Lenny Fisher smacked the alarm clock on its tinny head and stumbled barefoot into the kitchen—only to freeze in shock. There, perched on a rickety wooden stool with one slender leg crossed over the other, sat Angelica. She wore nothing but a frilly lace apron. The sight was so bewildering Lenny squeezed his eyes shut.
“Sweetheart, you’re awake!” She fluttered off the stool like a butterfly and draped herself around his neck. “I made breakfast!”
“Did you now?” He eyed the stringy, colorless lump on his plate.
“Well, Lenny love, it’s steamed broccoli.”
Lenny had never eaten “steamed broccoli.” His usual breakfasts were far less exotic.
“Maybe… a dab of HP Sauce?” he ventured weakly, then backtracked at the sharp arch of her perfect eyebrows. “No, no—lovely as it is! HP Sauce would ruin it.”
*Why me?* he wondered, chewing grimly. But the thought wasn’t about the broccoli—it was about the goddess lounging on his peeling kitchen stool. *This nymph… this siren… my very own Beatrice…*
***
Lenny first saw Angelica while fixing a spotlight at the theatre where he’d worked as a stagehand for thirty years. One evening, testing a beam, the light caught her—ethereal, translucent, a fleeting vision that seared into his heart. She haunted him ever since.
Not that Lenny was the sort to chase every skirt—odd, perhaps, for a man surrounded by actors and dancers. But he was known for his decency, his quiet reliability. Maybe that’s why fate rewarded him with Angelica.
***
After a hasty shave, Lenny dressed for work.
“Could you iron my shirt?” he asked meekly.
But his “nymph-Beatrice” was engrossed in her phone.
“Be a darling and do it yourself?” she purred without glancing up.
“Right. Myself, then.”
With no clue where the iron hid at this ungodly hour, he smoothed the shirt with damp palms like a proper bloke, grabbed his toolcase, kissed Angelica (now sprawled on the sofa), and fled.
Only on the Tube did it hit him—something was missing. A quick pat-down confirmed: no sandwiches wrapped in foil, no leftover liver and onions in a Tupperware. *No matter. Cafeteria’ll do.*
***
*”Babe, send £50. Mani-pedi today xx.”*
Lenny blinked at the text. Since when did nails cost that much? Still, he wouldn’t disappoint her. *I’ll borrow from Dave if need be.* With a sigh, he tapped *Transfer.* Beauty demanded sacrifice.
Half an hour before clock-out, another message:
*”Pick up quinoa & almond milk on your way! Mwah!”*
Lenny recognised only “milk.” He wandered the Tesco aisles, utterly lost, until a shopgirl took pity.
“How much quinoa?” she asked, already steering him toward the organic section.
Lenny panicked. “Er—two kilos?”
At checkout, he winced. *Dave it is.* Lenny, ever the generous mate, had never asked to borrow before. *First time for everything,* he mused, lugging his strange haul home. *For her, I’ll swallow my pride.*
Angelica greeted him in a silky kimono, smelling of jasmine. “Lenny love, I missed you!” she trilled as he stuffed the quinoa into the fridge.
“What’s for dinner, my joy?” he asked, stomach growling.
“Dinner’s here!” she sang—just as the intercom buzzed.
“Lenny sweet, fetch the delivery and pay, would you?”
*What costs this much and weighs nothing?* he grumbled, trudging upstairs. The tiny box felt ludicrously light for its price.
“What is it?” he asked, staring at the neat rows of strange, herb-sprinkled parcels.
“Love, you’ve never had sushi?” Angelica gasped. “It’s Japanese! Tuna, crab, octopus—with wasabi, ginger, soy!”
Lenny loathed it. Angelica devoured it gleefully. Once she flitted off to bed, he peeked in the fridge—not a scrap of toad-in-the-hole left. Defeated, he shuffled to bed.
***
Next morning, no breakfast awaited. Angelica lay asleep, golden hair fanned across the pillow.
“Lenny darling, leave £70,” she murmured. “Brazilian wax today.”
He nearly protested—then hesitated. *Might be medical?* “Of course, love,” he mumbled, sloshing almond milk into a bowl. A stale crust and the leftover quinoa mocked him from the cupboard. He poked the grain, clueless—raw? Boiled? In the end, he left it.
“Off already?” Angelica yawned, scrolling Instagram.
“Yes. You… going to work?”
She blinked at him. “Work? Lenny, darling, I’m your *wife* now. When I was single, yes, I *had* to work. But *you’re* the provider—hunter-gatherer, darling! *My* job is keeping your nest warm and inspiring you!”
***
Lenny returned home furious, exhausted, starving. The kitchen offered only the abandoned quinoa. Angelica, glittering like a disco ball, was painting her face at the mirror.
“Back? Quick, change! We’re clubbing—Argentinian DJ, foam party!”
“Angel, I’m shattered. Haven’t eaten proper in days. I’m not going.”
Her eyebrows knit. “Not going?”
“No.”
“So this is it? Lock me up, dump chores on me, now forbid me fun? *This* is your love?”
Lenny’s instincts screamed: *Retreat.* He fled to the kitchen.
“What do you take me for? A *slave*?” She pursued him, shrieking. “I wither here! What do I get from you? *What?*”
“Maybe don’t—”
“*Don’t?*” Her voice climbed. “Tyrant! You’ve *ruined* me! I’ll *starve* on this bloody quinoa!” She snatched the packet and shook it in his face.
Lenny snapped. “*My* quinoa? *You* wanted it!”
“Here we go! Money, money! After *all* I do! Take your *stupid* quinoa and choke!”
The bag hit his nose—pain, humiliation—
He woke up.
***
The rickety bus spat Val Fisher onto the station platform amid weekend gardeners. Adjusting her bags of homegrown veg, she gaped as Lenny barrelled toward her, clutching a giant bouquet.
“Val, love! God, I missed you!” he babbled, crushing her in a hug.
“Len, you all right?” She took the roses, baffled but pleased.
“Just… you’re the best wife in the world,” he declared, hoisting her heavy bags.
Val melted. (She didn’t know he’d blown his secret stash on the flowers. No matter.)
At home, she stuffed the blooms into a plastic bucket—no vase big enough—and rolled up her sleeves.
“Let me change, then I’ll fry up spuds with fresh cucumbers! Ours came up lovely this year.”
“Bloody right,” Lenny agreed, unloading earthy, dewy veg onto the table.
*He’s cracked,* Val mused, watching him kiss a cucumber like it was sacred.
