The Neighbours Who Overstayed Their Welcome: How Vera Set Boundaries
James arrives home exhausted, only to find the flat filled with the rich aroma of roast beef—Vera is busy slicing vegetables for the salad. He kisses his wife on the cheek and remarks,
“Smells amazing.”
“I’m making it for our guests,” she replies with a smile.
“My relatives?” He frowns. “I told you not to bother.”
“But they’re family. They’ve been working all day—they’ll be hungry.”
“Vera, you’ll understand later… You should’ve listened.”
A few hours earlier, his mother had called.
“Love, Emily, Lydia’s daughter, and her husband just bought a flat near yours. They’re renovating, and the water’s off. Lydia asked if they could pop round to shower for a couple of days.”
James wasn’t thrilled. He’d never liked Emily—a schemer, just like her mother.
“Fine, but only for a quick wash. Nothing else,” he sighed.
Emily and her husband, Tom, turned up just before dinner.
“Hello! I’m Emily, this is my husband. You must be Vera?”
Without waiting for an invitation, Emily wandered through the rooms, testing door handles and peeking into the bedroom. James shut the door firmly behind them.
“You’re here to shower, right?”
“Yes, of course! Vera, do you have towels? We forgot ours.”
Once they’d freshened up, they made no move to leave. Settling on the sofa, they inhaled deeply.
“That smells delicious!” Emily chirped. “What’s for dinner?”
Vera sighed and reluctantly invited them to the table.
They cleared every plate, then left behind the towels, loofahs, and shampoo. Vera shook her head.
“The shower gel and shampoo I don’t mind, but we’ll need new loofahs.”
The same thing happened the next day. And the next. When Vera served broccoli bake, Emily grimaced.
“Ugh! You actually eat this? Where’s the proper grub?”
On the fourth day, it was spaghetti with bolognese. Emily complained again.
“Hardly any meat. Just sauce.”
James turned to Tom.
“When’s the water being fixed?”
“Oh, it’s already on,” Tom admitted.
Emily jumped in.
“The showerhead isn’t fitted yet!”
After dinner, Vera looked at her husband.
“I’ve got a plan to put them off. You’ll need to play along.”
The following evening, when the guests settled in, Vera brought out a tray of dry oats, grated apple, and honey.
“It’s the ‘French Beauty Salad.’ Incredibly healthy. James and I practically live on it now.”
Emily chewed reluctantly, clearly repulsed. They left in a hurry.
“You’re cooking tonight,” Vera told James. “There’s frozen dumplings in the freezer.”
A day later, Emily called.
“Are you still eating that salad?”
“Afraid so—Vera’s relentless. If you come, bring some sliced ham. I can’t take much more of this.”
“Never mind. We won’t bother you again. We’ve got water—and a showerhead.”
A week later, James’s mother rang.
“Lydia says Vera’s starving you.”
“Mum, don’t listen to nonsense. I’m well-fed, healthy, and happy. Oh, and we’re moving into a house next month—selling this flat. Then we’ll see who’s really family.”
