“Liz, we wont take much. Just pack us your famous pie and a couple of jars of jam for the road,” drawled Clive with a lazy grin, stretching in his chair.
Liz stared at him, disbelief tightening her chest. How could he ask so shamelessly?
Her mind reeledall the effort shed poured into that perfect pie, the hours scrubbing the cottage before their arrival. And now here was Clive, who hadnt lifted a finger all week, lounging in the shade and demanding treats “to go.”
She glanced at Arthur, who seemed oblivious to his brothers behaviour.
“Clive, dont you think thats a bit much?” Liz asked, forcing calm into her voice.
“Oh, come off it, Liz!” He waved her off without even turning. “Were familysupposed to share. Youve got plenty to spare!”
A simmering mix of resentment and anger coiled inside her.
This lakeside cottage, bought three years ago, had been their sanctuary. Summers here were never idledawn starts, weeding, berry-picking, tending the chickens, preserving for winter. Every helping hand was worth its weight in gold.
Thats why Clives demand felt like a slap. He either didnt seeor chose not tothe work behind it all. To him, this place was just a free holiday, and she and Arthur were the staff.
It had started three weeks earlier, when Clive called out of the blue. “Thought wed pop round, lend a hand with the chores, enjoy the fresh air,” hed said.
The words had stunned her. Clive and his wife Olivia were city folk through and throughcocktail bars, brunches, weekend shopping sprees.
“Lend a hand?” Liz had echoed, sceptical.
But Clive barrelled on. “Course! Were family! Do you good, and well get a proper countryside break. Fancy picking strawberries, firing up the sauna”
After hanging up, Liz sat on the porch, absently twisting her apron strings. She knew Clives promises were rarely kept. But Arthur, hearing the news, had brightened. “Maybe theyll actually help with the berries. Or the fence.”
The following days were a whirlwind of preparationas if royalty were visiting. Fresh linen, spotless towels. A trip to town for groceries: salmon, steak for the barbecue, fruit, chocolates.
“Maybe itll be fine,” Liz muttered, hanging the towels. “Even a little help would be something.”
When Clive and Olivia finally arrived, Liz greeted them with a tight smile. They looked relaxed, as if stepping off a spa retreat.
“Here we are!” Clive announced, arms wide.
Liz ushered them to the tablesalads, warm scones, homemade lemonade. The first half-hour was cheerful chatter, until Arthur tentatively outlined the weeks tasks.
“Tomorrow, well start with the hay. Then the berries. Plenty to do, but itll go faster together.”
“Of course, of course,” Olivia nodded, but her eyes flickered with confusion, as if “haymaking” were a foreign concept.
Liz caught itthat shadow of cluelessnessand a cold prickle of dread settled in her chest.
The first day passed like a holiday. Liz ignored the waist-high grass, the strawberry patches choked with weeds, the crates of apples waiting in the shed.
Clive was in his elementjokes, beer in hand, boasting about “escaping the city grind.” Olivia posed in a floral sundress, snapping sunset selfies by the lake. Arthur smiled, hopeful.
But by day two, the mood shifted.
Liz woke at dawn to the roosters cry, pulled on her wellies, and headed out. Dew glittered on the grass; the air smelled of earth and hay. The chickens clamoured for feed.
As she scooped grain, her gaze drifted to the guest roomcurtains drawn, silence.
By eight, shed fed the birds, picked a bucket of courgettes, and hauled water for the vegetable patch.
Arthur appeared with tea. “Clive and Olivia drove into town. Urgent errands, they said.”
Liz nodded, though something sharp twisted inside her.
They returned at dusk, laden with crisps, fizzy drinks, and lager. “Liz, this place is like a resort!” Clive declared, flopping onto a deckchair. “Everything just happens!”
Day by day, Lizs irritation grew. She mowed alone, hauled buckets, scrubbed floors, cooked meals. Clive lazed in a hammock, scrolling his phone, complaining of a headache. Olivia sunbathed, captioning selfies: #CountryLife #ChilledVibes.
By day five, Lizs patience snapped.
Shed spent the morning weeding, back aching, while laughter drifted from the deckOlivia giggling over cocktails with friends on speakerphone.
When Arthur returned from the fields, sweaty and exhausted, Liz met him with steel in her voice.
“I cant do this. They wont even wash a plate. Today, Clive asked me to iron his shirt. Olivia called breakfast a bit basic.”
That evening, they broached the next days tasks: Clive would help Arthur mend the fence; Olivia would weed the strawberries.
“Clive, well tackle the fence tomorrow,” Arthur said over dinner.
“Sure, sure,” Clive mumbled, eyes glued to his phone.
He wasnt listening.
At dawn, Arthur gathered tools, brewed strong teaready to work side by side. But the guest room was empty. A note lay on the bedside table:
*Gone to town. Back by supperbarbecue tonight!*
They returned at dusk, arms full of steak, more lager, gourmet snacks. Clive grinned. “Traffic was brutal!”
Liz, bone-tired, gripped the porch railing. “We agreed on work today.”
“Right, right,” Clive said, waving a meat packet. “Tomorrow, promise!”
But the next morning, he shrugged. “Sorrygotta dash. Shame we couldnt help!”
Then, with a grin: “Oh, Lizpack us that famous pie for the road. And a few jars of your raspberry jam. Its brilliant!”
Something inside Liz snapped.
“No,” she said, voice trembling. “You didnt lift a finger all week.”
Clive gaped. His face reddened.
“Classy!” he spat. “Wheres your hospitality? We came with open hearts!”
“Open hearts?” Liz shot back. “You used us! I worked non-stop while you lazed about!”
Arthur, usually peacekeeping, stepped beside her. “You offered help, Clive. Instead, you ate, drank, and moaned about the heat.”
“Christ, Arthur!” Clive lunged forward. “Were family! Youd charge us next? Disgrace!”
Olivia sighed theatrically, stormed to the car, and slammed the door. “Lets go, Clive! They dont appreciate us!”
With a final glare, Clive followed, tossing over his shoulder: “Keep your bloody pie!”
As their car vanished, Liz and Arthur exhaled. The relief was palpable, but so was the exhaustion.
That evening, they walked the property, assessing the unfinished workthe fence, the strawberries, the uncut hay.
In the sauna later, sipping tea with that same raspberry jam, they watched the lake darken.
“Next time,” Liz said wryly, “guests bring wellies, not Wi-Fi.”
Arthur laughed, and for the first time in days, the cottage felt like theirs again.
