It was a cold evening in London when Eleanor first declared, “This is my room now,” as she carried my belongings into the corridor.
“Agnes, do you honestly think this stew is edible?” Madeleine wrinkled her nose, stirring the murky liquid in her bowl. “The potatoes arent even properly cooked.”
“Eat whats given,” Agnes replied tiredly, not looking up from her plate. “This isnt a restaurant.”
“Im not just complaining for the sake of it. After work, Id like a decent meal. Back home, Mum always had hot soup ready when Dad came in.”
Agnes pressed her lips together. Here it was againthe endless grievances. Madeleine had been living with them for six months since her divorce, and every day brought some new dissatisfaction. The soup was undercooked, the house was dusty, the telly was too loud.
“Madeleine, if you dont like it, youre welcome to cook yourself,” Agnes said, placing her bowl in the sink. “No ones stopping you.”
“When am I supposed to cook? I work till seven, and its an hour and a half commute after that.”
“So Im meant to play the housemaid?”
Into the kitchen shuffled Henry, Agness husband, tousled from his afternoon nap, his shirt crumpled.
“Girls, arguing again?” He yawned and stretched. “The whole flat can hear you.”
“Were not arguing,” Madeleine flashed her brother a sweet smileso different from the one shed given Agnes. “Just discussing dinner.”
Agnes glanced sideways at her sister-in-law. How quickly her tone shifted when Henry was around. She became all charm and grace.
“Henry, could you speak to the landlord about the heating?” Madeleine pressed. “My rooms freezing at night. I can barely sleep.”
Henry scratched his head.
“Well, its the same for everyone in the building. Its winter.”
“But surely the radiators could be bled or something?”
Agnes silently cleared the dishes. *My room.* Madeleine called the spare room hers so easily. Theyd agreed she would stay only a monthjust until she found a place of her own.
“Agnes, wheres the blue throw? The one that was on the sofa?”
“In the wash,” Agnes said shortly.
“When will it be dry? Im cold.”
“Tomorrow.”
“What am I supposed to do tonight?”
Agnes turned to face her. Madeleine wore that helpless, childlike expression that worked so well on men.
“There are other throws in the wardrobe.”
“But where? I dont know where you keep things.”
Agnes fetched one from the bedroom.
“Here, take this.”
“Thank you. And could you not send this one to the wash? Just in case I need it again.”
“Madeleine, we have a washing machine. We do laundry regularly.”
Madeleine clutched the throw to her chest.
“Of course, I understand. Its justback home, we always had spares of everything.”
Agnes felt something tighten inside her. Another reminder that their home wasnt up to Madeleines standards.
“Henry, have you thought about asking for a raise?” Madeleine settled beside him on the sofa. “Peter at my office just got fifteen hundred more a month.”
Henry shifted uncomfortably.
“Im not Peter. Different job.”
“But you could at least try. Prices are soaring these days.”
Agnes decided it was best to leave before she said something shed regret. She turned on the tap in the bathroom, pretending to scrub somethinganythingto drown out the murmurs from the living room. Madeleine had a way of making every request sound reasonable, every protest from Agnes seem petty.
Half an hour later, Henry knocked on the door.
“Agnes, come out. We need to talk.”
She dried her hands and stepped into the living room. Madeleine sat smugly on the sofa; Henry stood between them, guilt written across his face.
“What is it?” Agnes asked.
“Madeleine and I were talking” he began. “She really is freezing in that room. Ours is much warmer.”
A chill settled in Agness chest.
“And what are you suggesting?”
“Maybe we could swap? Just for a little while. She takes our room, we stay in here.”
“Henry, are you serious?”
“Think about it. Were young, healthy. Madeleines been through a lot, what with the divorce.”
Agnes looked at her sister-in-law. Madeleines eyes were downcast, but the ghost of a smile played at her lips.
“Thats *our* bedroom, Henry. *Our* bed, *our* things.”
“Whats the harm? Its temporary. Until she finds a place.”
“And is she even looking?”
Madeleine lifted her head.
“Of course I am! But rents are ridiculous right now. Maybe another month or two, no more.”
Agnes knew that meant at least six. Maybe longer.
“Henry, lets talk in private.”
They stepped into the kitchen, shutting the door.
“Do you realise what youre asking?” Agnes whispered. “This is *our* home.”
“I know. But shes my sister. Shes struggling.”
“And what am I? A stranger?”
“Dont be daft. Its justshes depressed after the divorce. She needs support.”
“And I dont? For six months, Ive lived like a guest in my own home. I cant watch telly because it bothers her, cant have friends over because shes tired. I cook for three, clean for three!”
“Agnes, dont exaggerate.”
“Im not! And now you want to give her *our* room?”
Henry rubbed his forehead.
“Its temporary. A month or twowell manage.”
“And then what? Shell ask for the whole flat?”
“Dont be selfish.”
Agnes nearly choked.
“*Selfish?* Im selfish because I wont hand over my own bedroom?”
“Keep your voice down, shell hear.”
“Let her! This is *my* home, and Ill say what I think!”
A knock at the door.
“Sorry to interrupt,” Madeleines voice was sickly sweet. “I dont want to cause trouble. Maybe I should stay with a friend instead?”
“No, Madeleine,” Henry said quickly. “Youre not going anywhere. Well sort this out.”
Agnes watched the scene unfold and knew shed lost. Madeleine was an expert at playing the victim, and Henry always fell for it.
“Fine,” Agnes surrendered. “Take the bedroom.”
“Really?” Madeleine beamed. “Oh, thank you! Ill be ever so careful.”
By the next evening, Madeleine had already moved in. When Agnes returned from work, her things had been packed into boxes and bags, dumped unceremoniously in the living room.
“Madeleine, whats this?” Agnes stared at her dresses, heaped carelessly together.
“Oh, thats your stuff,” Madeleine peeked out from *her* new room. “I moved it out. Needed the wardrobe space.”
“*Temporarily*, we agreed.”
“Well, yes, but I have to put my things *somewhere*, dont I?”
Agnes pushed open the bedroom door. Madeleines creams and perfumes lined the dresser. Her clothes hung in the wardrobe. Her bedsheets were on the bed.
“Madeleine, where are *my* sheets?”
“I sent them to the wash. They looked dirty.”
“They were *clean*!”
“Well, they didnt seem it. I like things tidy.”
Agnes felt fury rising.
“And where did *your* bedding come from?”
“Oh, I bought it today. Lovely, isnt it? Bamboo fibrevery good for the skin.”
She turned back to unpacking, humming as if Agnes werent even there.
At dinner, Madeleine was sickeningly sweet.
“Thank you ever so much, Agnes,” she said, scooping potatoes onto her plate. “I actually slept properly for the first time in months. The bedrooms so much warmer.”
Henry nodded.
“See? You were worried for nothing.”
“Henry, when *is* Madeleine planning to move out?”
Madeleine coughed.
“Agnes, must you be so blunt?” Henry chided.
“Im not rushing her. Im just asking.”
“Oh, Agnes, I *am* trying,” Madeleine sighed. “But rents are impossible on my salary.”
“What about your ex? Doesnt he pay maintenance?”
“Oh we havent settled that yet. Courts take ages.”
“So the divorce isnt even final?”
Madeleine hesitated.
“It is! We just havent split the assets.”
Agnes frowned. Something wasnt adding up.
Later, when Madeleine had retreated to *her* room to watch telly, Agnes tried talking to Henry again.
“Don