Yesterday — Where are you putting that salad bowl? You’re blocking the cold cuts! And move the glasses, will you? Ollie’s coming soon, and you know he likes plenty of space to wave his hands about when he talks. Victor fussed around with the crystal dishes on the table, nearly knocking over the forks. Gail sighed heavily, wiping her hands on her apron. She’d been at the stove since morning; her legs ached like she’d run a marathon, her lower back throbbed in its familiar spot. But there was no time to complain. Tonight the “star guest” was coming — her husband’s younger brother, Ollie. “Vic, take it easy,” she said, trying to keep her voice steady. “The table looks perfect. Did you buy wholemeal bread? Ollie moaned last time that we only had white, and you know, he’s ‘watching his figure.’” “Got it, got it, rye, with caraway, just like he likes,” Victor darted to the bread bin. “Gail, is the roast done? You know he’s a foodie — eats out all the time, won’t be impressed with a meatloaf.” Gail pursed her lips. She knew, of course. Ollie — forty, single, calls himself a ‘free spirit’ but mostly gets by on odd jobs and handouts from his elderly mum — considered himself a world-class gourmet. Each visit became an ordeal for Gail, an exam she was doomed to fail. “I made honey-mustard roast pork,” she said crisply. “Fresh meat, straight from the market, seven hundred quid a kilo. If that isn’t good enough, I wash my hands of the whole business.” “Must you always start like that?” her husband winced. “He hasn’t visited in six months. He wants a proper family dinner. Just do your best, all right? He’s having a rough patch — trying to find himself, you know.” “Finding money, not himself,” Gail thought, but said nothing. Victor worshipped his younger brother, saw him as an unappreciated genius and bristled at any criticism. The doorbell rang at seven sharp. Gail hurriedly shed her apron, fixed her hair, and plastered on her best hostess smile. Victor already had the door open, beaming like a polished brass kettle. “Ollie! Mate! Finally!” Ollie stood on the threshold, dressed to impress: trendy coat left open, a casual scarf flung over one shoulder, designer stubble that was presumably meant to be rugged. He spread his arms for Victor’s hug but only patted his brother’s back in return. Gail scanned his hands, searching for anything — a bag, cake box, even the smallest bunch of flowers. Nothing. After half a year away, to a table groaning with food, he’d arrived as empty-handed as ever. Not even a chocolate bar for the kids (thankfully at their Nan’s tonight). “Hey Gail,” he nodded, strolling through the hallway, not taking his shoes off right away, instead eyeing the décor. “Wallpaper’s new? Bit institutional, isn’t it? Well, as long as you guys like it.” “Hello, Ollie,” she replied, controlled. “Wash your hands, new slippers over there.” “Didn’t bring mine, and don’t fancy catching athlete’s foot from borrowed ones,” he waved her away. “I’ll keep my socks on. Floor’s clean, I hope?” Gail felt her irritation bubbling. She’d mopped twice in anticipation of his visit. “Spotless, Ollie. Come through, dinner’s ready.” They settled in the dining room. The table was festive: white linen, fancy napkins, three salads, a platter of meats and cheeses, red caviar, homemade pickled mushrooms. In the centre: the steaming roast. Ollie sprawled leisurely against his chair, surveying the spread. Victor was busy uncorking a bottle of Cognac — five-year aged, pricey, bought specially for tonight. “To family!” Victor proclaimed, pouring out glasses. Ollie lifted his, held it to the light, sniffed it, then frowned. “Armenian? Pity. I’m more of a French brandy man — more subtle bouquet. This one’s got too much spirit. Still, beggars can’t be choosers…” He threw it back in one go and reached for the cold cuts. Gail noticed he snapped up the priciest piece of cured ham. “Help yourself, Ollie,” she said, nudging over the salad bowl. “That’s prawn and avocado, new recipe.” He speared a prawn, held it up like a jeweller examining a diamond. “Were these frozen?” he asked knowingly. “Well of course, we’re hardly on the coast!” Gail said, surprised. “Bought the best at the supermarket.” “Rubbery,” Ollie declared, dropping it back into the salad. “Boiled too long. Should be two minutes, tops. And the avocado — not ripe. Crunchy.” Victor, halfway through spooning some salad, paused mid-air. “Come off it, Ollie, it’s delicious! I tried it earlier.” “Vic, mate, taste is an education,” said his brother, patronising. “If you eat substitutes all your life, you’ll never understand real cuisine. Last week I was at a restaurant opening, had scallop ceviche — now that’s texture. And this… at least the mayo’s homemade?” Gail felt her cheeks flame. The mayonnaise was shop-bought. She hadn’t had time to whisk her own. “Store brand,” she replied curtly. “Hmm,” Ollie sighed, as if she’d revealed a dire diagnosis. “Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Poison. Never mind — let’s try your roast. I hope that survived?” Gail silently served him a generous helping, topped with sauce and roasted potatoes. The aroma was mouth-watering. But Ollie was a “connoisseur.” He chewed a piece, gazing theatrically at the ceiling. The two hosts waited, Victor hopeful, Gail simmering. “Dry,” Ollie pronounced finally. “And the sauce — honey overpowers it. Far too sweet. Meat should taste like meat, Gail, not pudding. Plus, marinade’s too short, fibres are tough. Should marinade in kiwi or sparkling water for at least a day.” “I left it overnight — spices and mustard,” she said softly. “People usually love it.” “Well, ‘people’ is a loose term. Maybe your work friends like it — they’ve never had anything finer. I’m being objective here. You could eat it in a pinch, but it’s hardly a treat.” He pushed his plate aside, nearly untouched, and grabbed the mushrooms. “At least these are homemade? Or from a tin?” “Homemade,” Gail said coldly. “Picked and preserved ourselves.” Ollie chewed, winced. “Way too much vinegar. Will burn your stomach out. And too salty. Gail, you must be in love, salting like that!” He laughed at his own joke. “Vic, watch your blood pressure with this diet!” Victor laughed nervously, trying to defuse the tension. “They’re fine, brother! Great with vodka. Pour another round, eh?” They drank. Ollie flushed, loosened his scarf, but kept his coat on — a signal he wasn’t planning to stay, gracing them with his presence as a favour. “Couldn’t find proper caviar then?” he poked a sandwich. “This one’s all skin and bones. On offer down the supermarket?” “Ollie, it’s keta caviar, six grand a kilo,” Gail snapped. Her voice shook. “Bought it specially for you. We never eat it ourselves, it’s a treat.” “Scrimping on food is never smart,” Ollie noted philosophically, popping the “bad” caviar into his mouth. “You are what you eat. I’d rather go hungry than buy cheap sausage. You lot fill the fridge with junk from the bargain aisle, then wonder why you’re tired, why you look grey.” Gail looked at Victor, who sat eyes-down, chewing his roast, pretending nothing was wrong. His silence stung more than Ollie’s words. Playing ostrich, letting his “dear brother” trample Gail. “Vic,” she asked, “do you find the meat dry?” He coughed. “N-no, Gail, it’s great. Really lovely. Ollie, he knows his stuff, sharper taste than mine…” “Ah, sharper taste,” Gail set down her fork with a metallic clank, loud as a gunshot. “So mine’s blunt and clumsy. My hands are useless, my food is poison?” “Gail, don’t start with the drama,” Ollie grimaced. “I’m giving constructive feedback. So you can grow, develop yourself. You should thank me. Vic just eats anything and praises it, you get lazy. A woman must strive for perfection.” “Thank you?” Gail repeated. “You expect me to say thank you?” She rose. The chair scraped across the floor. “Gail, where are you going?” Victor asked, alarmed. “We haven’t had dessert…” “I’ll bring dessert,” she said, oddly calm. “Ollie likes sweets.” She went to the kitchen. On the counter stood her ‘Victoria Sponge’, baked last night till the small hours — twelve fine layers, homemade custard, vanilla… She stared at her masterpiece, then at the empty bin. Her hands shook. Years of bottled-up resentment finally overflowed. How many times had this man visited, eaten, borrowed money, and never returned a penny? How many times had he slammed her cooking, her décor, her clothes, even her children? And Victor always silent. Always defending, “He’s creative, sensitive.” As if Gail was made of iron. She left the cake alone. She picked up a tray and returned to the dining room. “Is that dessert?” Ollie perked up. “Not a supermarket Swiss roll, I hope?” Gail started calmly clearing plates. First the roast. Then the “rubbery” salad. Then the cold cuts. “Oi, what’re you doing?” Ollie protested as she took his sandwich plate. “I haven’t finished!” “Why eat it?” Gail asked, looking him dead in the eye. “It’s all inedible, according to you. Dry meat, toxic mayo, rubbery prawns, cheap caviar. I can’t let our precious guest poison himself. Wouldn’t wish it on an enemy.” Victor leapt up. “Gail! Stop it! What’s this performance? Put it back!” “No, Vic, the real circus is when a man comes to dinner empty-handed, sits at a table costing a chunk of your salary, and trashes the hostess.” “I was only honest!” Ollie barked, face blotchy. “Freedom of speech, innit!” “Freedom,” Gail nodded, stacking more plates. “Which means I decide who eats in my home. You said you’d rather go hungry than eat poor food? I respect your choice. Go hungry.” She carried the heap back to the kitchen. Silence hung. “You’ve lost it!” Victor hissed, barging in behind her. “You’re humiliating me in front of my brother! Put the food back! Apologise!” Gail set the tray on the counter and turned to him. Her eyes were dry now, only ice-cold resolve remained. “Humiliating? And when you sat nodding while he insulted me — wasn’t that humiliating? Are you a man or a doormat? He scoffed our caviar in five minutes and said it was rubbish. And you — have you ever bought me caviar just to spoil me? No. We save the best for guests. And our guest wipes his feet on us.” “He’s my brother! Flesh and blood!” “And I’m your wife! Ten years cooking and cleaning for you. Last night I stayed up half the night sweating over dinner. For what? To be told I’m useless? If you don’t shut up this instant, I’ll crown you with the Victoria Sponge. Don’t tempt me, Vic.” He recoiled. He’d never seen her like this before. Gail was always soft, giving, “the good sport.” Now she was ferocious, ready to tear down everything in her path. Ollie peeked in, looking less cocky, more confused and wounded. “Well this is a first…” he drawled. “Never seen such hospitality. Came here with my heart open, and all I get is scolded about bread?” “With your heart open?” Gail scoffed. “Show me where. Empty-handed, again. In all these years, have you ever brought us anything? A box of tea, even? You come to mooch and to criticise.” “I… I’m broke! Just a rough patch!” “Your ‘rough patch’ has lasted twenty years. New coat, pricey scarf, restaurant launches… but a fiver from your brother, never paid back, that’s tradition.” “Gail, stop!” Victor shouted. “Don’t count other people’s money!” “It isn’t other people’s money — it’s ours! Our family’s budget, wasted feeding this… gourmet!” Ollie clasped his chest theatrically. “That’s enough. I won’t spend another minute here. Vic, I didn’t think you’d wind up with such a shrew. I’ll never set foot in this house again.” He stormed out to the hallway. Victor dashed after him. “Ollie, mate, wait up! Ignore her, she’s hormonal or knackered from work! She’ll calm down!” “No, mate,” Ollie’s voice was tragic as he pulled on shoes over his socks. “This insult — there’s no going back. Don’t ring me unless she apologises.” The door slammed. Victor stood in the foyer, staring at the closed door as if heaven itself had been barred to him. Then he turned slowly and trudged to the kitchen, where Gail was calmly boxing up the roast. “Happy now?” he asked hollowly. “You’ve split me from my only brother.” “I’ve spared us a freeloader,” she replied, not turning. “Sit down, eat. The pork’s still warm. Or is it too dry for you as well?” Victor slumped at the table, cradling his head. “How could you? He’s still a guest…” “A guest behaves like a guest, not a health inspector. Listen carefully: I will never, ever again cook for him. If you want to see him — go to his place. Or to a restaurant, on your own dime. My time and money aren’t wasted on him anymore.” “You’ve become so harsh,” he muttered. “I’ve become fair. Now eat. Or shall I clear away?” Victor eyed the roast. His stomach grumbled loudly. He was starving, and the aroma — despite the row — was irresistible. He hesitantly took up his fork, sliced off a piece, tasted. It was perfectly tender, melting in the mouth. The sauce had a subtle sweetness, mustard a spicy kick. Magnificent. “So?” Gail asked, catching his blissful expression. “It’s delicious,” he admitted quietly. “Really delicious, Gail.” “That’s good. Your brother is just a bitter failure who feels big by putting others down. Can’t you see?” Victor chewed, lost in thought. For the first time, it crossed his mind that Gail might be right. He remembered Ollie arriving empty-handed, his condescending tone, how awkward Victor felt during the barrage of criticism. “The cake?” he ventured. “Shall we have cake?” Gail smiled — for the first time all evening, genuinely. “Let’s. I’ll make some tea. With thyme, just as you like.” She fetched the ‘Victoria Sponge’, glorious and imposing. Sliced it generously. They sat in the kitchen together, drinking tea, eating cake, and the tension gradually ebbed away. “You know,” Victor said, finishing his second helping, “he didn’t give Mum a present for her birthday last month. Said the best gift was ‘himself.’” “There you go,” Gail nodded. “You’re waking up.” Victor’s phone buzzed. A message from Ollie: *“Could’ve packed me some sarnies — left absolutely starving tbh. Send us a fifty for emotional distress, yeah?”* Victor read it aloud. Pause. Gail raised an eyebrow. “So, what’ll you reply?” Victor looked at his wife, their warm kitchen, the heavenly cake. Then at his phone. He typed: *“Treat yourself at a restaurant — you’re the connoisseur. We’re skint.”* And hit block. “What did you say?” Gail asked. “Said we’re off to bed.” She pretended to believe him, though she’d glimpsed the screen. She walked over and hugged him from behind. “Well done, Vic. Took a while, but you got there.” That evening, they learned something crucial about each other: sometimes, saving a marriage means kicking people out — even if they’re family. And the roast really was exquisite, whatever the “experts” with empty wallets claimed.

Yesterday

Honestly, where are you putting that salad bowl? Youre blocking the sausage rolls! And could you shift the wine glasses? Simon likes a bit of elbow room for his dramatic hand gestures, you know.

Victor bustled about the dining table, practically juggling the crystal, barely missing the cutlery with each twitch. Helen exhaled heavily, rubbing her hands on her apron. Shed been by the stove since morning; her feet throbbed as if filled with lead, and her back made a point of nagging, precisely in its favourite spot below the shoulder blades. No time to complain, though todays guest star was Simon, Victors younger brother.

Victor, calm yourself, Helen said, keeping her tone annoyingly reasonable. The table looks perfect. Tell me, did you manage to buy the wholemeal bread? Simon moaned last time about us only having white, said hes watching his figure.

I bought it, Helen, promise. Granary, with seeds and everything, just as he likes, Victor dashed to the bread bin. What about the meat? Did you get it right? You know he fancies himself a food connoisseur, restaurants second home, cant impress him with plain meatballs.

Helen pressed her lips together. Of course she knew. Simon 40, proudly single, self-identified creative spirit who mostly survived on random gigs and handouts from their mum fancied himself some sort of grand gourmet. Every visit turned Helens kitchen into a stage for an exam she was always destined to fail.

Ive roasted pork loin in a honey-mustard glaze, she recited briskly. Butchers best, cost me almost £18 a kilo. If hes not happy with that, I wash my hands of it.

No need to go off straight away, Victor winced. My brother hasnt been round in half a year. He wants a nice family get-together. Just give it your best, alright? Hes going through a tricky phase, finding himself.

Finding another tenner more like, Helen thought, but kept it to herself. Victor idolised his brother, completely sold on the unrecognised genius story, took offence at even a slightly raised eyebrow in Simons direction.

The doorbell rang sharply at seven. Helen peeled off her apron, straightened her hair in the hallway mirror and pulled on her best impression of a welcoming smile. Victor flung open the door, beaming with anticipation.

Simon! Mate! Finally!

Simon stood at the threshold, admittedly making an entrance: trendy coat flapping, scarf tossed over one shoulder, a bit of stubble intended to add rugged flair. He swept his arms wide for a hug, letting Victor squeeze him, but Simons idea of reciprocation was a half-hearted pat on the back.

Helens gaze flickered to his hands. Empty. No bag, no sad box of supermarket cake, not even a sorry daffodil. Visiting after half a year, sitting down to a table laden with everything, and not a single gesture of thanks. Even the children, luckily off at Nanas, hadnt scored so much as a fun-size Mars bar.

Evening, Helen, Simon nodded, striding into the house, not bothering with his shoes, surveying the new hallway wallpaper. Changed the wallpaper? That colour is, well a bit doctors waiting room, isnt it? Anyway, as long as you like it.

Evening, Simon, she replied, holding her politest monotone. Go on, wash your hands. Got new slippers for you.

Didnt bring my own, though you never know what fungus youll catch in borrowed ones, the guest waved it off. Ill stay in socks. The floors clean, I presume?

Helen felt a bubble of irritation rise. Shed scrubbed the floors twice especially for him.

Pristine, Simon. Off you go to the table.

They gathered in the lounge. The table screamed special occasion crisp white cloth, posh napkins, three salads, charcuterie, cheese, red caviar, pickled mushrooms Helen herself jarred in autumn. Hot food steamed at the centre.

Simon flopped into his seat and surveyed the spread like a contestant on Come Dine With Me. Victor fumbled enthusiastically with the bottle of brandy, a pricy five-year-old, bought specially for Simon.

Heres to us! Victor toasted, pouring the drinks.

Simon took his glass, spun it, squinted against the light, took a sniff.

Armenian? he wrinkled his nose. Hmmm. Really, I prefer French, the bouquets more subtle. This tastes just of pure spirit. But, well, never look a gift horse in the mouth

He knocked it back, ignoring the taste, and immediately reached for the most expensive slice of ham.

Tuck in, Simon, Helen said, offering the salad bowl. Prawn and avocado salad, new recipe.

Simon stabbed a prawn with his fork and studied it, as though evaluating a diamond.

These prawns frozen? he declared.

Of course. Were not exactly living on the coast, are we? Bought them at Waitrose, king prawns.

Textures off rubbery, Simon plopped the prawn back in disdain. Helen, you boiled them to death. Two minutes in boiling water, thats all prawns need. Now theyre tough. And that avocados not ripe, you know crunches.

Victor, midway through spooning salad on his plate, froze.

Its fine, Simon! Tastes good to me, honestly.

Vic, you have to cultivate your palate, Simon announced sagely. If you eat nothing but substitutes all your life, youll never understand real gastronomy. Last week, I was at a restaurant opening, had scallop ceviche. Now that is texture. This Well, at least the mayos homemade?

Helens cheeks tinged pink. The mayo came from TESCO she hadnt the time to whisk eggs with oil by hand.

Store bought, she replied blankly.

Thought so, Simon exhaled deeply, as though handed terminal news. Vinegar, preservatives, starch. Pure poison, really. Well, bring on your meat. Hopefully you managed not to ruin it.

Helen silently served him a generous slice of pork loin, ladled the sauce, and added her roast potatoes with rosemary. The aroma alone would make any normal person drool, but this was Simon gourmet in chief.

He took a bite, chewed pointedly, eyes on the ceiling. Victor and Helen sat in breathless silence, awaiting judgement. Victor looked on in hope, Helen in mounting fury.

Dry, Simon decreed at last. And that glaze honey overwhelms everything. Far too sweet. Meat should taste of meat, Helen, not pudding. And your marinade was rushed fibres havent broken down. Should go for a kiwi or sparkling water soak, twenty-four hours minimum.

I marinaded it overnight in spices and mustard, Helen replied quietly. Everyone else loves it.

Everyone else is relative, Simon sniffed. Maybe your work friends enjoy it, the ones who think carrot sticks are gourmet. Im being objective. It passes in a crisis not exactly enjoyable, though.

He pushed away a nearly untouched chunk of £8 meat and grabbed at the mushrooms.

These at least yours, not out of some Chinese jar?

Ours. We picked, we pickled, Helen forced out through gritted teeth.

Simon popped one in his mouth and grimaced.

Heavy on the vinegar. Thatll burn your gut. And way too salty. You over-salt when youre in love, Helen? he chuckled, loving his own joke. Vic, watch your blood pressure with this diet, wont last.

Victor giggled anxiously, desperate to keep things smooth.

Cheer up, bro, normal mushrooms. Brilliant with vodka, go on, I’ll pour another.

They drank. Simons cheeks flushed, scarf loosened, coat remained firmly on making it clear he might bolt at any moment, gracing them with only his brief presence.

No decent caviar available? Simon picked at a sandwich. This looks cheap, all skin, bought on offer?

Thats keta caviar, cost £130 a kilo, Helen snapped, voice wobbly. Bought just for you, one little jar. We never buy it for ourselves; we save up.

Skimping on foods a false economy, Simon mused, mouth full of the bad caviar. You are what you eat. Id rather go hungry than buy cheap sausage. You two fill the fridge with rubbish from bargain bins, then wonder why youre tired, why your skins grey.

Helen glanced at Victor, who stared into his plate and ate the meat energetically, pretending nothing was happening. His silence cut deeper than Simons snark. The ostrich act again: head buried in the sand, just to avoid upsetting dear little brother.

Victor, Helen addressed him suddenly, do you find the meat dry too?

Victor nearly choked.

Um No, Helen, its lovely. Very tasty. Only, Simons got a finer taste, much more refined

Oh, refined, Helen set down her fork. The clang on porcelain sounded like a pistol shot. So my taste is coarse, is it? My hands clumsy? I cook poison, apparently?

Helen, dont start getting emotional, Simon grimaced. Constructive criticism, thats all. For your growth! Should be thanking me, not coasting on Vics constant praise. Woman should strive to improve herself.

Thank you? Helen raised an eyebrow. You expect a thank you?

She stood up. The chair screeched.

Helen, where are you going? Victor squeaked. Weve barely started!

Back in a minute, she replied, voice strange. Ill fetch dessert. Simon, you love a pud.

She marched to the kitchen. On the counter sat her pièce de résistance a homemade Napoleon, layered to perfection last night. Twelve wafer-thin pastry sheets, lusciously thick custard She eyed the cake, then the empty bin.

Her hands were shaking. Years of pent-up frustration welled over, drowning reason. How many times had Simon dropped by, gobbled up their food, borrowed money never to be returned, criticised the home, her fashion choices, her children, while Victor always took his side? Hes creative, hes sensitive. So she, Helen, just steel?

She didnt touch the cake. Instead, she picked up a big tray and headed back to the dining room.

Dessert at last? Simon perked up, stretching his neck. Not store-bought, I hope?

Helen calmly, systematically began clearing the plates. First the dry pork. Next, the salad with rubbery prawns. Then the sausage rolls and sandwiches.

What are you doing? Simon stuttered as his sandwich was whisked away. I havent finished!

Why on earth would you eat that? Helen replied, staring him down. Youve branded it all inedible. The meats dry, mayos poisonous, prawns are rubber, caviars rubbish. I wont risk poisoning a dear guest like you. Im not your enemy.

Victor sprang from his seat.

Helen! Stop it! What are you playing at? Put everything back!

No, Victor. Playing is when someone turns up empty-handed, sits at our table paid for by a chunk of your salary and spends the evening slating the hostess.

I didnt slate you! Simon argued, face blotching crimson. I was expressing myself! Free country!

Exactly, Helen nodded, stacking plates. And Im free to decide whom I feed in my own house. You said youd rather starve than eat subpar food. I respect your choice. Starve you shall.

She spun round with her tower of food, heading for the kitchen, leaving ringing silence behind.

The womans lost her marbles! Victor hissed, dashing after her. Youre humiliating me in front of my own brother! Put the food back! Apologise!

Helen plonked the tray down and turned to him, steely-eyed.

Im humiliating you? What about when you sat there nodding while he dragged me through the mud? Are you a man, Victor, or a mop? He polished off £20 of caviar in five minutes and called it rubbish. Have you ever just bought me a jar, no reason? No. Always saving the best for guests, who just wipe their feet on us.

Hes my brother! My blood!

And Im your wife! Ten years washing, cooking, cleaning for you. Stayed up half the night at the stove after work, for what? To be told my hands are clumsy? If you even think about blaming me again, Ill crown you with that Napoleon. Not joking, Victor.

Victor recoiled. Hed never seen Helen like this. Shed always been gentle, accommodating, easy. Yet now, she was Medusa in an apron, full of righteous fury.

Simon peered into the kitchen, no longer the urban dandy but a thoroughly ruffled and wounded man.

Well, well he said, drawing out the words. I have to say, Ive never encountered hospitality like this. I came with an open heart, and you hit me over the head with stale bread.

Open heart? Helen chuckled. Wheres the evidence? Empty hands? In all these years, have you ever brought anything into our home? Even a box of tea? You only show up to eat and criticise.

I Im a bit strapped for cash right now! Just temporary!

Youve been temporarily broke for twenty years. Yet that coats new, scarf designer, restaurant launches for networking, but borrowing money off your brother is sacred. And forgetting to pay back doubly so.

Helen, shut up! Victor yelled. Dont count another mans money!

Its not another mans money, its ours! Family money we scrape together to feed this gourmet!

Simon clutched at his heart with all the drama of Hamlet.

Thats it! Im done. I refuse to stay in this house a second longer. Victor, never thought youd marry such a shrew. Never setting foot here again.

He whirled to the hallway. Victor dashed after him.

Simon, dont listen to her! Shes hormonal, maybe works been rough! Shell calm down!

No, mate, Simons voice reached tragic heights, as he wrenched his shoes on over his socks. This insult stains the soul. Im leaving. Dont call till she apologises.

He slammed the door.

Victor stood, staring at it as if the gates of heaven had been barred. Then, head down, he shambled to the kitchen where Helen boxed up the leftovers as if nothing had happened.

Happy now? he muttered. Youve driven my only brother off.

Ive rid us of a freeloader, Helen replied, not looking around. Sit down, eat. The porks still warm. Or is it too dry for you, too?

Victor dropped into his chair, burying his face in his hands.

How could you? He was a guest

Guests should behave like guests, not as the food police. Listen, Victor. I am never NEVER cooking a spread for him again. If you want to see Simon, go to his place. Or meet at a café. On your own dime. My time, my money, are done.

Thats cold-hearted, he mumbled.

No, its called justice. Eat. Or Ill clear the table.

Victor looked at the tempting pork. His stomach betrayed him, rumbling. Despite everything, the aroma was seductive. He grabbed his fork, hesitated, cut off a bit, sampled.

Melt-in-the-mouth. The glaze perfect, mustard with a bite and honey a subtle sweet. Frankly, it was excellent.

Well? Helen asked, catching his blissful expression.

Its delicious, he admitted, softly. Truly, Helen.

There we are, then. Your brother sour, jealous, and desperately trying to feel superior. You should realise that.

Victor chewed. For the first time, a peculiar thought crept into his head maybe his wife was right. He remembered Simons empty hands. He remembered the snide tone. He remembered how uncomfortable hed felt as Simon criticised everything.

What about the cake? he asked. Are we still having some?

Helen smiled. For the first time that evening, it was genuine.

Of course. And Ill make tea. With thyme, just how you like it.

She served up the Napoleon grand, gorgeous, and gloriously homemade. She sliced huge portions. They sat together in the kitchen, sipping tea, eating cake, and soon, all the tension began to dissolve.

You know, Victor said, finishing his second helping, he didnt even get Mum a birthday present last month. Said his presence was enough.

There you are, Helen nodded. Your eyes are opening.

Victors phone pinged. A text from Simon: Couldve at least sent me away with a couple of sandwiches. I left hungry. Fancy sending over £60 for the emotional damage?

Victor read it out. A silence hung. Helen raised an eyebrow.

Whats your reply?

Victor looked at his wife, the warm kitchen, the glorious cake. Then the phone. Carefully, he typed: Dine out, youre the gourmand. No spare cash. And hit block.

What did you text him? Helen asked.

Told him were going to bed.

Helen pretended to believe him, even catching a glimpse of the screen. Then she slipped behind him, hugging his shoulders.

Well done, Victor. Slow to change, but you get there in the end.

That evening, they realised something important. Sometimes, to save a family, somebody has to go. Even if that somebodys a blood relative. And the pork? It was, undeniably, superb regardless of what so-called connoisseurs with empty pockets might say.