When I was a child, my mother shared a lesson I’d never forget. She said, “If ever you’re in danger and can’t speak, use the code word.”
It was a silly phrase—”plum pudding”—but to us, it meant the world. A hidden plea for help when words were too risky. I never imagined I’d need it again. Not until two months past.
Two months. That’s how long I’d been gone, tending to Mum after her hip operation. I scarcely left the hospital, living on tepid tea, crisps from the machine, and fitful naps in chairs never meant for rest. I longed for my own bed, my pillow, the familiar scent of home. But most of all, I missed Henry—my husband.
Henry and I had been wed four years, and though we weren’t flawless, we had our ways. We both worked hard, but we kept to our rituals: fish-and-chip Fridays and Saturday market runs. Being away so long left an ache. He sent kind notes, rang every few nights, and swore he was keeping the flat tidy (though I knew his idea of tidiness). Still, his voice, even from afar, was a comfort.
The day I returned, it was as if I could breathe properly again. I took the longest bath of my life, wrapped myself in my favourite dressing gown, and tucked my damp hair into a towel. I was just pouring a cup of tea when I heard it—the front door unlatching.
I stopped. At first, I thought Henry had forgotten something. But then I realised—I hadn’t heard his motor pull up. I stepped into the hall, my pulse quickening.
There, in the doorway, stood a young woman I’d never met.
She was smartly dressed, in polished boots and a tailored coat, holding a keyring. She looked up at me, blinking—first puzzled, then cross.
“Who are *you*?” she demanded, as if *I* were the trespasser.
I arched a brow. “Who am *I*? I live here. Who are *you*?”
She frowned. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’ve been away two months,” I said, crossing my arms. “Who gave you keys to *my* flat?”
“Henry did,” she answered coolly. “He said I could pop round whenever.”
*Henry.* My Henry.
My heart sank.
I steadied my voice. “Oh, did he? Because *I*—his wife—am standing here, and this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
Her eyes went wide. “Wait… he told me he was single.”
“Naturally,” I muttered.
She glanced between me and the keys in her hand. “I ought to go.”
“Not just yet,” I said firmly. “Come with me.”
She hesitated, but something in my tone must have persuaded her. She followed me inside.
Henry sat at the kitchen table, eating biscuits straight from the tin. His hair was tousled, and he wore my favourite jumper—the one I’d missed most.
“Who’s *that*?” the woman asked, staring at him.
“That’s Henry,” I said. “My husband.”
Her brow furrowed. “That isn’t Henry.”
I looked between them. “What do you mean?”
Henry paused, biscuit halfway to his mouth. “Now I’m properly baffled.”
The woman pulled out her mobile and opened a dating app. After a quick scroll, she showed us a profile picture.
It wasn’t Henry.
It was *Simon.*
Henry’s younger brother. The one who’d left university twice. The one who’d “borrowed” Henry’s motor and got it impounded. The one with grand schemes and no follow-through. And now, apparently, the one pretending to be Henry while using our flat as his courting parlour.
Henry groaned. “Bloody hell. He kept asking when I’d be home. I thought he was just being odd. Again.”
I turned to the woman, who now seemed to piece it together. “Let me guess—he never brought you round when I was here?”
“No,” she said, voice tight. “He always said his flatmate was about. I assumed it was some bothersome friend.”
Henry exhaled. “I’ll throttle him. Or make him scrub the loo. Either way.”
The woman nearly smiled. “I can’t believe I fell for it. He claimed he was a solicitor. I should’ve known when he called it ‘soliciting.’”
I laughed. “Let’s begin anew. I’m Margaret.”
She shook my hand. “Lydia.”
“So,” Henry said. “What now?”
Lydia squared her shoulders. “I want vengeance.”
Henry grinned. “I like her.”
Fifteen minutes later, we’d hatched a plan.
Henry texted Simon:
“Bro. Roast dinner tonight. Come by.”
Simon replied at once:
“Brilliant! Be there in twenty.”
We laid the table as if for Sunday supper. Lydia freshened her lipstick. I warmed the pre-made roast. Henry uncorked a bottle of wine and poured us each a glass.
Right on time, Simon sauntered in, grinning.
“Smashing! Where’s my love—”
Then he saw Lydia.
“Oi, darling! What a pleasant surprise!”
Lydia folded her arms. “Don’t ‘darling’ me, *Henry.*”
Simon looked at Henry. “Mate?”
Henry stood. “We know everything, *Henry.*”
Simon froze.
Then Lydia, with perfect dramatic flair, seized her teacup and tossed its contents at him. Tea splashed over his face and dripped onto the floor.
Simon blinked, droplets sliding down his cheeks. “Right… fair enough.”
“You’re covering our rent this month,” Henry said.
“*What?*” Simon squawked.
“And returning anything Lydia gave you,” I added.
Simon winced. “Even the wireless earbuds?”
“*Especially* the earbuds,” Lydia snapped.
Simon slunk out, sulking like a scolded pup.
Once the door shut, we all burst into laughter.
Lydia dabbed her eyes. “Better than a night at the pub.”
Henry raised his glass. “To roast beef and retribution.”
Lydia clinked glasses with us. “Just tell me there are no more brothers.”
I smiled. “Only a tabby who despises all equally.”
And so, dear reader, that’s how I returned after two months, unmasked my deceitful brother-in-law, gained a new friend, and at last had a proper meal. Life may be full of surprises, but sometimes, it spins quite the tale.
