**Diary Entry – May 12th**
*”Just tasting, really!”*
That’s what Irene typed in the group chat. *”Don’t include us in the shared budget. We’ll bring our own. Honestly, we’re on a diet—eating like birds…”*
And that was the first red flag.
Annie sat on the bus, phone in one hand, the other clutching a bulky tote bag. She reread the message twice. Maybe she was overreacting? It was polite, sure, but… it felt calculated, like someone marking their territory before the battle even started.
The chat for the May getaway buzzed nonstop. New faces had joined recently—Steve and Irene, friends of Will’s. Will was reliable, well-liked, a long-standing member of the group. No one batted an eye.
The vibe was warm, easygoing. Everyone hovered around thirty—responsible, organised, but with a sense of humour. Years of friendship meant unspoken rules and assigned roles. Will recruited newcomers. Annie handled logistics—planning meetups, booking the forest cabins with porches, a fire pit, even decent showers. Everyone agreed, started discussing supplies: sausages, mushrooms, charcoal, ketchup, wine.
Then came Irene’s message:
*”Steve and I won’t need anything. We’re meal-prepping separately.”*
Annie replied neutrally: *”Sure, no problem.”* And tucked her phone away.
Honestly? Not a big deal. Some did keto, some went vegan—some even swore by moon-charged water. There was a bloke who never chipped in for meat, being staunchly veggie. But he always brought mountains of grilled veg skewers no one could resist.
Oddities were normal. Decency mattered more. Still, something about *”don’t include us”* sent a chill down Annie’s spine. Slippery, that phrasing. But she reserved judgment.
The day of the trip was golden—warm, breezy, the air thick with pine. Everyone arrived on time, supplies in tow. No frantic dashes back for skewers or a corkscrew.
Irene and Steve rolled in late, when the heavy lifting was done. Their *”own supplies”*? A block of cheddar, a few tomatoes, rice cakes, two beers. Annie glimpsed the meagre haul and thought: *Enough for a snack. Not three days.*
They perched on a bench, aloof. Ate their cheese, clinked bottles, snapped sunset selfies. Then, gradually, they drifted over. Within half an hour, Steve was by the grill.
*”What’s that? Kebabs? Smells amazing…”*
*”Hard to diet around you lot,”* Irene laughed, edging closer.
Annie exchanged a glance with Kate beside her. A subtle shrug. *Well, we won’t turn them away.* The group wasn’t about humiliating newcomers.
By nightfall, Irene and Steve were deep in the feast—laughing, swapping stories, singing along to guitar strums. They were fun, even likeable. But Annie couldn’t shake the feeling they’d played the system.
She went to bed unsettled. Not angry—just a prickling irritation. Her parents had always said: *Team players ante up.* But Steve and Irene had sidled in, cards held close, helping themselves to the pot.
*If this happens again,* she thought, *I’ll have to act.* The idea rankled—who wants to parent grown adults? But she brushed it off. They were here to relax, not police plates. A one-off quirk.
Except it wasn’t. It was a pattern.
*”Chipping in again? We’ll stick to our salads. *Counting calories,*”* Irene giggled in a voice note, breezy as if discussing a bring-and-share work do.
Annie listened en route to buy couscous and a fresh gas canister. She tallied transport costs, fuel splits, who’d bring meat, plates, coffee. And yet again—*”we’ll stick to our own.”*
Five trips later—summer BBQs at Kate’s, autumn picnics—the routine held. Irene and Steve arrived with a dinky tote: bananas, a sad cabbage slaw, discount supermarket wine. Never shared. Never left hungry.
*”Nice wine, this,”* Steve remarked, pouring from the bottle Tom brought.
*”We’re mostly on greens. Pricey, but so *good* for my skin. Just a taste, really…”* Irene chirped, loading her plate with others’ roast beef.
At first, it drew uneasy chuckles. *Eccentric pair. Tight budget, maybe?*
Then came the sidelong glances. Then the whispers.
*”Did you *see* how much they ate?”* Kate muttered as they packed leftovers.
*”Steve hit the grill three times. Ate *all* the prawn salad,”* Annie grumbled, shoving meat into Tupperware.
Jokes turned pointed. Tom deadpanned: *”How’s half a kilo of lamb *fit* your macros, Steve?”* Kate smirked: *”Appetite really *flourishes* on a diet, huh?”* Steve laughed it off. Irene pretended not to hear.
Annie loathed conflict—and shaming people over food. But when Kate DM’d a photo of Steve and Irene’s brand-new crossover—*”We *did* it!”*—something curdled in her gut. So money *wasn’t* the issue. Just priorities.
Spring returned. Plans for another trip surfaced. This time, Annie led with clarity:
*”No offence, but shared meals mean shared costs. Grown-ups pay their way. No freeloading.”*
Most liked the message. Kate sent a thumbs-up.
Steve stayed silent. An hour later, Irene messaged privately:
*”Think we’ll skip this one. Have fun!”*
Message received.
Annie exhaled. Finally—fair play. No more moochers.
The trip felt lighter. No side-eyeing the coleslaw. No hiding crisps.
They weren’t stingy—just done with boundary-pushing audacity.
*”This is *proper* relaxing,”* Tom said, clinking cups with Annie. *”Air’s *cleaner* somehow.”*
*”Not the air,”* she murmured. *”The company. No more hunters pretending to be gatherers.”*
By the fire, toasting marshmallows, no one mentioned Steve or Irene. The silence was verdict enough. Annie knew she’d done right.
Weeks later, she ran into Will at a café. He fidgeted when she asked after Steve and Irene.
*”They’re into board games now. ‘More creative crowd,’ they said.”*
Annie sipped her coffee, eyebrow raised. *Found a new buffet, then.*
*”Creative, huh? Hope their new crowd splits the bill for those *pricey* game sets.”*
Will smirked but stayed quiet. His silence spoke volumes.
Some people don’t change. They just scout new tables to leech off. Fine. Just don’t hang a sign inviting them.
**Lesson:** Politeness shouldn’t mean being a doormat. Fair’s fair—and freeloaders *always* show their hand.
