Victor sat at the table, staring blankly past Olivia. She was chatting away, waving her hands, smiling, but he was miles away in his own thoughts.
“Vic, you’re not listening at all. What’s going on?” Olivia frowned, sensing something was off.
“Nothing, just tired,” he said, snapping back. “Go on.”
“I can tell when you’re not really here,” she pressed.
“Tell me, can you make soup?” he suddenly asked.
“What? What kind of soup?” She blinked in confusion.
“Just normal stuff. Tomato soup, chicken noodle…”
“Yeah, of course. Why?”
“I’ve got a favour to ask,” he said seriously.
…
Outside flat fifteen, a bin bag had been sitting by the door for two days. Victor noticed it as he nearly tripped over it yesterday. That morning, another small one had joined it. No smell, but it was odd. The building was new—only a year since anyone moved in.
When he got back that evening, the bags were still there. He shook his head and decided to speak to the neighbour in the morning.
By the next day, there were three. Victor knocked firmly—once, twice.
“Coming, coming…” A woman’s voice called from inside.
The door opened to an elderly lady in glasses and a light blue knitted cardigan. She smiled nervously, trying to edge the door shut.
“Good morning. These bags are yours. Please take them down—the cleaners aren’t your personal staff.”
“I thought… my grandson said he’d come. I kept meaning to… my hands aren’t what they used to be,” she admitted, holding out trembling fingers.
“I’ll take them. Don’t worry,” Victor said, grabbing the bags before leaving.
…
That night, as he stepped into the hallway, the door to flat fifteen cracked open.
“Good evening. Here…” She held out a five-pound note. “For the bins.”
“Not necessary. Really.”
“Do come in, just for a moment. Standing’s difficult…”
Victor stepped inside. The flat was sparse—just basics, a few boxes stacked by the wall: instant noodles, tinned soup, long-life milk.
“It’s no trouble. Just don’t leave them outside—I’ll grab them at eight.”
“Thank you, Victor. I’m Margaret. I’ve got everything I need, really. My grandson visits once a month. It’s just… my hands. Sometimes I miss a proper bowl of soup,” she said with a frail smile.
…
Later, Victor sat across from Olivia at a café. She was gushing about a dress she’d tried on. He stayed quiet.
“Honestly, where’s your head today?” she huffed.
“Sorry. Just thinking.”
“About dessert? Should we get the sticky toffee pudding? Or the apple crumble?”
“Can you make soup?” he cut in.
“Is this you hinting at me cooking for you? Or do you want me in one of your shirts, playing house? Fancy a Thai green curry?”
“Just normal soup. Tomato, chicken…”
“Order takeaway and drop it off at your gran’s then,” Olivia snapped. “That’s what social workers are for.”
…
He left the café dazed, wandering into a supermarket. He was grabbing a drink when he overheard a girl picking out a chicken.
“Is that for soup?” he asked.
“Yeah. Best kind—like homemade.”
“What else do you need for stock?”
They got talking. Her name was Emily, she lived nearby. When he mentioned Margaret, she nodded.
“Give me an hour and a half. I’ll make a batch.”
…
He brought the soup to Margaret. Later, he went back to Emily’s.
“She lit up like it wasn’t just about the food.”
“Because it wasn’t,” Emily said. “Soup was just the excuse.”
Victor’s phone buzzed. Olivia. He declined the call.
“Go on, eat it before it gets cold.”
Victor smiled.
“Turns out soup’s the important bit.”
