The Guests Next Door: How Emily Drew the Line
Oliver came home exhausted, only to find the scent of roast beef filling the air—his wife, Emily, was slicing vegetables for a salad while something simmered in the oven. He kissed her cheek and sighed.
“Smells amazing.”
“Trying my best for our guests,” she replied with a faint smile.
“My relatives?” His brow furrowed. “I asked you not to bother.”
“Oh, come now… They’re family. After a long day, they’ll want a proper meal.”
“Emily, you’ll understand soon enough. Should’ve listened.”
A few hours earlier, his mother had called.
“Ollie, dear, Lydia’s daughter—Chloe—just bought a flat near yours. No water while they renovate. Lydia begged me—let them shower at yours for a couple of days.”
Oliver wasn’t thrilled. He’d never liked Chloe—a sly one, just like her mum.
“Fine, they can pop in,” he muttered. “But just for a shower. Nothing else.”
Chloe and her husband, James, arrived just before supper.
“Hello! I’m Chloe, this is James. You must be Emily?”
Without waiting, Chloe wandered through the flat, testing door handles, peeking into the bedroom. Oliver stepped in front of her.
“Wasn’t it just the shower you needed?”
“Right! Emily, could we borrow towels? Forgot ours.”
Once they’d washed up, they lingered, settling into the sofa, inhaling the rich aroma from the kitchen.
“Oh, that smells divine!” Chloe trilled. “What’s on the menu?”
Emily sighed and set the table.
They devoured everything—then left, forgetting their towels, sponges, and shampoo. Emily shook her head.
“The shampoo’s no loss, but we’ll need new sponges.”
The next day, they returned. And the day after. Emily served a broccoli bake, and Chloe scrunched her nose.
“Ugh! You actually eat this? Where’s the steak?”
On the fourth night, it was spaghetti bolognese. Chloe poked at it.
“Hardly any meat. Just sauce.”
Oliver turned to James.
“So, when’s the water back on?”
“Oh, ages ago,” James admitted.
Chloe cut in swiftly.
“But the showerhead’s not fitted yet!”
After they left, Emily fixed Oliver with a look.
“I’ve got an idea to put them off. Play along.”
The next evening, as the guests made themselves at home, Emily brought out a tray of dry oats, grated apple, and honey.
“‘Beauty Porridge.’ Very wholesome. Oliver and I eat nothing else now.”
Chloe chewed gamely, her face twisting. They left in record time.
“Tonight, you cook,” Emily told Oliver. “There’s dumplings in the freezer.”
Two days later, Chloe called.
“You’re not still eating that porridge?”
“Afraid so. Emily’s relentless. If you come, bring some roast beef—I can’t stomach any more oats.”
“No chance. We won’t be back. Shower’s working, head and all.”
A week later, Oliver’s mother rang.
“Lydia says Emily’s starving you.”
“Mum, don’t be daft. I’m fed, fit, and happy. Oh, and news—we’re moving to a house next month, selling this flat. Then we’ll see who’s really family.”
