Victor trudged into the flat ravenous, his tie still on and his mind fixed on a warm meal. But the kitchen greeted him with an empty saucepan and a note pinned to the fridge: “Darling, I’m at Marigold’s. Chatting. Ring if you need me.” He groaned, prodded the empty pots, then raided the larder like a marauder. Tesco sandwiches, a lukewarm cup of builder’s tea—his supper wasピー of a singleton.
By nine, Lucy returned, heels clack-clacking across the hallway. Victor jolted upright, still in his shirt, and demanded, “Going in for something to eat, luv? My stomach’s mutinying.”
“Too late,” she said, tapping her watch. “I’m on a juice cleanse. You know—*detox*.”
“I’ve been crouched behind a desk all day,” he grumbled. “You can’t seriously expect me to starve on muesli?”
“Fetch us some sausages,” she offered, sighing. “I *did* have a bit at Marigold’s, but… for you, fine.”
“Gone to the birds again?” He narrowed his eyes. “Tell me she didn’t dive into that kedgeree she’s always baking?”
“She has,” Lucy confirmed, plucking her phone from her handbag. “And it’s *spiced* kedgeree, with lobster. You remember what you used to say about her cooking?”
“Wouldn’t say lobsters to her like that,” he mumbled, already eyeing the casserole dish in Marigold’s window. “But if you’re offering…?”
“Not happening.” Lucy paused, grinning. “She *is* offering, though. Just thought you’d like to meet her little terrier, Jemima. *Twice* this week, mind you.”
Victor balked. “You’d drag me out at this hour for crustacea? I’m not some raccoon in your sitting room!”
“You’re not a raccoon,” she giggled, clicking call. “Hello, Marigold? Victor here’s dying for a spoonful of your magic? Could he pop over? Yes, *alone*? No problem. He’s a *big boy*.”
The front door slammed. Victor groaned, but Lucy was already running the bath, humming along to *The Archers*. Half an hour later, she flopped onto the sofa, probiotic bottle in hand, and wondered if the kedgeree tossing was a metaphor for his loyalty.
By nine-thirty, her toes were pruny and her curiosity piqued. Another ten minutes passed, then the phone hummed. “Darling,” his voice crackled, “Marigold’s made stilton scones. It’s like a feast in a grandma’s knickers. Don’t even think about coming in.”
“Oh, I’m coming in,” Lucy said flatly. “And that’s *Miss Wren* to you.” She hung up and yawned.
The next evening, the kedgeree went cold.
