“And what am I saving you from today?” asked Oliver, stirring his second pot of instant noodles.
“Bangers and mash!” replied Robert cheerfully.
“Oh, not again?” said his friend with a forced smile.
“Again!”
“You had that dreadful mash just last week! How much can a man take?”
“Exactly what I ask my wife, but she won’t even listen! Fine, dig in!”
***
Steven, their new colleague, watched them in confusion, unable to understand why Robert disliked home-cooked meals. Oliver decided to explain.
“It’s simple—Rob here misses all the terrible food, like instant noodles, kebabs, and takeaways. His wife packs him proper meals every day to keep him fed. I’m saving him. Waste not, want not—he eats my noodles, and I polish off his lunches!”
“Does she cook that badly?” Steven asked, unwrapping his sandwich from the microwave.
“Nah, her food’s decent enough. But sometimes a man doesn’t fancy mash, stew, or shepherd’s pie!” Oliver chuckled, opening Robert’s lunchbox. “So we help each other out, like brothers.”
“Wouldn’t it be easier to tell his wife not to bother? She’d probably be relieved!” Steven remarked.
“Rob tried. She won’t hear of it!”
“And you’re happy to oblige?”
“No point wasting good food!”
“If I had a wife packing my lunches, I’d never give them away!” Steven sighed dreamily, biting into his sandwich.
“What’s stopping you, then? Get married!”
“Haven’t met the right one yet.”
“You will!” Oliver clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re new in town, right? Plenty of lovely girls here!”
After lunch, they returned to work—all employed at the same furniture factory in different roles. Robert managed sales, Oliver worked in assembly, and Steven had recently started in the warehouse.
As if foreshadowed, that very evening Steven met a striking woman in her early thirties at the supermarket. She stood on tiptoe, struggling to reach a box of fancy pasta on the top shelf—petite, barely five-foot-two, but quite pretty.
“Need a hand?” Steven offered gallantly, easily retrieving the box with his above-average height.
“I’d be ever so grateful!” The stranger smiled, and Steven felt his world tilt. That smile—it sent time spinning. He wanted to stay in that moment forever, but as she took the pasta and moved on, he hurried after her.
“What are you making?” he asked casually.
“Oh, thought I’d surprise my husband with lasagna! He’s tired of my bangers and mash,” she laughed.
“I’m Steven, by the way.”
“Emily—and you can call me Emmy!”
Suddenly, Steven remembered that lunchtime conversation.
“Tell me, is it worth all the effort if you’re left running errands alone?” he teased.
“Whatever do you mean? Nothing wrong with spoiling your man!”
“Heard a funny story today—makes me wonder if men appreciate it.”
“Do share!”
“Well, a mate’s been swapping his wife’s home-cooked meals for instant noodles with his best friend. Makes you question husbands, doesn’t it?”
“How dreadful! If I found out, mine would get an earful!” Emmy huffed, bristling on behalf of wives everywhere.
“Rob’s wife would give him hell too,” Steven agreed before realizing his blunder.
“Rob?” Her eyes narrowed. “Where do you work?”
“Just moved here. Got a job at the furniture factory on Riverside.”
Emily froze, doing the math—her husband’s recent weight gain, his name, the same workplace. No coincidence.
“That cheating rat! So Oliver’s been eating my cooking while Rob lives off noodles!” she seethed.
Steven paled. “Oops.”
Emily abandoned her trolley and stormed out, muttering, “Lasagna? He’ll get mash! And stew! And porridge! After all my effort!”
Steven chased her to her car. “You can’t drive like this! Let me buy you coffee. Calm down first.”
She resisted but relented. Over coffee and cakes, she cooled slightly.
“That Oliver! How long’s this been going on?”
“No idea—and please don’t say I told you. Rob’s my boss; he’ll sack me!”
“Oh, he won’t. But I’ll teach him a lesson!”
Steven exhaled. “Good pay’s hard to come by.”
“I slave after work—shopping, cooking for hours—and this? My food’s excellent!”
“Those sausages did smell amazing,” he admitted guiltily. “I’d never share!”
“The worst part? I love cooking! But not for someone else’s husband!”
“Lucky him. I burn toast,” Steven joked.
“Nonsense! Anyone can cook if they try,” Emmy said, stealing his cake. “Want lessons?”
He should’ve refused—but the image of her in his kitchen was irresistible.
“Start with lasagna? Or too advanced?”
“Easy, if you’ve got the right pans!”
“Let’s buy what’s missing. My flat’s got one pot, a frying pan, and two plates.”
“Oven work?”
“Think so. Electric thing. Will that do?”
“Perfect!” She grinned, finishing his cake.
***
Rob came home to darkness. No wife. He was about to call when the door opened.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry, dear! A friend needed lasagna lessons.”
“Lasagna?!” His favorite—the one dish he never traded.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Got some boiled ham. Fancy scrambled eggs?”
He scowled. Now he craved lasagna.
“Fine,” he grumbled.
Over the next fortnight, Emmy “forgot” to pack lunches. Dinners were eggs or frozen pies—until Rob gagged at the sight. She relented occasionally with deliberately oversalted potatoes.
Meanwhile, she taught Steven to cook. They met daily, becoming fast friends—though she noticed his lingering looks.
One evening, she brought her friend Marianne.
“Meet Marianne! Best cook I know—especially her risotto!”
Steven blinked. Marianne batted her lashes. Emmy left shortly after, mission accomplished. She’d no intention of cheating—just securing Marianne a husband.
Next day, Steven brought risotto to work.
“I’m getting married!”
“So soon?!”
“Never tasted anything like it!”
“My lasagna’s better,” Rob boasted, unpacking his lunch. Emmy had finally taken pity.
Oliver drooled. “Sharing?”
“Not a chance! Marry your own wife!” Rob smirked.
At Steven and Marianne’s wedding, Emmy whispered, “Taught him a lesson?”
Steven chuckled. “Never cross a woman.”
She grinned. “Exactly.”
