When I was a girl, my mother told me something I’d never forget. She said, “If you’re ever in danger and can’t speak, use the code word.”
It was silly—*buttercup*—but to us, it meant everything. A silent cry for help when words were too risky. I never imagined I’d need it again. Not until two months ago.
Sixty days. That’s how long I’d been in Manchester, nursing Mum after her knee surgery. I lived in hospital corridors, fueled by weak tea, crisps from the machine, and stolen naps on chairs designed for discomfort. I ached for my own bed, my proper pillow, the scent of home. But most of all, I missed James—my husband.
James and I had been married four years. We weren’t flawless, but we had our routines: curry nights on Fridays, Sunday roasts at the pub. Being away so long left a hollow space. He sent sweet texts, video-called every few nights, swore he was keeping the flat tidy (doubtful, knowing his idea of “tidy”). Still, even from miles away, his voice was a comfort.
The day I finally returned, it was like surfacing for air. I took the longest bath of my life, wrapped myself in my robe, and twisted my hair into a towel. I was pouring a cuppa when the front door clicked open.
I froze. At first, I thought James had forgotten his keys. But—no car in the drive. I tiptoed down the hall, pulse quickening.
There, in the doorway, stood a woman I’d never met.
She was polished—ankle boots, a tailored coat—dangling a keyring. Her eyes flicked to me, sharp with annoyance.
“Who are *you*?” she demanded, as if *I* were the trespasser.
I crossed my arms. “Who am *I*? I live here. Who are *you*?”
She frowned. “I’ve never seen you before.”
“I’ve been in Manchester two months,” I said. “Who gave you keys to *my* flat?”
“James did,” she said, cool as you please. “He said I could pop round whenever.”
*James.* My James.
My chest tightened.
I forced a breath. “Did he now? Odd, since *I’m* his wife, and this is the first I’m hearing of it.”
Her face paled. “Wait—he told me he was single.”
“Of course he did,” I muttered.
She glanced at the keys, then the door. “I should go.”
“Not yet,” I said, firm. “Come with me.”
She hesitated but followed.
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, nodding at him.
“That’s James,” I said. “My husband.”
Her brow furrowed. “That’s *not* James.”
I looked between them. “What?”
James paused, spoon hovering. “Alright, now I’m lost.”
The woman tugged out her phone, swiped, then showed us a dating profile.
It wasn’t James.
It was *Liam.*
James’s younger brother. The one who flunked uni twice. The one who “borrowed” James’s car and crashed it. The one with grand schemes and zero execution. And, apparently, the one impersonating James while using our flat as his personal 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 brought you round when I was home?”
“No,” she admitted. “Said his flatmate was always about. Thought it was some clingy mate.”
James rubbed his temples. “I’ll murder him. Or make him scrub the loo. Either works.”
The woman cracked a smile. “Can’t believe I fell for it. Told me he was a solicitor. Should’ve known when he called it ‘solli-sitter.’”
I snorted. “Let’s start over. I’m Charlotte.”
She shook my hand. “Amelia.”
James sighed. “Right. What now?”
Amelia straightened. “I want payback.”
James grinned. “I like her.”
Twenty minutes later, we had a plan.
James texted Liam:
“Mate. Roast dinner tonight. Get here.”
Liam replied instantly:
“Legend! Be there in 15.”
We laid the table like it was Christmas. Amelia freshened her lipstick. I reheated a shop-bought roast. James cracked open a bottle of wine.
Right on time, Liam swaggered in, grinning.
“Smells mint! Where’s my—”
Then he saw Amelia.
“Oi, love! Fancy seeing you!”
Amelia folded her arms. “Save it, *James.*”
Liam glanced at James. “Mate?”
James stood. “We know everything, *solicitor.*”
Liam froze.
Then Amelia, with perfect drama, chucked her tea at him. It splashed down his shirt, dripping onto the floor.
Liam blinked, tea dripping off his chin. “Alright… fair.”
“You’re covering rent this month,” James said.
“*What?*” Liam spluttered.
“And give back whatever Amelia’s given you,” I added.
Liam winced. “Even the trainers?”
“*Especially* the trainers,” Amelia snapped.
Liam slunk out, sulking.
Once the door shut, we collapsed laughing.
Amelia wiped her eyes. “Better than a night at the pub.”
James raised his glass. “To roast and revenge.”
Amelia clinked ours. “Just tell me there aren’t more brothers.”
I smirked. “Just a tabby who hates us all equally.”
And that, dear reader, is how I came home after two months, caught my lying brother-in-law, made a new friend, and finally had a proper meal. Life’s a strange thing—but sometimes, it writes a cracking good tale.
