My husband brought home his mate to crash for a week. I quietly packed a bag and checked myself into a spa.
Do come in, make yourself at home! echoed my husbands cheery voice from the hallway, followed by the distinct thud of something heavy being dropped onto the floor. Emily will have dinner ready in no time, perfect timing!
Emily paused, ladle in hand. She wasnt expecting anyone. In fact, tonight was earmarked for a much-needed dose of family peace and quietjust her, her husband, and a remote, the distant hope of an early night after a mammoth week sorting everyone elses taxes at the accountancy firm. Well, it looked like peace would have to wait. She put down the ladle with theatrical care, wiped her hands on her trusty tea towel, and ventured forth.
The sight that greeted her could have been mistaken for the opening act of a farce. There was David, grinning like a prize-winner at a pub meat raffle, helping a burly chap with a puffy face and nose more crimson than a pub sign, peel off an ancient-looking parka. In the corner, an enormous sports holdall hunkered like an overstuffed hippo, its zip audibly straining against the contents.
Em! Heres a treat! David beamed. Remember Nigel? You know, from uni daysthe one who played Wonderwall on the guitar (badly, admittedly) at every party.
Emily did, unfortunately, recall a Nigel of that description: perennial supplier of second-hand smoke, first-hand mess, and last-minute essay borrowing. The only resemblance to his younger self now was the look in his eyesthe same restless, slightly opportunistic sparkle, currently sweeping their flat as though hunting for weak spots.
Alright then, landlady, grunted Nigel, toeing off his trainers and lobbing them vaguely in the direction of the shoe rack. Nice gaff. Roomy, innit.
Good evening, Emily replied, her voice crisp as an autumn apple, eyes pinning her husband with a pointed explain yourself or else glare.
David sidled over, slipped an arm around her shoulders, and whispered in tones rarely reserved for actual emergencies, Look, Em, its a bit awkward. Nige is in a sticky wicket. His wife chucked him outtotally heartless of her. Its her mums flat, hes not even on the deeds. Nowhere to go, bit skint. Hell crash here just for one weekpromise! Just until he sorts something out or patches things up. Honestly, I couldnt leave him on the streetyou know me.
She did know him. David was a nice guy, the kind whod give you his last biscuit and worry about being impolite as you demolished his tea selection. Trouble was, nice often teetered precariously on the brink of push-over, especially if the phrase, remember the good old days? was involved.
One week? Emily repeated, in the sort of tone the Queen might reserve for a knighthood gone astray. Weve a two-bed. Wheres he sleeping? The lounge? Where are we supposed to sit?
Oh come on, Em, its just a week of kitchen teas. Well help a mate out, hes a good lad, very quiet. You wont even notice hes here.
The very quiet, good lad in question reappeared from the bathroom, merrily drying his hands on her best, just-laundered guest flannel.
Whats for dinner, then? he called out, leaning into the kitchen and inspecting her stew like a Michelin inspector on deadline. Not had a bite all day, what with packin and all, nerves, you know?
Dinner swiftly descended into what Emily could only describe as a one-man show. Nigel attacked the stew like it contained secret lottery tickets, the bread vanished at speeds unseen outside of magic acts, and everything was accompanied by a running review.
This is alright, nice n hearty, he observed, sopping up the last drops with a roll. Could use a bit more garlic, though. My exoh, she made it thick enough to stand a spoon. This is watery in comparison diet-friendly, is it?
Emily pressed her lips together and ignored him with the fortitude of a woman whod sat through one too many awkward Christmases. David smiled wanly and piled Nigels plate with seconds.
Eat up, mate, Emilys a magician in the kitchen.
Not doubting it for a city gal, replied Nigel, pouring himself a tipple of the vodka hed brought (and hadnt offered around). Us working blokes like a bit more substance, mind. Got any beer, Dave? Doesnt really go with these patties otherwise.
The rest of the night, the TV blared violent action films at a decibel fit to threaten breakables. Nigel dominated the sofa, narrating every punch, while David nodded along and played kitchen runner for more tea and snacks. Emily, displaced from her own lounge, retreated with a book to the bedroom, which did little to muffle the symphony of gunfire and Nigels braying laughter.
Morning brought no reprieve. In the kitchen she discovered a mountain of dirty crockery. Toast crumbs, mysterious splatters, and an empty bottle decorated the table. The lounge resembled a disaster movieNigel was comatose on the (very much unfolded) sofa bed, snoring like an idling motorcycle. A powerful scentsomewhere between stale lager and gym kithung heavily in the air.
David, bleary and pyjama-clad, crept out of the loo.
Sorry, Em, things got away from us last night. Ill sort the washing up this evening.
This evening? Emily checked the time with a look usually reserved for untimely tax returns. What exactly are you planning to eat from? All the plates are gone.
Ill just rinse a couple he began, but shed already reached for her coat and calmly left for work.
The thought of returning home filled her with a sense of dread previously only inspired by mandatory networking events. Her carefully tended flather havenhad been invaded, and now felt like the set of an especially tragic sitcom.
That evening, things hadnt improved. The washing up had been rinsed, barely, and everything reeked of fried food. Nigel, in vest and boxers, was sprawled in the kitchen smoking beside the open window (despite David being well and truly briefed on her no-smoking-in-the-flat rule).
Oi, missus! Youre back! Me and Dave whipped up some chips and bacon. Help yourself. Had to pop to Tesco for the bacon. Dave kindly coughed up, seeing as my cards frozen, Nigel called, gesturing expansively at the grease-spattered stove and potato peelings on the floor.
Im not hungry, she replied, tight-lipped. David, can I chat to you a moment?
In the bedroom, she shut the door and marshaled her patience. David, why is he smoking in the kitchen? Why is the place a tip? You promised I wouldnt even notice him!
Dont get cross, babe, hes just blowing off steam. Well tidy up. Hes just a salt-of-the-earth bloke, unpretentious. Its just a week, hes already looking for a place.
Is he? Doing THAT from the sofa, beer in hand?
He made a couple of calls! Honest! Dont be a grump. You know what they say, a friend in need!
The next three days were an escalating lesson in patience. Nigel was perpetually underfoot: on unpaid leave, constantly eating everything in sight, parading about in his undies, treating the shower like a private spa and leaving puddles and a trail of laundry wherever he roamed.
By Friday, Emilys nerves had frayed to a single exposed wire.
She came home early, craving nothing more than a hot bath and an early bedtime. Instead, the flat was a riot of laughter and raucous music. In the hallway she nearly tripped over several pairs of unfamiliar shoesone set of dubious womens heels, just for that special touch.
In the lounge, smoke hung densely. Around the table perched Nigel, some sketchy man, and a heavily painted woman. David sat slumped, the picture of defeat, as the table groaned under a pile of cheap booze and greasy nibbles, all splayed directly across her oak coffee table (no coasters in sight).
Oy oy! The wifes back! bellowed Nigel. Dave, time for a penalty shot! Emily, meet Steve and Tracey. Were just winding downits Friday, innit?
Emily eyed the wet ring bleeding into her beloved table, the ash flicked carelessly into her crystal sweet bowl, her husband rabbiting into his mug, and decided she was done. She didnt scream. She didnt theatrically slam plates. Instead something calmly detached shifted in her.
Good evening, she announced in a level voice. Dont let me disturb your fun.
She walked to the bedroom, locked the door, and got packing: dressing gown, slippers, swimming costume, dresses, trousers, face creams, and a stack of neglected novels. Suddenly, she was grateful for her two weeks annual leave still unused (her boss had been badgering her for months), and ecstatic to recall her secret rainy day savings David didnt know about.
Laptop out, she quickly reserved a week in an idyllic spa hotel down in the Cotswolds, the kind with all-inclusive meals, massages and a view of the wisteria. Treat yourself, she thought. Booking confirmed. Check-in tomorrow morning.
That night she went to sleep with earplugs, the party reduced to a muffled rumble.
By dawn the flat was silent. Nigel and his lively entourage had departed (or passed out), and both he and David were dead to the world. Emily showered, dressed, rolled her suitcase out into the hallway, and left a note amongst the wreckage: Gone to a spa. Back in a week. No food in the fridge. Please pay the rent yourself this month.
Her cab was already waiting outside. As it whisked her away, she felt a load the size of Nigels duffel bag lift from her shoulders.
Her first two days at the spa flew by in a sort of fragrant, marzipan-scented haze. She strolled garden paths, drank herbal tea, swam and finally read her own books. She put her phone on silent, checking it once a day.
Davids calls started that evening: a sea of missed ones, then texts:
Em, where are you?
Seriously, this isnt funny.
Woke up, flat empty, v. confused.
Theres no food, you could have at least made a stew before going?!?
She snorted, turned off the notifications, and sank into a chocolate body wrap.
By day three, the tone changed:
Where are my clean socks?
How do you work the washing machine? Its beeping and wont start.
Nige wants to know where the spare towels are. He spilled something.
Weve run out of powder and loo roll. Wheres the stash?
She replied only to one: Washing machine instructions online. Powder/loo roll: try the shop. You managed to find money for beer, didnt you?
On day four, her phone rang while she sipped herbal tea at the juice bar. She answered, magnanimous.
Emily! Thank god! When are you coming back? This is a disaster!
Whats wrong, David? she inquired, the very picture of spa-calm. Im at the spa. Ive a facial in ten.
Its chaos! Nigel invited his mates to watch the footballthey yelled until 2am. Mrs Dobson from downstairs called the police. I had to write a statement! We got fined!
Well, you did say he was a stand-up bloke who just needed a hand, she replied, voice laced with just a touch of schadenfreude. Im sure youve got it in hand. Youre the man of the house, after all.
But Emily, Im shattered. I get home from work and its just mess, smoke, and Nigel complaining about dinner! Hes saying Im not a proper host!
How is this my problem? she replied. If, as your mate says, Im just a city girl with feeble cooking, perhaps he can show you how its done. Maybe you can fry up some more bacon.
But I cant just kick him out, itsawkward! groaned David.
Your burden, David. Your mate, your house, your problem. Ill return Sunday night. If the flat isnt exactly as I left it and theres so much as a whiff of Nigel, Ill turn round and go to mums. And Ill be starting divorce paperwork on Monday. Not a threatjust a heads-up.
She hung up. Then she wandered off for an aromatherapy massage, lighter than shed felt in years.
The remaining break vanished in a blur of sleep, walks, treatments and peace. She came back glowing, eyes bright, worry lines all but vanished.
On Sunday, her taxi pulled up. Rising in the lift, she felt the teeniest flutter of nerves, but no fear. She was ready for anything. If David hadnt managedwell, shed manage for herself.
She opened the door.
The flat smelled of bleach, lemons, and, oddly enough, roast chicken. Nice, actually. No clutter, only Davids own trainers on the rack. No sign of anyone else.
From the kitchen, a sheepish, freshly shaven David peeked out. He looked haunted but hopeful.
Hi, he said quietly.
Emily inspected the lounge: pristine, sofa reassembled, carpet hoovered, no more mysterious rings on the coffee table, windows open and fresh air streaming in.
She checked the kitchen. Sparkling crockery. Roast chicken nearly done.
Wheres Nigel? she inquired, unbuttoning her coat.
David slumped against the door. Kicked him out. Thursday, after you called.
No way. Wasnt it, you know, awkward?
David rubbed his face. He started barking orders at me to nip out for beers cos the game was on, while I was elbow-deep in his greasy washing-up after work. Something snapped. I told him: pack your bag, youre out. Didnt care if it was awkward. He screamed, called me namessaid I was under your thumb, a traitor to mates and all sorts. Demanded a tenner for trauma. I gave him a tenner and helped haul his stuff out. Changed the locks. Two days cleaning since. Brought Mrs Dobson shortbread and an apology.
He took her hands, rough with scrubbing. Im sorry, love. I really am. I honestly thought it wouldnt be that bad. I just never realised I sort of forgot how much you do. How everything just worked. I couldnt cope for four days. How on earth do you do it working full-time?
Emily looked him in the eye. For perhaps the first time ever, real understanding flickered there. He finally saw what it cost to keep the peace and comfort of home.
I dont cope, David. I care for us. But I dont do charity cases.
He squeezed her hands, I get it. Never again. No more overnight guests, ever. And as for Nigelhe started texting insults. I blocked him.
Sit yourself down, you daft thing, she smiled. Your chickens about to burn.
They ate in the warmth of a gentle, grateful silence. David fussed over her, making sure she got the crispiest bits and pouring the perfect cup of tea.
And how was the spa? Did you enjoy yourself? he asked, a touch desperate.
Oh, marvellous. Ive resolved to go every six months now. A week wasnt nearly enough. And you, darling, could really do with learning to cook something more ambitious than a cheese toastie. You never know, I might take off again.
Ill start practicing, David nodded solemnly.
The next day, Emily heard from a friend that Nigel had wormed his way back to his mother-in-laws, kicked up a fuss, and was now facing court over unpaid debts and eviction. Unsurprisingly, it turns out hed been fired weeks ago for drinking on the job, and the whole missus chucked me out story was mainly a ploy for a free bed and an easy meal.
David shook his head, pulled her into a hug, and their new boundaries settled like a shield over their home. Emily realised, at last, that you dont always need to shout to be heard. Sometimes, you simply have to walk out and let people deal with their own disasters.
It changed everythingnot overnight, but enough that David never again took her for granted. Best of all, he learned how to say no. And when his distant cousin called a month later wanting to crash for just a couple nights, David politely gave him a list of local, budget-friendly B&Bs.
As Emily stirred her soup in the kitchen, listening to this, she smiled. Spas were lovely, but worth nothing compared to a home where youre valuedcoasters and all.
