James came home one evening, starving after a long shift at the factory. His usual spot on the sofa was empty, but the kitchen looked even emptier. He checked the fridge, hoping for something warm, but found just a note stuck on the microwave:
“Love, popped over to Margaret’s for a chat. Ring if you need anything x”
He peered into the empty saucepans, grunted, then raided the fridge for whatever would fill the hole in his stomach. Sandwiches and a lukewarm cup of tea later, he collapsed into bed, dog-eared copy of the *Daily Mail* barely covering his face.
Emily arrived at nine, her heels clicking in the hallway. James stirred, chewed his sandwich from the pillow, and mumbled,
“Em, fancy a proper dinner?”
“I can’t at this hour,” she said, unzipping her coat. “I’m trying to shed a few kilos.”
“Right, so I’m just rotting from starvation then?” He jabbed a finger at her. “I was stuck in traffic all day. You call this a meal?”
She sighed, picking at her watch. “I’ll whip up something quick. Well, I had dinner already. But for you…”
“Come off it—roast goose with apple stuffing?” He brightened. “Don’t tell me she’s been feeding you two-course meals every time?”
“Stop being daft,” she said, cheeks pink. “I just wanted to keep her company. She’s a lonely old bird. Want me to ask if she’ll feed you too?”
“Are you cracked? It’s the *eleventh hour*. You want me to turn up at the neighbor’s like some hungry thief?”
“Suit yourself,” she said, already scrolling on her Samsung. “She’s *very* gracious.”
“Bugger off, Em. I’ll eat this damp bread.”
By now, Emily was on the phone. “Margaret? Sorry to drag you in, but Mr. Thompson’s got the hiccups—I mean, James wants a nibble of your dinner. Yes, and no, he’s coming alone. I’ve got a hot shower to trawl through. Thanks, love. Bless you.”
She tossed the phone at James. “Off you go. She’s laid the table.”
“Not a snowball’s chance. I’m a grown man, not some dinner-time hitchhiker.”
“Both of us would feel odd, then,” she said, already stripping off her blazer. “Go on. She’s a *legend* at the goose.”
“Alright, alright,” he muttered, shuffling into his chinos. “But if her casserole’s worse than my nana’s, I’m blaming you.”
Emily smirked as he left. She flicked on the telly, stripped off her tights, and sank into the sofa. Fifteen minutes passed. Then another half-hour. She paused *Strictly* and listened. Silence beyond the hallway.
Her stomach churning with more than just bath salts, she snatched her phone, dialing James. It rang once. Then—
“Em, Margaret’s made these little apple scones. *Best thing I’ve ever had*.”
“Tess? You mean *Margaret*?” Her voice wavered. “You said you’d be half an hour, you berk!”
“Love, I’ve a feeling your *Tess* is a cocker spaniel,” he said, snorting into the phone. “Tell Margaret her goose is, like, the star of the bloody Cambridge Folk Festival.”
Emily yanked on her cardigan, muttering about “ungrateful buffoons,” and stormed to the door. Five minutes later, James was back, tray in hand, fleeing a woman in an apron.
Since that night, Margaret’s *dinner parties* were strictly “no men. Not even my husband’s.”
