Yesterday – Why on earth are you putting the salad bowl there? It blocks the finger food! And move those glasses, will you? Oleg’s coming soon, you know he likes space to wave his arms about when he talks. Victor fussed around, rearranging the crystal dishes and nearly dropping the cutlery. Galina let out a weary sigh and wiped her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since dawn, her feet aching as if she’d been walking miles, her back throbbing from the familiar spot just below her shoulder blades. But she had no time to complain. Tonight, they were expecting a “star guest” – her husband’s younger brother, Oleg. “Victor, calm down,” Galina said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. The real question is, did you remember to buy wholemeal bread? Last time Oleg moaned we only had white rolls, and you know he’s all about counting carbs these days.” “I got it, I got it – wholegrain, seeded, just how he likes,” Victor darted towards the bread bin. “Galina, is the meat ready? You know how he fusses about his food – goes to those fancy London places, he won’t be impressed by homemade burgers!” Galina pursed her lips. She knew all too well. Oleg, a forty-year-old bachelor who liked to call himself a “free-spirited artist” (although mostly living off odd jobs and help from their aging mother), considered himself a great foodie. Every visit felt like a test Galina was destined to fail. “I roasted pork shoulder in honey-mustard glaze,” she replied crisply. “Fresh from the market, cost £22 a kilo. If he turns his nose up at this, I’ve got nothing else.” “Don’t get defensive,” Victor grimaced. “He’s not been down for six months – he wants some proper family time. He’s going through a tough period, you know, searching for himself.” “Searching for money, more like,” Galina thought, but kept silent. Victor idolised his little brother, believed him a misunderstood genius, and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven, exactly. Galina tore off her apron, checked her hair in the hallway mirror, and put on her practiced smile. Victor was already throwing open the door, beaming like a freshly polished teapot. “Oleg! Mate! There you are!” Oleg appeared, it had to be said, looking quite dapper: trendy coat slung open, a scarf tossed artfully over his shoulder, scruffy designer stubble. He spread his arms wide for his brother’s hug, but only patted Victor vaguely on the back. Galina glanced at Oleg’s hands. Empty. No shopping bag, no box of pastries, not even a cheap bunch of daffodils. He’d turned up at their door, after half a year away, for a meal fit for a feast – and brought nothing at all. Not for them, not for the kids (thankfully at their grandma’s tonight), not even a Mars bar. “Hi, Galina,” he nodded, eyeing the hallway before taking off his shoes. “New wallpaper? Bit… clinical, isn’t it? Well, if it suits you.” “Hello, Oleg,” she replied, evenly. “Wash your hands. Here are new slippers.” “I didn’t bring my own. You know, wearing other people’s can give you foot fungus,” Oleg waved her off. “I’ll stick to socks. Floors clean, I hope?” Galina felt irritation bubbling. She’d cleaned up twice in his honour. “Clean, Oleg. Come on through.” They settled in the living room. The table looked elegant: crisp white tablecloth, fancy napkins, three different salads, meat and cheese platters, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. The centrepiece was steaming hot. Oleg leaned back, surveying the spread. Victor busied himself with the expensive five-year-old cognac he’d bought yesterday, just for Oleg. “To family!” cheered Victor, pouring the drinks. Oleg swirled his glass, sniffed, examined it against the light. “Armenian?” he grimaced. “Hmm. I prefer French – much subtler bouquet. This is a bit rough. Still, you know what they say about gifts…” He knocked it back in one, didn’t bother to savour, and made straight for the platters – picking out the priciest cut. “Help yourself, Oleg,” Galina said, sliding over a giant salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” Oleg speared a prawn, peered at it closely. “These were frozen, weren’t they?” he declared. “Well, obviously – we don’t live near the sea,” Galina replied. “Got them from Tesco, the jumbo sort.” “Oof, rubbery,” Oleg pronounced, dropping the prawn back. “You overcooked them. Strictly two minutes in boiling water. Avocado’s hard, by the way – not ripe.” Victor, mid-serving, froze with his spoon in the air. “Oh, come on, Oleg – honestly, it’s delicious! I tried it myself.” “Victor, you have to train your taste buds,” Oleg said piously. “If you live on cheap substitutes, you’ll never know proper gastronomy. Last week I was at this restaurant launch – they did scallop ceviche to perfection! And this… well, is the mayo homemade?” Galina flushed. The mayo was store-bought – “Hellmann’s”. She hadn’t had time to whisk eggs herself. “From the shop,” she answered coolly. “I see,” Oleg sighed, as if she’d confessed to a fatal flaw. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Absolute poison. Let’s have the meat. Hopefully, that’s edible.” Galina wordlessly dished up a big slice of roast pork, ladled sauce, added rosemary potatoes. The aroma should have been mouthwatering – for any normal guest. But Oleg was a “connoisseur”. He chewed, gazing into space. Galina and Victor waited, tense as exam students. “Dry,” Oleg pronounced. “And the sauce… honey smothers everything. Bit too sweet. Meat should taste like meat. You made dessert out of it, Galina. Marinated it too little. You want the fibres to split – a night in kiwi or sparkling water at least 24-hours.” “I marinated overnight in mustard and spices,” Galina replied gently. “Everyone loves it.” “Well, ‘everyone’ is a broad term. Maybe your work friends enjoy it; they haven’t tasted anything but carrots. I’m talking objectively. It’ll do if you’re starving, but there’s no pleasure.” He pushed aside the untouched £10 serving and reached for the mushrooms. “These home-pickled, or imported?” he quizzed. “Picked ourselves. Salted ourselves,” Galina snapped. Oleg nibbled, winced. “Too much vinegar. You’ll burn your stomach. And salty! You must be in love, Galina – salt means love, right?” He sniggered at his own joke. “Victor, mind your blood pressure eating like this.” Victor giggled nervously, desperate to keep the peace. “Oh, leave it, mate, they’re great. With vodka they’re ideal. Pour another!” They drank. Oleg flushed, loosened his scarf, but refused to take off his coat – as if signalling he’d pop off at any moment and was really doing them a favour being here. “No proper caviar, then?” Oleg poked at a sandwich. “This is tiny – full of bits. Tesco deal, I bet?” “Oleg, that’s wild salmon caviar – £50 a kilo,” Galina snapped, her voice quivering. “We bought it just for you – we never buy it for ourselves, we save.” “Skimping on food’s the worst thing you can do,” Oleg said, popping another “awful” caviar bite. “You are what you eat. I, for instance, would never touch cheap sausages. I’d rather go hungry. But people stuff their fridges with bargains, and wonder why they feel tired and look grey.” Galina looked at Victor. He stared at his plate, desperate to eat his dry pork and say nothing. His silence hurt even more than Oleg’s words. He’d once again buried his head in sand just to avoid clashing with his “precious little brother.” “Victor,” Galina asked, “do you think my meat’s dry too?” Victor choked. “Um… no, darling, it’s lovely. Honestly lovely. Oleg just… knows what tastes good, he’s got that palate…” “A fine palate,” Galina said, dropping her fork so it clanged like a pistol shot. “So my palate’s rough and thick. My hands are clumsy. I cook poison.” “Galina, please, don’t make a scene,” Oleg grimaced. “I’m giving you constructive feedback. So you can improve. You should thank me. You’re too used to Victor eating everything and singing your praises; you’re getting lazy. Women should strive to do better.” “Thank you? You want me to say thank you?” She stood. Her chair scraped the floor. “Galina, where are you going?” Victor asked, worried. “We’ve barely started.” “I’ll be back,” she answered in a strange voice. “Just fetching pudding. Oleg likes his sweets.” She went to the kitchen. Her handmade “Napoleon” cake, layered with homemade custard and real vanilla, stood untouched. She looked at the cake, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of hurt spilled over, drowning out all common sense. How many times had this man entered her home, eaten, drunk, borrowed and never repaid? How many times had he criticised her décor, her clothes, even her kids? And always, Victor had stayed quiet, defending Oleg as “sensitive and creative”. Galina was the strong one – tough as nails, right? She left the cake untouched. Instead, she picked up a tray and returned to the living room. “Dessert?” Oleg perked up, stretching his neck. “Hope it’s not a shop-bought Swiss roll?” Galina quietly, methodically, started clearing the table. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” prawn salad. Then the platters. “Hey, what are you doing?” Oleg protested as his plate of caviar sandwiches disappeared. “I haven’t finished!” “Why carry on?” Galina said, deadpan. “It’s all inedible. Dry meat, toxic mayo salad, rubbery prawns, bad caviar. I can’t let you poison yourself. I’m not your enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Galina! Stop! What’s this, some kind of show? Put it all back!” “No, Victor, this isn’t a show. The real circus is someone arriving empty-handed, gobbling up a meal paid for by a quarter of your wages, and then trashing the hostess.” “I didn’t trash anyone!” Oleg spluttered, flushing with outrage. “Just expressed my opinion! We live in a free country!” “Free, yes.” Galina loaded more dishes onto the tray. “And I’m free to choose who I feed at home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor quality food? I respect that. Stay hungry.” She spun around, carried the feast to the kitchen. Silence rang in the living room. “You’ve gone mad!” Victor hissed, rushing after her. “You’ve humiliated me in front of my own brother! Bring the food back! Apologize now!” Galina set the tray down, turning to Victor. No tears, just icy resolve. “I humiliated you? And when you sat nodding as he put me down, you weren’t ashamed? Are you a man or a doormat, Victor? He wolfed down £10 of caviar and said it’s sub-par. When have you ever bought me caviar like that, just because? We save all the best things for ‘guests’. And the guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! My flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years I’ve done your laundry, cleaned, cooked. Last night I spent hours making all this food. For what? To be told I’m clumsy? If you say one more word blaming me, I’ll put the Napoleon on your head. I mean it, Victor.” Victor backed off. He’d never seen his wife like this – always gentle, patient, “convenient”. Tonight she was a fury, ready to destroy. Oleg appeared in the doorway, no longer confident, now flustered and offended. “Well… I’ve never had hospitality like this,” he drawled. “I came to you wholeheartedly, and you criticise me over a slice of bread?” “You come to us wholeheartedly? Where’s that heart shown – in empty hands? Have you brought a single thing to this house in all these years? Even a box of tea? You come only to eat and criticise.” “I’m broke right now! It’s a rough patch!” “Your ‘patch’ has lasted two decades. But there’s always money for new coats and presentation parties. Meanwhile, you ask Victor for £100 and never pay it back.” “Galina, don’t! Don’t count people’s money!” “They’re not ‘people’s money’ – they’re ours! Family money, taken from our kids to feed this ‘foodie’!” Oleg clutched his chest. “Enough. I’m done. I can’t stay another minute in this house. Victor, how did you end up with such a dragon? I’m never coming here again.” He stormed out. Victor chased after him. “Oleg, wait! Don’t listen to her, she’s probably hormonal or just tired from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Oleg put on his shoes over his socks. “Not after this insult. Don’t phone me till she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood frozen. Then slowly returned to the kitchen, where Galina calmly packed leftovers. “Are you happy?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve freed us from a freeloader,” she answered without looking up. “Sit. Eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you too?” Victor hunched at the table, head in hands. “How could you? He was a guest…” “A guest should act like one – not like an inspector. Victor, listen to me: I will never, ever, prepare another feast for him. If you want to see him, see him at his place or at a café. But pay for it yourself. No more of my time or money for him.” “You’ve become hard,” Victor mumbled. “No, I’ve become fair. Eat up. Or shall I put it away?” Victor stared at the pork. His stomach rumbled. He tasted a bite. It was perfect: tender, melting, savoury with a kick of sweetness. “Well?” Galina asked, noticing his blissful expression. “Delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Galina.” “Good. Your brother’s just a bitter failure who feels big criticising others. Understand that.” Victor chewed and thought. For the first time, he wondered if Galina was right. He remembered Oleg’s empty hands, dismissive tone, and how uncomfortable he always felt at his critiques. “And the cake?” he asked. “Are we eating it?” Galina smiled – for the first time that evening. “We are. And I’ll make your favourite tea with thyme.” She cut the Napoleon cake into hefty slices. They sat together, eating cake, sipping tea. The tension eased. “You know,” Victor said, polishing off a second slice, “he didn’t get Mum anything for her birthday last month. Said he was the best present.” “See?” Galina nodded. “You’re finally waking up.” Victor’s phone pinged. A message from Oleg: “Should’ve at least sent a couple sandwiches – I left hungry. Put £100 in my account for the emotional damage.” Victor read it out. Pause. Galina arched an eyebrow. “And what will you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their cosy kitchen, the scrumptious cake, then at his phone. Carefully, he typed: “Go eat at a restaurant, you’re the foodie. No spare cash.” Then hit “Block”. “What did you write?” Galina asked. “I said we’re off to bed.” Galina pretended to believe him, though she saw the screen. She squeezed his shoulder in a gentle hug. “You’ve got there, Victor. Even if it took you a while.” That evening, they realised something important about each other. Sometimes, keeping the family together means letting others out. Even if those others share your blood. And the roast, regardless of any self-proclaimed “food critic’s” opinion, was simply divine.

Yesterday

Where are you putting that salad bowl? Its blocking the cold meats! And move those wine glasses, would you, Oliver likes space for his handshell be windmilling about in a minute, you know!

Victor was darting around the dining table, rearranging the crystal, narrowly avoiding launching forks at the wall. Grace sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. Shed been stuck at the hob since first light, her feet ached like shed run a marathon, and her back reminded her it existed just below the shoulder blades. Complaining wasnt an option, though. Today marked the return of the familys star guesther husbands younger brother, Oliver.

Victor, do calm down, she said, keeping her tone as neutral as possible. The tables an absolute picture. More importantlydid you remember brown bread? Last time Oliver moaned we only had sliced white, and hes terribly concerned about his waistline, apparently.

Got it, got itseeded wholemeal, just as he likes, Victor dashed to the breadbin. Grace, the beefdid it come out alright? You know how he getsMr. Restaurant Reviewer himself, cant possibly be impressed by a plain cottage pie.

Grace pressed her lips together. Of course she knew. Oliver, a forty-year-old bachelor who fancied himself a creative type (in reality, floating from one odd job to another, buoyed up by their mothers generosity), believed he was a culinary legend. Every visit became a MasterChef challenge she was destined to lose.

Ive roasted the beef in a honey-mustard glaze, she recited crisply. Prime cut, from the market, twenty-six quid for the joint. If thats not good enough, Ill wash my hands of the whole business.

No need to get worked up, Victor winced. Hes half a year overdue! He just wants a bit of family togetherness. Do make the effort, would you? Hes going through a rough patchfinding himself and all that.

Finding a top-up for his bank account, you mean, Grace thought, but kept that to herself. Victor practically worshipped his little brother, considered him a misunderstood genius, and took personal offence at the slightest criticism.

The doorbell rang at exactly seven. Grace peeled off her apron, tweaked her hair in the hallway mirror, and plastered on her hostess smile. Victor was already at the door, radiant as a freshly-polished footman.

Oliver! At last!

Oliver did cut a dashfashionable coat flung wide, scarf tossed around his neck like a Parisian, designer stubble aiming at ruggedness. He flung his arms wide, allowing Victor to absorb him in a bear hug, though his own enthusiasm didnt go much further than a few friendly pats.

Graces eyes drifted to his handsempty. No bottle of wine, no cake box, not even a feeble bunch of flowers. Hed come to a house he hadnt graced for six months, to a table groaning under the effort, and hadnt brought a thing. Not a chocolate bar for the kidswho, mercifully, were at Nanaslet alone anything for the hosts.

All right, Grace, he nodded, wandering in and not bothering to slip off his shoes, but instead evaluating the hallway. Got new wallpaper? Bit… hospital, isnt it? Still, if it cheers you up.

Hello, Oliver, she replied with remarkable restraint. Go on, wash your hands. Therenew slippers.

Havent brought my own, Oliver waved her off. Not risking fungal infections with someone elses. Ill just go in socks, shall I? Floors arent too grubby, are they?

Grace felt the rage simmering inside her. Shed scrubbed the floors twice in anticipation of his arrival.

Of course theyre clean, Oliver. Come through.

They settled in the lounge. The table truly was resplendent: the good cloth, posh napkins, three types of salad, a cheese platter and meats, red caviar, homemade pickles from last autumnGraces prideand a steaming roast at the centre.

Oliver slouched in his chair, surveying the scene like a judge at a parish fair. Victor fussed, uncorking the cognacspecial reserve, five years aged, bought yesterday for Olivers sole benefit.

Well then, to family! Victor declared, pouring generous snifters.

Oliver swirled his glass, squinting at the colour, sniffed extravagantly.

Armenian? He grimaced. Oh well. Im more of a French brandy chap myselfproper bouquet, this ones a bit nail-varnish, but, whats the sayingbeggars cant be choosers.

He knocked it back in a gulp and at once attacked the cold meats, selecting the finest cut with the finesse of a crow at a diamond shop.

Help yourself, Oliver, Grace offered, nudging the salad bowl towards him. New recipeking prawn and avocado.

Oliver speared a prawn, regarded it like a suspicious pearl.

Frozen, werent they? he pronounced.

Obviouslywere not courting the sea here, Grace replied, bemused. From Sainsburys, king size.

Rubber, he delivered the verdict, dropping the prawn forlornly back into the salad. Overcooked. You want boiling watertwo minutes, not a second more. And that avocadostill crunching. Underripe.

Victor froze, mid-salad scooping, his spoon poised awkwardly.

Come on, Oliver, its lovely! I had a taste earlierspot on!

Victor, thats the pointtaste needs educating, Oliver intoned. If you spend your life eating substitutes, you lose all sense of true cuisine. Just last week, I was at this restaurant launchscallop ceviche. Superb texture! This, though… Is the mayonnaise homemade, at least?

Grace felt her cheeks flush. It was store-bought, Classic British, and she hadnt the patience to be whisking oil and eggs late at night.

From Tescos, she replied, monotone.

I see, Oliver sighed, like hed just heard he had six weeks to live. Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Poison, basically. Lets see this beefhopefully you didnt wreck it.

Grace silently slid a generous helping onto his plate, doused with sauce and roast potatoes. It smelled divineto any normal person. But Oliver was anything but normal; he was a connoisseur.

He chewed a slice, staring at the ceiling in deep deliberation. Grace and Victor sat muteVictor in hope, Grace in mounting fury.

Dry, Oliver announced at last. The saucehoney overwhelms it. Far too sweet. Beef should taste of beef, Grace. Youve turned it into a pudding. And I can tell you rushed the marinade. Needs twenty-four hours in kiwi or sparkling water at least.

I let it sit overnightin spices and mustard, Grace managed. People usually love it.

Well, ‘people’ is vague. Your office mates might enjoynever tasted anything better than steamed carrots, have they? Im telling you objectively: edible if youre desperate, but not properly enjoyable.

He pushed the plate away, the expensive beef almost untouched, and reached for the pickled mushrooms.

Mushrooms English, I hope? Not tinned from China, are they?

Picked ourselves, Grace hissed. Salted ourselves.

Oliver popped one in his mouth, winced.

Far too much vinegar. Youll burn out my stomach. And as for the saltover the top. Whats up, Grace, an unrequited crush, are you? Salty soup means heartbreak! He chuckled at his own wit. Victor, mind your blood pressure with this dietyoull keel over one of these days.

Victor tittered nervously, hoping to lighten the mood.

Dont be daft! Cracking mushrooms. Could do with a shot of vodka, eh? Pour us another.

By now, Olivers face was flushed, the scarf had been loosened, and he kept his coat on, as if to suggest he was only here under sufferance.

And no decent caviar? he grumbled, poking at a sandwich. Cheap stufftiny grains, skin everywhere. On special, was it?

Oliver, its salmon caviar£52 a kilo, Grace snapped, her voice wavering. We bought a jar just for younever buy it for ourselves. Its a luxury.

Saving money on food, thats the root of all evil, Oliver pronounced. You are what you eat. Id rather skip breakfast than buy cheap sausage. Not like youfilling the fridge with any old rubbish on BOGOFS, then wondering why youre sluggish, why your complexions grey.

Grace glanced at Victor, who had his eyes glued to his plate, gnawing his beef as if nothing at all was wrong. His silence was more hurtful than Olivers every snide remark. He was the classic ostrich, head buried firmly in sand to keep the peace with his beloved little brother.

Victor, Grace addressed him. Is the beef dry for you too?

Victor choked.

Um… not at all, Gracie. Itsdelicious, really. Oliver just has a more… refined palette, you see…

Oh, refined, Grace set down her fork. The metal resounded against the china like a starter pistol. So my palettes thick and coarse. And my hands are sausage-fingered. And I serve toxic waste.

Oh, stop the melodrama, Oliver moaned. Im giving constructive criticism to help you grow. You should be grateful. Getting complacent because Victor wolfs down anything and sings your praises. Women should strive for improvement, you know.

Grateful? You want me to say thank you?

She stood. Her chair squealed in protest as it slid back.

Grace, wait! Victor panicked. We havent finished yet!

Ill be right back, she replied, voice oddly detached. Ill fetch dessert. Oliver loves pudding.

She retreated to the kitchen. There, on the counter, sat her homemade Napoleona twelve-layer wonder shed finished at 2 AM, custard from scratch, real vanilla. She eyed it, then glanced at the empty bin.

Her hands shook. All those years worth of resentment erupted over the rim. How many times had this man shown up, eaten his fill, borrowed money and never paid it back? How many times had he picked holes in the décor, the clothes, the children? And Victoralways silent. Always excusing. Hes creative, hes sensitive. And she, Grace, must be unbreakable?

She left the cake, grabbed a large tray, and marched back to the lounge.

Ooh, dessert? Oliver perked up, craning his neck. Not another Swiss roll from Lidl, I hope?

Grace swept up the plates with perfect calm. Meat dishgone. Rubber prawn saladgone. Plattergone.

Whats all this? Oliver spluttered as his sandwich vanished. I havent finished!

Why would you want it? Grace asked, looking him in the eye. Its clearly unfit for consumption. Dry beef, poisonous mayonnaise, rubber seafood, inferior caviar. Youre a precious guestI really couldnt let you risk it. Id never forgive myself.

Victor leapt up, scandalised.

Grace! Stop! What on earth are you playing at? Put it back, now!

No, Victor, it isnt some circus act. A circus is when someone marches into your home, empty-handed, sits at a table costing a quarter of your monthly salary, and proceeds to slag off the hostess.

I didnt slag off! Oliver retorted, his face blotchy with indignation. I was just being honest! Britains a free country!

Free indeed, Grace said, stacking plate upon plate. Which means I am free to choose who I serve in my home. You said youd rather starve than eat subpar food. I respect that. Go hungry.

She turned and whisked the heap off to the kitchen. The lounge was left in total, resonant silence.

Whats got into you? Victor hissed, chasing after her. Youre embarrassing me in front of my brother! Bring the food back, apologise!

Grace set the tray on the countertop and faced him. No tears, just cold resolution.

Im embarrassing? And what about when you sat nodding while he insulted me? Didnt you feel embarrassed then? Are you a man or a doormat, Victor? He scoffed fifty quids worth of caviar in five minutes and called it rubbish. Did you ever buy me caviarjust because? No. Always the best for the guests, who then wipe their feet on us.

Hes my brother! Blood!

And Im your wife! Ive cooked, scrubbed, washed for you for ten years. Yesterday, after a double shift, I was slaving away at the stove til midnight. For what? To be told my hands are fit only for the bin? If you dont stop blaming me right now, Ill crown you with that Napoleon cake. I really will.

Victor recoiled. Hed never seen her like this. Grace had always been accommodating, easy-going, practically designed for harmony. Now, she looked set to tear through the house.

Oliver appeared in the doorway, his bravado noticeably wilted.

WellI must say, never seen such hospitality. Came here with my heart wide open, and youre holding bread rations over my head!

Heart wide open? Grace snorted. Funny way of showing itempty hands and all. In twenty years, have you ever bought us anything? A box of tea? You turn up just to eat and critique.

Im broke! Temporary difficulties!

Temporary difficulties spanning two decades. Yet new coat, expensive scarf, and endless restaurant launches. You ask Victor for money each payday, never return a penny, and consider that sacred.

Grace, shut up! Victor shouted. Dont tally up other peoples savings!

Theyre not other peoples. Theyre ours! Our familys moneypinched from ourselves, from our kids, all to feed this… gourmet!

Oliver clutched at his chest like a Shakespearean heroine.

Thats enough! I wont spend another second in this house. Victor, I never thought youd end up married to such a commoner. You wont see me here again.

He spun on his heel and tottered to the hallway. Victor raced after him.

Oliver, wait! Ignore hershes only hormonal, or frazzled from work! Shell calm down in a sec!

No, brother, Olivers voice quivered with drama, already sliding his trainers on over his socks, These wounds wont heal. Dont call me until she apologises.

The door banged shut.

Victor stood dumbstruck, staring at the closed door as if paradise itself had just been barred. Then slowly, defeated, he drifted back to the kitchen, where Grace was briskly boxing up the beef.

Well, are you pleased? he muttered. You’ve turned me against my one and only brother.

Ive rid us of a freeloader, Grace replied, back turned. So, are you eating, or is my beef too dry for you too?

Victor sat at the table, clutching his head.

How could you? He was our guest

A guest ought to behave as one, not as the Department of Health. Victor, listen carefully. Ill neverneverlay on a spread for him again. You want brotherly bonding, do it elsewhere. At a café. On your own tab. My time, my wallettheyre off limits.

Youre so harsh, he mumbled.

Im just fair. Eat, please. Or shall I clear away?

Victor stared at the roast beef. His stomach growled, betraying him. Hunger overrode the scandals embers as the smell wafted over. He gingerly took a fork, sliced a piece, tasted.

The beef was meltingly tender. The saucesweet, zingy, perfect. It was glorious.

Well? Grace asked, catching the bliss in his face.

Delicious, he confessed softly. Truly delicious, Grace.

Thats good. Your brothers just a jealous washout who boosts himself by running others down. You should realise that by now.

Victor chewed and pondered. For the first time, a little voice in his head suggested his wife might be spot on. He recalled Olivers empty hands, his sneering tones, remembered the uneasy knot in his own stomach while Oliver sneered at the food.

What about pudding? he blurted. Can we have the cake?

Grace smiledgenuinely, for once.

Of course. Ill brew some tea, with thymeyour favourite.

She presented the majestic Napoleon, cut hefty slices, poured steaming mugs. They sat together in the quiet kitchen, the tension easing with every bite and sip.

You know, Victor said, polishing off a second piece, he didnt even get Mum a birthday present last month. Said his presence was the best gift.

There you go, Grace nodded. Your eyes are opening.

Victors phone pinged. A text from Oliver: *Couldve slipped me a sandwich for the roadleft starving. And transfer me a hundred for emotional distress.*

Victor read it aloud. The silence thickened. Grace raised a single brow.

And what are you going to reply?

Victor glanced from his wife, to the warm kitchen, the sublime cake, then at his phone. He typed, slowly and deliberately: *Go dine at a restaurantMr. Gourmet. Were skint.* Then pressed Block.

What did you write? asked Grace.

Just said were turning in for the night.

Grace humoured him, though shed clearly spotted the screen. She reached over and hugged him from behind.

You took your time, Victor, but you got there.

That evening, they learned something vital about one another. Sometimes, to keep your own household together, you have to turf someone outeven a family member. And the beef, whatever certain experts claimed, was absolutely superb.