When Lily got home from work, she knew something was off. The flat felt suspiciously tidy, the kitchen smelled of homemade soup, and even the lighting seemed cozier than usual. But the real shock? Her husband, Oliver, greeted her with a bouquet of tulips. Flowers from Oliver? On a weekday? For no reason?
“Spit it out, Ollie,” she said warily. “What’s happened?”
He hesitated, then flashed a guilty smile. “Can’t a bloke surprise his lovely wife without an ulterior motive?”
“He can,” Lily replied, “but you usually have one.”
Oliver ladled out the soup, but Lily’s appetite had vanished. Suspicion gnawed at her.
“Lil, Mum’s coming to visit,” he blurted.
She froze.
“Coming where?”
“To London. Staying in a hotel, relax. Just a quick trip.”
Lily sat down, lips pressed tight. His mother, Margaret Whitcombe, in a hotel? Laughable. This was the same woman who’d thrown a fit at their wedding because they dared suggest she sleep in one. She’d ranted about “filthy foreign sheets” and swore she’d either be robbed or kidnapped.
In the end, Oliver and Lily had surrendered their flat and booked themselves into a Travelodge just to keep the peace. Margaret then accused Lily of disrespect, threatened to “poison Oliver’s mind,” and even demanded her wedding gift back before storming off. A year later, she’d reappeared—unannounced, with three suitcases and a crate of dubious preserves.
So no, Lily wasn’t buying this “just popping by” nonsense. And when Oliver started fidgeting like a schoolboy caught cheating, she decided to take matters into her own hands.
Trailing him was easy. He took a cab; she followed in her Mini. He went straight to the Premier Inn. Lily slipped in after him, noted the room number, and tiptoed up to the door, ear pressed against it.
“Mum, Lily won’t like this,” Oliver muttered.
“Why would she even know? It’s just a catch-up with an old friend,” Margaret trilled. “Besides, you’ve not seen Emma since secondary school, and she’s done ever so well—own business, quite the looker! Still single, mind you. Never got over you, poor lamb.”
Lily went rigid. Emma. Oliver’s school sweetheart. The one who’d suddenly turned up pregnant by “some bloke from Ibiza,” prompting Margaret to drag Oliver out of the relationship.
Just then, a tap on her shoulder. Lily turned to face a polished woman in her forties.
“Sorry, you are…?”
“Lily. Oliver’s wife. Margaret’s daughter-in-law.” She beamed. “You must be Emma. Lovely. I do adore contact sports—boxing, wrestling, the odd pub brawl. Fancy a go?”
She slipped off one ballet flat and bounced it in her palm. Emma paled.
“You, er, have kids, don’t you?”
“A daughter. At home. I should just—” Emma was already speedwalking toward the lifts.
Margaret swept out of the room.
“Where’s Emma gone?”
“Left. Sent her regards. Something about a maths tutor waiting.”
Oliver appeared, looking wretched. Lily arched a brow.
“Well? Are we leaving, or shall I call Emma back?”
He sighed. “Let’s go home.”
“Oliver!” Margaret wailed. “You’re abandoning me here?”
Lily calmly pried Margaret’s fingers off Oliver’s arm.
“Yes. And if he doesn’t, he’ll lose both his wife and the flat. Listen carefully, Margaret: it’s not happening. Oliver and I? Solid. Try this again, and I’ll bite your nose off. With these teeth.”
She snapped her molars an inch from Margaret’s face, brandished her shoe for good measure, and turned to leave. Oliver scooped her up bridal-style.
“Oy! What’re you doing?”
“Carrying my champion wife home.”
