night out.”*
James raised his glass. *”To roast dinners and karma.”*
Hannah clinked hers with ours. *”Just tell me there aren’t more brothers.”*
I smirked. *”Only a terrier who loathes everyone equally.”*
And that’s how I returned after two months, exposed my deceitful brother-in-law, made a new ally, and finally had a decent meal. Life’s twists may be maddening, but sometimes, they weave the best tales.
