“Just a taste, that’s all,” wrote Hannah in the group chat. “Don’t include us in the shared budget. We’ll bring our own. We’re on a diet, eating like sparrows…” And that was the first warning sign.
Lucy sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other gripping a bulky tote bag. She reread the message twice. Had she misunderstood? It was polite enough, yet… something about it felt rehearsed, as if someone had already mapped out their loopholes.
The chat for the May getaway buzzed with notifications. New faces had joined recently—William and Hannah, friends of Edward, who was well-respected in their circle. His word was enough; no one questioned it.
Their group was warm, friendly—most in their thirties, responsible but quick to laugh. Years of friendship had built unspoken rules, each person slotting into their role. Edward introduced newcomers. Lucy organised trips and gatherings. This time, she’d drafted the guest list, planned the route, and booked cosy cabins by the woods—each with verandas, a gazebo, even proper showers. Everyone agreed, and soon the shopping list grew: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
Then came Hannah’s message: “Don’t count us in. We’re on a diet, bringing our own food. We won’t need anything.”
Lucy replied with a neutral “Alright, as you wish” and set her phone aside.
It shouldn’t have been an issue. Some did keto, others counted calories—whatever suited them. They even had a vegetarian who never pitched in for meat but always brought enough grilled veggie skewers to share. Quirks were part of life. What mattered was decency and participation. Yet that “don’t count us in” sent a prickle down Lucy’s spine. There was something slippery in it. But she held her tongue.
The day of the trip was perfect—warm, breezy, the air thick with pine. Everyone arrived on time, nothing forgotten. They settled into the cabins, some heading straight to light the barbecue.
William and Hannah arrived late, when the work was done. Their “own” provisions? A block of cheese, a few tomatoes, a packet of rice cakes, and two bottles of beer. Lucy glimpsed their haul and thought, “Enough for an evening, perhaps. But three days?”
They perched on a bench, aloof at first, nibbling their cheese, clinking bottles, snapping sunset selfies. Then, gradually, they edged closer. Within half an hour, William hovered by the grill.
“What’s that you’re cooking? Smells incredible,” Hannah giggled. “No diet stands a chance around you lot!”
Lucy exchanged a glance with Emma beside her, who shrugged faintly. They weren’t ones to embarrass newcomers.
By nightfall, Hannah and William were part of the feast—laughing, swapping stories, singing along to the guitar. They were good company, even charming. Yet Lucy couldn’t shake the feeling they’d been played.
She slept uneasy, not angry but irritated. Her parents had taught her: if you’re part of a team, play by the rules and show your hand. William and Hannah had slipped in, cards held close, sharing none of the cost but all of the spoils.
“If this happens again, I’ll have to act,” Lucy thought, tensing at the idea of scolding adults. But she shook it off. They were here to relax, not police plates. Surely it was a one-off.
It wasn’t.
“Are we chipping in again? We’ll stick to our salads, as usual,” Hannah chirped in a voice note weeks later, as if discussing decorations for a school fête, not shared expenses.
Lucy listened while shopping for pasta and a new gas canister, tallying who’d cover petrol, meat, cutlery. And again, that “as usual.”
Five such “usual” trips followed—summer barbecues at Emma’s cottage, an autumn lakeside weekend, even a picnic in Hyde Park with tea and sandwiches. Each time, William and Hannah arrived with a dainty bag: bananas, a cabbage slaw, bargain-bin wine. Never sharing, never leaving hungry.
“Isn’t this wine lovely?” William mused, pouring from a bottle someone else had brought.
“We’re mostly on greens now. Pricey, but so good for the skin,” Hannah cooed, stacking her plate with roast beef from the communal spread.
At first, it drew awkward smiles. Quirky, harmless. Maybe money was tight.
Then came the side glances. Then the talk.
“Did you see how much they ate?” Emma whispered as they packed leftovers after another barbecue.
“William went back for thirds. And the shrimp salad? Gone,” Lucy muttered, sealing meat into containers.
Jokes followed. Edward once asked how half a kilo of kebabs fit a diet. Emma dryly noted that appetite thrived on restraint. William just laughed. Hannah pretended not to hear.
Lucy hated conflict, hated grudges over food. But when Emma sent a photo of William and Hannah’s new car—a pristine white crossover, dealership-fresh—with the caption “We did it!”, something curdled inside her.
Money wasn’t the issue. Priorities were.
Spring returned. Plans for another trip began. This time, Lucy opened the chat with a new rule: “Shared meals, shared costs. No exceptions.”
Most reacted with silent approval. Only William stayed quiet. An hour later, Hannah messaged: “We’ll sit this one out. Have fun!”
Everyone understood.
The trip felt lighter. No sidelong looks at the crisps hidden from “dieters.” No unease.
“We’re not stingy,” Edward said, clinking cups with Lucy. “But today? The air’s clearer.”
“Not the air,” she smiled. “Just the company. No more ‘bringing their own’ to feast on ours.”
By the fire that night, as marshmallows melted and sausages sizzled, no one mentioned William or Hannah. The trip was a success. Lucy had done right.
Weeks later, she ran into Edward at a café near work. He stirred oat milk into his coffee, avoiding her gaze when she asked, “Seen William or Hannah lately?”
“They’ve moved on—board games, late-night clubs, tournaments. More their crowd now. Creative types, they said.”
Lucy sipped her coffee, arching a brow. A new feeding ground, then.
Some people never changed. They just found new tables to join—plates ready, contributions spare. It didn’t matter. Life went on. The trick was not to leave out a sign reading “Free buffet.”
