Ill never forget how my wifes old school friend kept turning up uninvited, insisting she could fix everything around the house, and I finally had to point her at the door.
Emily, love, dont take this the wrong way, but the extractor fan is so greasy you could fry chips on it, I said, watching her fumble with a sponge. I thought Id give it a quick wipe while the kettles boiling. Youre always swamped at work, you dont have time to look after the cosy side of things, and Andrew loves a clean kitchen.
Clare was perched on a wooden stool in the middle of the kitchen, clutching a scrubber and a bottle of Degreaser that Emily kept stashed in the back of the cupboard because of its acrid smell. She was wearing Emilys favourite lavender apron, looking as if shed been born in that very kitchen and spent the last twenty years there.
Emily, frozen in the doorway with her laptop balanced on her knees, felt a hot wave of irritation rise up her throat. She was the senior accountant, deep in the throes of quarterend reporting, her head spinning with spreadsheets, endless calls from HMRC and the pressure of closing the financial year. All she longed for at home was quiet and a cup of tea, not a lecture on housekeeping from Andrews best childhood friend.
Clare, could you step down, please? Emily managed, her voice strained. I didnt ask you to clean the extractor. I have a cleaning rota, and the kitchen wont be tackled until Saturday.
Oh, give it a rest, those timetables! Clare snapped, flicking her elbow with gusto. Her auburn curls bounced with every motion. Dirt doesnt wait for a Saturday. Andrew complained yesterday that his allergies were acting up. Its all dust and grease. Ill have this place looking spickspan in a jiffy, then Ill cook a proper borscht the sort he loved back in school, the kind that hits you right on the brain. Youre feeding him halfready meals, ruining his stomach.
Emily closed her laptop slowly.
Andrew didnt complain about allergies; he has seasonal hay fever from ragwort, she retorted coldly. We havent eaten any ready meals in a month. Clare, put the sponge down. This is my home and my kitchen.
At that moment the front door slammed, and Andrews voice boomed down the hallway.
Ladies, Im home! Wow, whats that smell? Clare, are you baking a cake?
Andrew walked into the kitchen, smiling like a freshly polished kettle. He didnt notice the tension hanging in the air, thick enough to cut with a knife. Seeing Clare on the stool, his face lit up.
Brilliant! Clare, youre a whirlwind. Look at that shine! Weve barely had a chance to get our hands on anything.
My hands are busy earning the mortgage, Andrew, Emily said softly, meeting his gaze. He, as usual, missed the sarcasm.
Come off it, Em. Clares just trying to help. Shes on holiday, bored, so she dropped in. Were family, right? Isnt that so, Clare?
Of course! Clare finally hopped off the stool, smoothed her short skirt and gave Andrew a friendly peck on the cheek a little too loud, perhaps. I know how particular you are about everything being spotless. You need everything to sparkle. Emilys too wrapped up in her career, so I stepped in.
Emily turned on her heel and slipped away to the bedroom. She wanted to scream, to smash plates, but she knew that making a scene now would paint her as hysterical beside the saintly helper. Andrew and Clare were practically inseparable; their mothers had been friends for years, and Clare had always been a background hum in Andrews life. Lately, though, that hum had become deafening.
After a divorce, Clare had decided her mission was to rescue poor Andy from domestic chaos. She would appear unannounced, bring over containers of food, criticize curtain colours and rearrange vases because Feng Shui says it improves cash flow. Andrew, ever gentle and nonconfrontational, would laugh it off and happily devour the meatballs she left, seeing no problem at all.
The evening dragged on in misery. Emily was stuck in the office, trying to balance debits and credits, while the kitchen echoed with loud laughter, clinking dishes and the scent of borscht.
Remember our school trip in Year Nine? Clare called out. You couldnt even pitch a tent, and I was there hammering in the pegs for you!
Good old days! Andrew roared, chuckling. You were always the fighter.
Emily felt like an intruder in her own flat. She only ventured into the kitchen for a glass of water.
Emily, sit down, have a bite! Clare gestured grandly, already in a housecoat shed brought along. Borscht itll do you good. I added a secret ingredient; Andrews already polished off two bowls.
Thanks, but Im not hungry, Emily said, pouring herself water. Andrew, we need to talk, alone.
Come off it, love, were all family here, he waved off, spreading mustard on his bread. Clare knows everything we do.
No, Andrew. Just us.
Sensing the steel in his wifes tone, Andrew sighed, wiped his mouth with a napkin and followed her to the bedroom. Clare watched them go, her expression sympathetic like a doctor observing a patients relative.
In the bedroom, Emily slammed the door and turned to him.
This has to stop, she said.
What exactly? he asked, genuinely bewildered.
Clare. Shes everywhere. She shows up without asking, rummages through my things, cooks in my kitchen. I feel like a guest in my own house.
Emily, youre overreacting. She just wants to help. Shes lonely, thats all. And our home is meant to be warm. Besides, the borscht is delicious. You havent cooked this week.
I havent cooked because Im closing the year! I earn the money, Andrew. I never hired Clare as a housekeeper. If I need help, Ill call a cleaning service a stranger comes, does the job, and leaves. Clare is staking a claim on our territory.
What claim? Nonsense. Shes like a sister to me.
Sisters dont behave like this. Shes constantly criticizing greasy layer, ready meals, building a career. Do you hear how she sounds? Shes trying to paint me as the bad wife and herself as the perfect one.
Emily, youre just stressed from work, Andrew tried to hug her. You see enemies everywhere. Clare is simple, she says what she thinks. Dont read too much into it. Give it a little time, shell calm down and maybe find someone new.
Emily stepped back. The conversation was futile. Andrews selective blindness when it came to his friends was unmistakable.
The next three days were relatively calm. Emily deliberately stayed late at work to avoid Clare. But on Friday she had to leave early a migraine hit, making the world spin.
She unlocked the front door, yearning only for her bed, the curtains drawn, and silence.
The flat was eerily quiet. She slipped off her shoes, tiptoed to the living room empty, yet the air was scented with Clares perfume.
She headed to the bedroom. The door was ajar. Pushing it open, she froze at the threshold.
Clare stood inside the walkin wardrobe, humming to herself, shifting piles of clothes.
Whats going on here? Emilys voice cracked, but rang out clearly.
Clare jumped, a stack of shirts tumbling from her hands. For a split second fear flickered across her face before she masked it with a haughty grin.
Oh, Emily! Sneaking around like a mouse? You scared me half to death!
I asked: what are you doing in my wardrobe? Emily stepped forward, the migraine momentarily eased by a surge of icy anger.
Organising, of course! I spotted Andrews shirt crumpled, he complained it looked ragged, and thought Id tidy everything mix socks with briefs, winter with summer. I even tossed a couple of your old cardigans into the bin. They were worn, pilled. Andrews embarrassed to be seen with a wife who looks shabby. A lady should feel like a queen, even at home.
Emilys eyes fell on a black trash bag on the floor, its contents spilling out her favourite cosy cardigan, the one she loved to curl up in each evening.
She snatched the cardigan, clutched it to her chest and stared at Clare.
Out, she whispered.
What? Clares eyes widened.
Out of my house. Right now.
Youve lost it? Clare scoffed, trying to keep composure. Im just tidying, and youre shouting at me? Ill tell Andrew what a ungrateful hysteria you are! Hell come and
Hell come back to an empty flat if you dont disappear this instant, Emily cut in. Youve crossed every line. You entered my bedroom, touched my husbands underwear, tossed my clothes. This isnt help; its invasion.
Im doing it for Andrew! He needs comfort!
He needs a wife, not a buzzing fly! Emily stepped closer, and Clare flinched. Do you think I dont see what youre doing? Youre trying to take my place, one tiny step at a time. Kitchen, then living room, now bedroom. Youre marking territory with your borscht and your tidyup crusade. But Im the owner here.
What owner? Youre just a numbersgirl! Clare shrieked, her face flushing. Youre all about spreadsheets! Andrew finds you cold! He needs affection, care! Ive known him since we were kids, I know what he wants!
If you knew what he wanted, youd be his wife, not his lunchdelivery buddy, Emily snapped. He chose me. He lives with me. Youre the extra.
Clare clutched her bag, eyes wild. Fine Andrew will find out
He will. And Ill tell him everything. Now pack your things, you have one minute.
Emily flung open the front door. Clare, bag in hand, hastily pulled on her shoes and bolted down the hallway.
Youll regret this! she hissed, passing Emily. Youll be left alone with your pride!
Better alone than with a friend in the house, Emily replied, slamming the door shut with a satisfying thud.
She leaned against the cold metal, closed her eyes. Her head throbbed again, but a strange relief washed over her, as if shed finally cleared out years of clutter.
An hour later Andrew returned, humming cheerfully, but his smile faded when he saw Emilys solemn face and the quiet apartment.
Emily? You home? Wheres Clare? She said shed surprise us with a tidyup.
Emily sat on the sofa, the black bag of her discarded clothes lying on the coffee table.
Clare isnt here, Andrew. She wont be.
He frowned, removing his blazer.
What do you meanwont? Did you two argue? Over something trivial?
Its not trivial, Emily said, pointing at the bag. She entered our bedroom, rummaged through your underwear, threw my things away, called me a drytoast and said you were miserable with me. Is that help?
Andrew knelt, opened the bag, and pulled out the beloved cardigan, a few shirts. His expression softened.
She threw your stuff away? By herself?
Yes. She decided she could dictate what I wear and how we live. Ive put up with her comments, her cooking, her constant presence for far too long. Today she crossed the line into our most private space the wardrobe, the bed, you could say.
He ran a hand through his hair, looking shocked.
I didnt know, he said quietly. I thought she just wanted to iron a shirt
This isnt some harmless prank, Emily replied. Either we live as a family without outsiders, or you continue with Clare and her borscht, but not with me. I wont let you make a fool of me in my own home again.
Andrew stared at the bag, then at Emily tired, pale, yet with a fierce resolve he hadnt seen in months. He remembered a text Clare had sent that morning: Youve vanished to work again, didnt even heat up breakfast. No worries, Ill pop over tonight and tidy up. At the time it sounded caring; now it read as betrayal.
Im sorry, he finally said. I was blind. Im a fool. Im used to her always being around, always active. But its gone too far.
He grabbed his phone, put it on speaker and dialed.
Hello, Andrew? Clares voice crackled, angry. Can you believe your wife kicked me out? I was just trying to tidy up
Clare, enough, Andrew cut in, his tone firm. I know everything. Why did you go into the wardrobe? Why did you throw Emilys things away?
It was old stuff! I was trying to help! She doesnt appreciate me!
This is my house, my wifes house. Youve overstepped. Im banning you from coming over without an invitation. I think we need a break in contact.
What? Youre dumping me because of her? Clare protested. Were friends!
Friends respect each others families, Clare. You tried to tear mine apart. Dont call me again for a while.
He hung up. Silence settled over the room, now light rather than heavy.
Emily exhaled, shoulders dropping.
Thank you, she whispered.
Andrew moved to sit beside her, wrapping an arm around her.
Im sorry, love. I was blind. I thought the more people around, the merrier. Turns out a crowd in the bedroom does nothing but cause trouble.
Especially in the bedroom, Emily smirked.
Ill sort that bag myself, Andrew said. And Ill put your cardigan back, where it belongs. I love that thing; you look cosy in it.
And the borscht? Emily teased. You love a proper bonein broth, dont you?
Andrew kissed her temple. Ill stand by you. Well have dumplings in peace, and no one will lecture me about life.
From that day Clare vanished from their lives. She tried a few times to message Andrew on social media, lamenting how lonely she felt, but he replied curtly. Eventually she found another victim to dote on, and gossip about her spread through mutual acquaintances.
Emily hired a parttime housekeeper a quiet, pleasant lady who came once a week, left the flat smelling of fresh linen and never stirred up drama.
One evening, while Emily was pulling a lasagne from the oven after a halfhours effort, Andrew remarked casually, You know our extractor fans still grimy.
Emily tensed.
And? he asked.
Nothing, he grinned, grabbing a sponge. Ill give it a clean. Im feeling domestic today. No Clare needed.
Emily watched him, smiling. She realised that sometimes, to keep a family strong, you simply have to shut the door on those who try to wedge themselves in with their own rules. And you dont have to be bad for strangers to stay happy with the ones you love.
