**Diary Entry**
*10th May, 2023*
“What am I rescuing you from today?” asked Oliver, stirring his second pot of instant noodles.
“Mashed potatoes and meatballs!” replied William cheerfully.
“Again?” Oliver gave a forced grin.
“Again!”
“Last week it was those awful meatballs! How much longer?”
“I ask my wife the same thing, but she won’t listen! Alright, dig in!”
***
Their new colleague, James, watched in confusion, baffled by William’s dislike for home-cooked meals. Oliver decided to explain.
“It’s simple—he’s desperate for junk food. Instant noodles, kebabs, pizza, that sort of thing. But his wife packs him a proper lunch every day to keep him healthy. So I rescue him. Waste not, eh? He eats my instant noodles, and I polish off his proper meals.”
“Is she a bad cook?” James asked, unwrapping his sandwich from the microwave.
“No, not at all. It’s just not always what he fancies—endless meatballs, shepherd’s pie, Sunday roasts.” Oliver chuckled, opening William’s lunchbox. “Brotherly sacrifice, that’s all.”
“Why not just tell her to stop cooking for him? She’d probably be relieved,” James remarked.
“Oh, he tried. She won’t hear of it.”
“And you’re happy to oblige!”
“Well, good food shouldn’t go to waste.”
“If I had a wife who packed me lunches, I’d never share a crumb!” James sighed dreamily, taking a bite.
“What’s stopping you? Get married!”
“Haven’t met ‘the one’ yet.”
“You will. You’re new here, aren’t you? Plenty of lovely girls in Manchester!”
They finished lunch and returned to work—all three employed at the same furniture company, though in different roles. William headed sales, Oliver worked assembly, and James had recently joined as a warehouse hand.
James, as it turned out, had a gift for foresight. That very evening, he bumped into a striking woman in her early thirties at the supermarket. Petite, just over five feet, but lovely. She was struggling to reach a packet of fancy pasta on the top shelf.
“Need a hand?” James offered politely—he stood a good head taller.
“Oh, I’d be so grateful!” The woman flashed him a smile, and just like that, James felt the world tilt. Yesterday, today, tomorrow—it all blurred. He wanted to stay in that moment forever, but as soon as he handed her the pasta, she disappeared down the aisle.
Shaking himself, he followed.
“Cooking something special?” he asked casually.
“Trying to! Thought I’d make lasagne for my husband. He’s sick of my meatballs!” she laughed.
“I’m James, by the way.”
“Amelia. And please, call me Amy.”
The conversation with his colleagues that afternoon came rushing back.
“Hope you’re not overworking yourself just to run errands alone,” he teased.
“What? I enjoy spoiling him!”
“Just heard a funny story today—makes me wonder if men deserve it.”
“What story?”
“Oh, this bloke at work keeps swapping his wife’s home-cooked meals for instant noodles. Makes you think, doesn’t it?”
Amy’s eyes narrowed. “If I ever found out my husband did that, he’d be eating leftovers for a year!”
“William’s in for a shock if his wife ever catches on.”
“William?” She froze. “Wait—where do you work?”
“Just moved here. Got a job at that furniture factory by the river.”
Her face darkened. Two and two came together—her husband’s recent weight gain, his name, the factory. Too many coincidences.
“That sneaky little—so it’s Oliver eating my food while my husband stuffs himself with instant noodles!” she fumed.
James winced. “Oops.”
Amy abandoned her trolley and stormed out, muttering, “Lasagne? Oh, he’ll get lasagne. And meatballs. And cottage pie. I slave over the stove, and this is his thanks?”
James chased her to the car park. “You can’t drive like this. Come on, let me buy you a coffee first.”
She huffed but relented.
Over coffee and cakes, she calmed slightly, though resentment lingered.
“That Oliver. How long has this been going on?”
“No idea. Look, I’m sorry for spilling—please don’t get me sacked. William’s my boss!”
“Don’t worry. I’ll deal with him *my* way.”
“Thanks. Jobs don’t grow on trees.”
“Tell me about it. I work all day, then rush to the shop, then cook for hours—and he tosses it aside? My food’s *good*!”
“Smelled amazing today,” James admitted guiltily. “I’d never share.”
“The worst part? I *love* cooking. It’s not a chore. But not for ungrateful men!”
“Lucky him. I can barely fry an egg.”
“Nonsense! Anyone can cook if they try.” She eyed him. “Want me to teach you?”
James should’ve refused. But the thought of her in his kitchen…
“Definitely. Start with lasagne?”
“Easy. Do you have the right dishes?”
“Not even close. My flat’s got a saucepan, a frying pan, and three plates.”
“Oven?”
“Electric. Works fine.”
“Perfect!” She brightened, finishing his cake. “Let’s shop.”
***
William came home to a dark, empty house. Just as he reached for his phone, the door opened.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Oh! My friend needed help with lasagne. Lost track of time.”
“Lasagne?” His favourite. The one dish he *never* let Oliver steal.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Bought some ham. I’ll fry eggs. You like those, right?”
He scowled. Now he craved lasagne.
“Fine.”
Amy looked far too pleased. She *had* enjoyed her evening—first splurging on kitchenware with James, then teaching him to cook. He’d been an eager student, and the meal they shared was delicious. The leftovers went into a container—for work tomorrow.
She’d left straight after, hoping to beat William home. Traffic made her late.
That night, William fell asleep in front of the telly. Usually, she’d wake him. Not tonight.
Next morning, no lunchbox awaited.
“Forgot,” she said breezily. “Canteen today, love.”
He left, baffled. Where was the usual fuss over his suit? The fuss over *him*?
***
At lunch, James unpacked lasagne.
“Ditching sandwiches?” Oliver grinned.
“Upgraded.”
“Takeaway?” William asked, mouth watering.
“Homemade. A friend taught me.”
“Blimey, you move fast!” Oliver laughed. “Though cooking’s women’s work.”
“Disagree. If it means eating like this, sign me up.”
“You need a wife,” William said.
“Yeah, so I can swap her cooking for Pot Noodles like you?” James teased.
“Speaking of—Amy’s ‘broken.’ No lunch today.”
“What’ll you eat?”
“Pot Noodle,” William muttered.
“Not thrilled?”
“Just… not the same.”
The noodles tasted like cardboard, especially watching James devour lasagne. Afterward, William texted Amy:
*Fancy lasagne tonight?*
*Busy. After-school club.*
Odd. She *always* indulged him.
Dinner was eggs again. Then cottage pie—*over*salted. Then more eggs.
Two weeks passed, Amy’s revenge in full swing. Meanwhile, she’d taught James to cook properly. They’d grown close—though she noticed his *kind* of interest wasn’t quite platonic.
One evening, she brought her friend Lucy along.
“James, meet Lucy!”
Lucy blinked at him, starstruck.
“Thought you wanted to learn paella?” Amy said innocently. “Lucy’s the best.”
Five minutes later, Amy “remembered an errand” and vanished.
James wasn’t blind—Lucy was lovely. And single.
***
Next day, James brought paella to work.
“I’m getting married,” he announced.
“*What?*”
“Met *the one.* Best paella I’ve ever had.”
“My lasagne’s better,” William said, smugly unpacking his *own* lunch—Amy had finally relented.
Oliver drooled. “Sharing?”
“Nope. Get your own wife.”
William wasn’t sharing again.
Amy never confessed—not even when she ‘met’ James at his and Lucy’s wedding.
“Revenge complete?” James whispered.
She smirked”And as William savored every bite of her cooking from that day forward, he finally learned the golden rule—never take a good woman, or her lasagne, for granted.”
