My flat is your flat, mate, kick off your shoes and settle in, came Toms cheery voice from the hallway, followed by the muffled thud of something heavy hitting the floor. Emmall have dinner on in a minute. You timed it just right.
Emma paused mid-stir, her wooden spoon poised above the pot. She hadnt expected anyone. In fact, her evening had been earmarked for a gentle Friday supper with Tom, maybe a glass of wine, a filmher sole anticipated guest, the peace shed craved after another draining week in accounts. She placed the spoon gently down, wiped her hands on her apron, and stepped out.
The scene that greeted her was anything but promising. Tom, practically beaming, helped a burly, red-cheeked man out of his overcoat. Next to them sat a sports holdall so stuffed it looked ready to burst its zip.
Oh, Emsurprise! Tom grinned, his face open and pleased. Remember Will? Uni mate. Guitar whizzused to play Oasis covers at parties? Hes in a pickle, so I said he could crash a week.
Emma dredged up a vague recollection of a loud lad at the back of the lecture hall who always blagged smokes and scrounged notes. Today, Will looked nothing like a carefree student: broader, balding, with a paunch straining beneath his jumper and eyes flitting restlessly around the flat.
All right, Emma, Will muttered, toeing off battered trainers, sending them to the edge of the shoe rack with a thud. Not a bad gaff. Plenty of space.
Emma managed a tight, Good evening, while flicking Tom a pointed look that, from decades together, reliably turned his spine to jelly.
Tom bundled her aside, muttering as Will trundled off to the loo, Em, honestly, Wills had a nightmare. His wifes slung him out. Her mums flathe wasnt even on the lease. Got nowhere to go, and hes skint. Just a week until he finds a place or sorts things with her. Couldnt leave a mate out in the cold. You know what Im like.
She knew all too well. Tom was a good man, heart too soft, susceptible to anyone invoking the good old days or hitting a raw patch.
A week? she whispered. Tom, its a two-bed. Hell be in the lounge? Where are we meant to sit in the evening? The kitchen?
Dont fuss, loveits seven nights; well manage. Hes all right, honestly, proper quiet. You wont even know hes here.
Proper quiet Will emerged, rubbing his hands dry on the new guest towel Emma had hung out just this morning.
Whats for scran then? he asked cheerily, poking his head into the kitchen. Ive not had a morsel all day, what with packing and allnerves, you know?
Dinner was a one-man show. Will ate as though it was his last supper before the apocalypse, slurping stew, shovelling bread, and providing a running commentary.
Decent stew. Bit thin, isnt it? My ex, Becky, did it thick as you likestood your spoon up in it. Used to proper stick-to-your-ribs stuff, me.
Emma kept her jaw clamped tight. Tom smiled apologetically and heaped Wills plate again.
Ems a marvel in the kitchen, he offered.
Will poured himself a hefty vodka from a hip flask and gestured broadly. Good effort for a city lassworks for me. Graft like me, you need stodge. Any chance of some beer, Tom? This stuff doesnt go with your dainty cooking.
Later, the lounge TV blared so loud the glasses in the china cabinet rattled. Will sprawled, narrating each punch-up in the action film, Tom nodding along and fetching more toast and cups of tea. Emma was exiled to the bedroom, failed to read, and the sound of explosions seeped through the walls along with Wills raucous cackle.
The nightmare persisted next morning. Emma tiptoed into the kitchen for a coffee, only to find a mountain of unwashed dishes, ketchup stains across the cloth, breadcrumbs, and empty vodka bottles. Will snored mightily on the sofa-bed, feet up, socks scented with stale lager thick in the air.
Tom wandered out, bleary-eyed. Sorry, Em, we let it slide last night. Ill do it later.
Later? Emma eyed the clock. And what are you going to eat for breakfast? Nothings clean.
Ill wipe a couple down now
Emma sipped her coffee grimly, dressed, and left, trying not to look at the lounge. The whole day at work, she dreaded homeher warm, tidy space now a shell.
She returned to find the place half-cleaned, but the sink still grease-smeared, the whole flat shouting of burnt meat. Will lounged in a vest before the window, smoking, the forbidden scent of cigarettes heavy in the kitchen.
Evening, boss! he called, flicking ash from her favourite mug. Me and Tom did some chips. Had to nip out for dripping though; cards blocked, but Tom sorted me. Join us, love. You fancy a pint?
Emma surveyed the greasy cooker, potato peelings on the lino, the reek of cigarettes. Coldly, she called Tom to the back room.
Whats this? Whys he smoking? Whys this place a tip? You guaranteed I wouldnt even notice him.”
Tom tried to hug her, but she slipped away. Hes on edge, lovegive him a break. Well tidy up. Hes harmless. Its only a week.
In front of the TV with beer all daythats house-hunting?
He was on the phone earlier, honest! Itll be fine. Mates in trouble and all that.
The following days were hellish. Will was everywhere, because he was on unpaid leave. He demolished the weekly food shop in two days. He wandered the flat in just his pants, didnt bother closing the bathroom door, and dominated the place with odours of fried onions and sweat.
The final straw came Friday.
Emma came home early, craving a hot soak. From the entry, music and laughter blasted. Beside Tom and Wills shoes sat a sparkly pair of heels and a pair of battered mens loafers.
In the lounge: thick smoke. Will, Tom, some strange bloke, and a brassy woman in cheap perfume and heavy make-up. The coffee table was covered with bottles and nibbles, scattered without coasters on her precious oak surface. Tom sat in a corner, red with embarrassment.
Well, the missus is back! Will crowed, waving a pint glass. Come in, Emmameet Pete and Lucinda. Its just Friday, innit!
Emma saw a wet ring on the polished wood. Saw Lucinda grind out a cigarette in Emmas prized glass bonbonniere. Saw Tom stare at his feet, helpless.
She didnt shout. Didnt throw them out, break plates, or howl. Instead, a crystalline calm washed over her.
Good evening, she said, voice measured. I wont be in your way.
She retreated to the bedroom, locked the door, and moved swiftlypacking dressing gown, slippers, swimsuits, books yet unread. Bless annual leave, still unused. And bless her own private savings, always hers, never Toms.
She sat at her laptop and booked a luxury English spa retreat in the Cotswolds, the one shed always called too extravagant. Executive Suite, park view, all meals, spa and massage treatments included. Pay. Confirmed. Check-in tomorrow morning.
Emma drifted off, earplugs muting the party. The next morning, the house was dead-quietguests gone, Tom and Will dead to the world. She showered, packed, and left a note among last nights ravages: Gone to a spa for a week. Back Sunday. No food in the fridge. Pay the bills yourself this month.
The cab was waiting outside. As it pulled away, Emma felt a physical weight slip off her shoulders.
The first days at the spa were blissful. She walked frosty country paths, sipped herbal teas, swam, and devoured books. Her phone was on silent.
Toms missed calls started that evening, followed by texts:
Em, where are you?
This isnt funnywhereve you gone?
Weve woken up and youre not here.
Theres nothing to eat. You couldve made soup before going.
She chuckled to herself and set the phone aside for her chocolate wrap.
By Monday, a new tone crept in:
Emma, answer, please! Where are the clean socks?
How do I work the washing machine? Its flashing at me and nothing happens.
Will wants to know where the spare towels arehes spilled something awful.
Were out of washing powder. And loo roll. Wheres the stash?
Emma replied to just one: Instructions are online. Powder and loo roll are at Tesco. You had cash for beer, you can manage the essentials.
On Tuesday, she picked up. She was sipping lemon verbena tea when Tom called, his voice frayed to bits.
Emma, please come home, its chaos!
Whats happened, Tom? she asked serenely. Im on a retreat, Ive got my massages.
Its a pigsty! Wills taken the mickhe had his lot round, they watched football, screamed till 2am, Mrs Parsons downstairs called the coppers! Had to write a statementgot a fine! Theres nothing in. Will says Im useless!
Emma was almost light-hearted. You said yourself hes a decent bloke who just needs a hand. Crack on, love. Youre the man of the housesort it.
But I cant throw him out! Hes a mate
Thats your decision, Tom. Yours alone. Listen: Im back Sunday night. If the flats not how it was before, or if Wills still there, Ill go to Mums and file for divorce. Not a threat. Fact.
She hung up and booked her next facial. The relief was startlingwhy had she let herself carry it all those years? Patience wasnt always virtue. Sometimes it was just an excuse for people to trample you.
By Sunday, Emma was almost radiant: well-rested, brow unknotted, eyes brighter.
The cab pulled up. Climbing the stairs, she felt a twinge of nervesbut no fear. She was ready for any outcome.
Inside, the air was scented with bleach, lemon, and roast chickenquality, homey.
No massive bags. No strange coats. Just Toms shoes, carefully placed.
Tom poked his head out, drawn and sheepish, but clean-shaven in a fresh shirt.
Hey, he managed softly.
She looked roundlounge spotless, sofa folded, rug hoovered, coffee table gleaming. Windows wide, fresh winter air banishing old smoke.
Wheres Will? she asked, removing her scarf.
Tom slumped against the doorframe.
Turfed him out. Thursdayafter you rang.
She blinked, Really? Not awkward?
Tom shook his head. He asked me for a beer run just as I got in from workafter Id cleaned up his pan. Something snapped. I told him to pack his bag and go. He shouted, called me whipped, said I was betraying the lads, even wanted money for damages. Chucked him a tenner for a taxi and slammed the case outside. Got back the keys, then spent two days scrubbing, even bought Mrs Parsons Flowers.
He gripped her roughened hands.
Em, Im sorry. I was an idiot. Id no idea what you did just to keep it all together. After those days, I dont know how you do it and work as well.
She saw something new and true in his look, not just regret but understandingthe peace and order of home, their home, had been won by invisible graft.
Im not a martyr, Tom. I do it for us. But Im not here to spoil slothful strangers.
I get it. Never again. No more waifs and strays on my watch. My mate sent a few nasty texts after, blocked him for good.
She smiled. Sit down, you clownthe chickens burning.
They ate quietly, harmony restored. Tom kept her plate piled and poured endless tea.
How was the spa? he asked, shy.
Perfect. Im going every six months from now on. You should learn some proper cooking tooin case I vanish again.
He nodded solemnly. I will.
Next day, a mutual friend rang with updates: Will had wormed his way back to the mother-in-law, kicked up a fuss, and his ex was taking him to courtturns out hed been sacked for drinking weeks before, and the wife threw me out routine was a ploy for free board.
Tom only shook his head and squeezed Emmas hand. Lesson learntthe boundaries of their family were not for trespassing. Emma finally realised that sometimes, to be heard, you dont have to shout. You just leave, and let others feel the cost of their choices.
That week changed them. Tom didnt mutate into a housework whiz overnight, but he saw Emmas care afresh, and learnedat lastto say no. When his cousin soon called, angling for a couple of nights on the sofa, Tom warmly offered the number for a nearby budget hotel.
From the kitchen, Emma watched, stirring soup, and smiled. Spas were grand; but in a home where youre valued, theres nowhere better.
