Well stay till summer, then!: How I Kicked Out My Husbands Cheeky Family and Changed the Locks.
The buzzer didnt just ringit blared, demanding attention. I glanced at the clock: seven oclock on a Saturday morning. The only day Id planned to sleep in after submitting that blasted quarterly report, not play hostess. My sister-in-laws face filled the video screen. Sarahmy husband’s sisterlooked ready to storm Buckingham Palace, and behind her jostled three wild-haired children.
David! I barked, not even picking up the intercom. Your family. You deal with them.
My husband tumbled from the bedroom, yanking on shortsbackwards, no less. He knew my voice meant only one thing: Id lost any ounce of goodwill I had for his relatives. While he mumbled something into the intercom, I was already in the hallway, arms folded across my chest. My flatmy rules. I bought this three-bedroom in Chelsea long before I married, working myself ragged over the mortgage, and the last thing I wanted was a crowd of gatecrashers.
The front door burst open and a circus rolled in. Sarah, laden with bags, didnt bother with a hello. She nudged me aside with her hip, as if I were a side table.
Thank the Lord, we made it! she wheezed, dumping her luggage right onto my Italian tiles. Emily, love, why are you standing there gawping? Pop the kettle on, the kids are starving after that journey.
Sarah, I said evenly, while David shrank into his shoulders, Whats going on?
What, David didnt mention? She feigned wide-eyed innocence. Were renovating! Complete overhaul! Pipes out, new flooringthe house is a war zone. Its impossible to live there. Well crash here for a week. Loads of room in this place, isnt there? Surely you wont notice.
I stared pointedly at David, who was now inspecting the ceiling as if bracing for execution.
David?
Its just, well Sarah and the kids, you know? Building dust, chaosthey cant stay in that. Itll just be for a week, he bleated.
One week, I stated crisply. Exactly seven days. You sort your own meals. No kids tearing through the flat. No touching the walls. My office is strictly off-limits. Quiet after ten.
Sarah scoffed, rolling her eyes. Crikey, you do love a rule, dont you, Emily? Bit like a prison guard, really. Fine, where are we sleeping? I hope youre not expecting us on the floor.
And that was how the nightmare began.
One week stretched to two. Then three. My beautifully arranged, designer-perfect flat was turning into a tip. Muddy shoes piled up in the hall, making it a minefield. The kitchen was in a constant state: greasy smears on quartz counters, crumbs, sticky splashes everywhere. Sarah acted like the lady of the manor and treated me and David like her staff.
Emily, whys the fridge so bare? she demanded one evening, staring into the emptiness. The kids need yoghurts, and David and I could really do with some nice meat. Youre earning enough these days, you could look after your family a bit.
Youve got your card, there are shops, I replied, eyes on my laptop. Off you go. Tesco delivers all hours.
She muttered, slamming the fridge so hard the bottles rattled. Stingy, arent you? You cant take it with you when you die, remember.
But it wasnt this that pushed me over the edge. One day, I came home early to find the kids in my bedroom. The eldest was bouncing on my expensive orthopaedic bed, and the youngest? The youngest was busy scribbling on the wall, with my Tom Ford lipsticklimited edition.
OUT! I roared so loudly the kids scattered in all directions.
The noise brought Sarah running. She glanced at the ruined wallpaper and my snapped lipstick, only to throw up her hands. Oh, Emily, calm down! Theyre just kids. So what if theres a stripe on the wall? Itll wipe off. As for your lipstickjust some coloured wax. Buy another one. Youre hardly hard up. Besides, weve had a thoughtthe builders a disaster, so well be here till summer. Itll be fun! Company for you and David.
David stood silent, looking like a scolded child.
I said nothingjust escaped to the bathroom so I wouldnt land myself in trouble with the law. I needed to breathe.
That evening, Sarah disappeared into the shower, leaving her phone on the kitchen counter. It lit up with a new message, big bold letters flashing across the locked screen:
From Mandy Lettings: Sarah, Ive sent rent for next month. Tenants love it, asking if they can stay until August?
Seconds later, a text from her bank: Deposit received: £800.
Something inside me snapped. The whole thing clicked. There was no renovation. Sarah had let out her own little flatfor the month or maybe longerto pocket cash, and rocked up here to sponge off me rent-free: saving on food, bills, everything. Genius business plan. At my expense.
I whipped out my phone and took a picture of the message. My hands didnt even tremble. Instead, I felt a steely, angry calm.
David, come to the kitchen, I called.
He shuffled in. I silently showed him the photo. He read, flushed, then paled.
Emilymaybe its a mix-up?
Mistake? No, David. The mistake is you havent thrown them out yet, I said coldly. You have two choices: either theyre gone by lunchtime tomorrow, or you leave too. Take your mother, your sister and this whole act with you.
But where will they go?
I dont care. Under a bridge or The Ritzif she can afford it.
In the morning, Sarah waltzed in like nothing had happened, cooing about some lovely boots shed spotted in John Lewis (using the rent windfall, no doubt). She generously left the kids with David while she went just for a browse.
I waited for the door to click shut.
David, get the kids and take them to the park. For hours.
Why?
Because this flat is about to be fumigatedfor parasites.
As soon as theyd gone, I got to work. First, I rang an emergency locksmith. Then, the local constable.
No more tea and sympathy. Today, it was total clean-up.
Emily, maybe its just a misunderstanding? Davids weak words echoed as I watched the locksmith change the barrel on my door.
No misunderstandings. Just cold, neat logic.
The locksmith, a broad man with tattoos on his forearms, worked quickly.
Solid door, he approved, wiping his hands. Youve picked a beast of a locknobodys coming through here without a sledgehammer.
Exactly what I want. Security.
I transferred him the feeenough for a good steak dinner at a bistro, but peace of mind was priceless. Then I started on the packing. No soft feelings. I grabbed the biggest, blackest bin bags I hadindustrial strength, 120 litresand scooped up everything: Sarahs bras, the childrens tights, toys left all over my lounge. No folding, just stuffing it in. The mountain of makeup shed cluttered my bathroom with, I swept into a bag with one swift motion.
Forty minutes later, five bulging black sacks stood stacked on the landing, alongside two lonely suitcases.
The lift pinged to reveal a weary-looking constable, and I met him at the door with my folder of paperwork.
Morning, Constable, I said, handing over my land registry printout and passport. I own this property. Im the only resident. A group of non-residents are going to try to break in soon. Id like you to record their attempt.
He leafed through my documents with zero enthusiasm.
Family?
Ex-family, I replied with a smirk. Its a domestic disputeweve hit the legal stage.
Sarah appeared an hour later, arms full of shopping bags from Harvey Nichols, glowing with pride. The smile dropped from her face when she saw the mountain of bags and me standing guard, constable beside me.
Whats all this? she shrieked, jabbing at the bin bags. Emily, have you lost your bloody mind? Thats my stuff!
Precisely, I said, folding my arms. Your stuff. Collect it. The hotels shut.
She tried to barge for the door, but the constable blocked her path.
Excuse me, madam. Do you live here? Are you registered?
I… Im Davids sister! Were just staying for a bit! she spluttered, her face mottled with rage. What are you playing at, you silly cow? Wheres David? Ill call him and hell sort you out!
Call away, I said, unmoved. He wont answer. Hes busy explaining to his children why their mum is soenterprising.
Sarah hammered his number to no avail. David had either finally grown a spine or just didnt fancy going through divorce and getting nothing.
You have no right! she screamed, flinging her bags onto the floor. A shoebox tumbled out.
Weve got nowhere to go! My childrenwhat about them?
Dont lie, I stepped forward, laser-eyed. Say hi to Mandy. Ask her if theyll want your flat till August, or if youll need to turf them out so you can move back in?
Sarah froze, mouth open, the air vanishing from her like a pricked balloon.
Youhow do
Should set a passcode on your phone, businesswoman. You lounged here a month, scoffing my food, ruining my home, letting out your own. Saving for a new car, were you? Clever girl. But listen carefully.
My voice dropped, and in the echoing hall each word cracked like a whip.
Youre taking these bags and leaving, today. If I see you or your brats anywhere near my home again, Ill call the taxman. Letting a flat without a contract, tax avoidancetheyll be keen. Oh, and Ill report a theft. My gold rings missing. And who knows where itll turn up if the police care to check your bags?
(It was safe in my jewellery box, but she didnt need to know.)
She went white as her foundation. Youre a bitch, Emily, she spat. God will judge you.
Hes busy, I replied, and now, so am I. This flat is finally mine again.
Sarah snatched her bags, swearing under her breath as she desperately fumbled to summon a taxi. The constable looked on, half-bored, clearly relieved there would be no paperwork.
As the lift doors closed, swallowing up Sarah and her baggage and her best-laid schemes, I turned to the policemen.
Thank you for coming.
Just get decent locks, miss, he winked.
I stepped inside and shut the door. The new lock clickeddeep, solid. The smell of Dettol drifted from the kitchencleaners in, job done.
David returned two hours later. Alone. Hed handed the children off to Sarah out front as she loaded her haul into an Uber. He came in, peering around as if expecting a tripwire.
Emily shes gone.
I know.
She saidwell, she was screaming some pretty nasty things
I dont care what rats scream as theyre thrown off a ship, I said. I sat in the kitchen, drinking fresh coffee from my favourite, unchipped mug. No more childrens murals on the wallpapertheyd been cleaned away. The fridge was restocked with my own food.
Did you know about the letting? I asked, without looking up.
No! Honestly, Emily, I swearif Id known
Youd have said nothing, I finished. Listen closely, David. This is your only warning. One more stunt from your family, and your suitcase will be out there, right beside theirs. Clear?
He nodded, too quickly, too scared. He knew I meant every word.
I took a sip of coffee.
It was perfect.
Hot, strong andmost importantlyenjoyed in the blessed, complete silence of my very own flat.
My crown hasnt slipped.
It fits perfectly.
