My husband brought a mate home to stay for just a week, so I quietly packed my suitcase and checked into a spa hotel
Oh, come in, dont be shy, make yourself at home! boomed my husbands voice from the hallway, immediately followed by the unmistakable thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Elliell set the table in a minute perfect timing, mate!
Eleanor paused mid-baste. She wasnt expecting anyone. In fact, tonights plan was a quiet dinner in front of the telly, the only guest shed have welcomed being the blissful silence after a week of polite muttering at spreadsheets in her accountants cubicle. She slowly put the ladle down, wiped her hands on the tea towel, and peeped into the corridor.
The scene awaiting her was nothing short of a premonition of doom. Her husband, Simon, beamed with all the pride of a freshly polished kettle, helping an enormous man with a ruddy nose wriggle out of his parka. In the corner cowered a massive duffel bag, stuffed to dangerous capacity, with the zip looking positively terrified.
Oh, El! Simon spotted his wife and his grin stretched wider. Brought you a surprise. Remember Victor? You know, we were at uni together! The one who played guitar better than any of us.
Eleanor had only the faintest memory of Victor a raucous fellow at the back of the lecture hall who was always cadging fags and nicking lecture notes. That lad had long gone, replaced by this balloon of a bloke with a gleaming bald patch and the calculating gaze of a squirrel eyeing a bird feeder.
All right, maam, Victor grunted, kicking off his trainers and launching them vaguely at the shoe rack. Nice place. Loads of space.
Evening, replied Eleanor, tight-lipped, casting a look at her husband that could strip wallpaper. Simons back always itched when she looked at him like that.
Simon sidled over, put a clumsy arm around her and hissed in a whisper only just out of Victors earshot, Look, love, its a bit awkward. Vics had a disaster, chucked out by that harpy wife of his. Just out on the street, believe it! Flats hers or rather, her mums and he was never on the deeds. No cash, nowhere to go. Can he kip here for a week or so while he finds a new place or makes up with her? I couldnt leave an old mate in the lurch, you know what Im like.
Eleanor knew precisely what he was likekind to a fault, and so utterly soft in the spine that hed have offered bed and breakfast to a passing herd of sheep if theyd reminded him of schooldays.
A week? she murmured. Simon, its only a two-bed. Wheres he sleeping? Living room? Where exactly are we supposed to sit come evening?
Oh, go on, El, its just a week. Well have our tea in the kitchen. Hes a quiet bloke you wont even notice hes here.
The quiet bloke emerged from the bathroom, drying his hands on Eleanors brand-new, monogrammed guest flannel.
So, whats for nosh? Victor inquired cheerfully, eyeing the kitchen like a property developer. Nothing since breakfast; Ive been lugging all my stuff round. Nerves, you know.
Dinner could only be described as a one-man show, starring Victor as a man starved by a cruel and uncaring world. The stew vanished as if into a black hole, the sausages followed at breakneck speed. Victor commented all the while.
Decent, that stew, good and rich, he said, scraping up every last drop with a hunk of bread. Bit light on the garlic though. My ex, Sharon, used to make it so thick you could stand the spoon up in it. Yours is a bit watery, more of a clear soup, if you ask me.
Eleanor pressed her lips together and said nothing. Simon grinned nervously and piled Victors plate higher.
Eat up, mate. Ellies the best cook I know.
Not arguing, Victor waved a hand, filling a shot glass with the suspicious liquid hed brought in a lemonade bottle. Itll do for a city girl. Us working blokes are used to proper grub. He shot Simon a look, You got any beers? Sausages need a proper drink with em.
All evening the television blared at a volume fit for Sunday league finals, and Victor, sprawling on the sofa, narrated the action films to Simon, who nodded along and hurried to fetch more snacks whenever demanded. Eleanor, with nowhere left to sit, retreated to the bedroom to read, but every gunshot and cackle reached her through three solid walls.
The next morning, the nightmare continued. Eleanor entered the kitchen to find the sink groaning under a mountain of dirty plates. Breadcrumbs and ketchup dotted the tablecloth. The air reeked of stale beer and unwashed socks. Victor snored dramatically on the sofa, having conquered it entirely.
Simon, puffy-eyed and drowsy, crept out of the loo. Oh, sorry, El. We were up late, the telly was on, didnt manage to tidy. Ill do it all this evening, promise.
This evening? Eleanor looked at her watch. And what are you going to eat for breakfast? Not a clean plate in sight.
Ill just do a couple now
Eleanor sipped her coffee, gazed purposefully away from the lounge, got dressed, and left for work. All day, she nursed a growing dread about returning home. The flat shed carefully made warm and lovely had been invaded, and she wasnt sure she wanted it back.
That evening, things were, incredibly, worse. The washing up had been done, in that dishes gleamed only if you squinted. The place smelled of fried something and burned fat. Victor lounged in a vest, brazenly smoking out the open window, despite Eleanors one house rule about cigarettes.
Back, then, love? Victor grinned, blowing a plume of smoke towards the ceiling. Me and Simon just sorted some chips and bacon out for tea. Did it ourselves! Had to run to the shop for bacon Simon lent me a tenner, cards blocked, you know how it is.
Eleanor eyed the hob, which was now splattered in grease. Potato peelings adorned the floor.
Im not hungry, she said crisply. Simon, can I have a word?
In the bedroom, door closed, she hissed, Simon, what is this? Whys he smoking in the kitchen? Whys the place a tip? You said I wouldnt notice him.
Ellie, dont get worked uphes just letting off steam, bit stressed. Well clean tomorrow. Hes justnot into fussiness. Its only a week.
Is he looking for flats from the sofa? Or just scouring the beer shelves?
He called someone today, honest. Simon pleaded. Hes my mate. Friends in need, all that.
The next three days were agony. Victor, perpetually at home on unpaid leave, had a black hole for a stomach and a wardrobe policy that involved parading about in Y-fronts. He bathed for an hour, left puddles everywhere, and ate anything that wasnt nailed down.
But Friday was the last straw.
Eleanor came home early, dreaming of a hot bath and an early night. Instead, unfamiliar shoes littered the entrance: Victors, Simons, plus a pair of silver high heels and more. The sitting room was a haze of smoke. At the table sat Victor, a random man, and a flamboyant lady who looked like shed come dressed for the bingo and never made it. Simon, red as a beetroot, was slumped on a stool.
Aha! The wifes home! bellowed Victor. Simon, pour her a penalty shot! Ellie, this is Nick and Candy just having a proper Friday do.
Eleanors gaze landed on a sticky mark on her oak coffee table, then on Candy stubbing out a cigarette into her crystal bonbon dish. She looked at Simon, who stared resolutely at his feet.
She didnt shout, didnt hurl plates, didnt evict anyone with tongs. Instead, something inside flipped, and icy-cold resolution froze her anger.
Evening, all, she said evenly. Carry on without me.
She vanished into the bedroom, locked the door, and moved at military pace: dressing gown, flip-flops, swimmers, a couple of dresses, comfy slacks, toiletries, the stack of unread paperbacks. She said a silent thank you for her unused two weeks holiday (her boss had prodded her to just take some time, for heavens sake!). Even better, she had her own savings squirrelled away Simon couldnt touch a penny.
Five minutes later, laptop open, shed booked herself the Garden Suite at a swanky rural spa full board, three meals daily, the works. She paid with a smile and packed her case.
She slept that night with earplugs. The commotion outside devolved into a distant, satisfying drone.
Morning brought deathly silence. Victor and Simon comatose, the flat in disastrous disarray. Eleanor showered, dressed, took her suitcase and left a note on the sticky table, short and unsentimental. Gone to a spa hotel. Back in a week. Fridge is empty. Sort out the bills yourselves, darling.
A taxi waited outside. As she watched the house fade in the rear-view, her shoulders lightened.
The first two days swept by in bliss. Eleanor strolled the frosty garden, drank smoothies that tasted suspiciously like washing up liquid, swam, and read. Her phone was set to silent, checked only once daily.
Simons texts started that evening. Missed calls, then:
Ellie, where ARE you?
Not funny, come home!
We woke up, youre gone.
Theres nothing to eat, couldnt you have made stew before you left?
Eleanor chuckled and booked herself in for a mud wrap.
By day three, panic set in.
Ellie, wherere my clean socks kept?
How does the washing machine work? Its flashing and wont start.
Vic wants a spare towel, his is wrecked.
Weve run out of loo roll and washing powder. Wheres the stock?
She replied to one only: Instrucs for machine: Google. Loo roll and powder: shop. If you found money for beer, youll manage.
On day four, as she sipped herbal tea, her phone actually rang. She decided to pick up.
Oh thank God! Ellie! When are you coming back? This is unbearable! Simon sounded on the verge.
Whats up, dear? Im at a spa. Treatments, you know.
Hereits chaos! Victor invited more mates round, they watched footie till 2am, old Mrs Jenkins downstairs called the police! I had to give a statement! Got fined!
Well, you did say he was a good bloke and to help a mate, Simon. So youll have to manage. Youre the man of the house, after all.
Ellie, theres no food! After work Im knackered and all I find is filth and Victor complaining dinner isnt ready! He says Im a rubbish host.
Whats that got to do with me? I thought he was the expert on real food. Why don’t you get him to fry up something? Bit of bacon, if you can manage.
I cant kick him out, its awkward, hes my mate
Your mate, your house, your problem. If, by the time Im back Sunday, theres even a whiff of Victor, or if the place isnt spotless, Ill go to my mums and file for divorce. Thats not a threat, Simon. Its just how it is.
She clicked off and sauntered to her facial. She felt lighter than air. In the past, shed been scared to set firm boundaries scared to upset Simon, to seem mean. But Victor had proved that being patient could just mean letting someone set up camp between your shoulder blades.
The last days flew past in fluffy dressing gowns and lavender-scented naps. Eleanor looked younger, brighter. The crease between her eyebrows smoothed out, replaced by a peaceful glimmer.
Sunday evening, she returned. The cab pulled up. As she rode up in the lift, she felt apprehensive but, for once, calm.
She opened the door.
A waft of lemon, bleach, and… roast chicken. Strangely lovely.
No duffel bag in the hallway, no trail of muddy shoes. Simons slippers were virtuous and alone on the rack.
Simon peeped out from the kitchen, haggard but clean-shaven and even wearing a shirt whose buttons nearly lined up.
Hello, he said, sheepish.
Eleanor peeked round: lounge immaculate, sofa neatly folded, the oak table lovingly polished free of cup rings. The windows gaped open; the old smoke smell gone.
She glanced in the kitchen. The cutlery sparkled. Chicken crisping in the oven.
Wheres Victor? she asked, unwrapping her scarf.
Simon leaned against the doorframe. I threw him out. Thursday, after you called.
You did? Werent you embarrassed?
He rubbed his temples. When he told me to fetch his beer because kick-offs started, just as Id got home and was scrubbing his frying pan some switch flipped. Told him: pack up and go.
Did he? Eleanors eyebrows rose.
He screamed, called me a pushover, said a man should never let a woman boss him about. Loads of nonsense. Wanted compensation. I gave him twenty quid for his cab and chucked his bag in the passage. Spent two days scrubbing the place. Bought Mrs Jenkins chocolates and apologised, twice.
He came over, rough hands raw from washing-up liquid, and took hers. Sorry, El. I was wrong. I just didnt realise how much you do. Place doesnt stay lovely on its own, does it? I nearly lost my mind keeping up. How you put up with the lot, plus work, Ill never know.
Eleanor gazed at him. There was more than guilt therea new awareness of the value of a happy home.
I dont put up with it, Si. I look after us. But Ive never agreed to nurse layabouts.
I get itno more sleepover mates. Victors blocked on my phone. And no, I dont want to talk about what he texted after; there are lines you dont cross.
Sit down, you muppet, or youll burn my chicken.
Dinner was oddly peaceful. Simon fussed in a good way, carving best bits onto her plate and pouring tea.
So how was the spa? he asked, almost shy.
Fabulous. I think Ill go every six months now, one week isnt enough. And you probably need to learn to cook more than beans on toastjust in case I disappear again.
Simon nodded like a schoolboy scolded by the head. Ill learn. Promise.
The next day Eleanor heard, via the grapevine, that Victor had shuffled back to his mother-in-laws, started a row, and now his ex-wife was dragging him through court for eviction and a list of debts that would keep a law firm busy for years. Apparently, hed been sacked from work a month earlier for drinking on the job, and the wife kicked me out story was just a ploy for somewhere free to crash.
When Simon learned this, he simply shook his head and hugged Eleanor tightly. Lesson learned. Family boundaries were now law, and no one was braving Eleanors wrath again.
No, Simon didnt become the perfect house-husband overnight, but he finally appreciated what it took to keep their home serene. Most importantly, he learnt how to say no. When his third cousin rang a month later asking to crash for a couple nights passing through London, Simon gave him the numbers for two perfectly decent Premier Inns.
Eleanor, eavesdropping from the kitchen as she stirred the soup, simply grinned. Spas were lovely, but a home where youre valued beats rose-scented mudpacks every time.
