“And what do I need to rescue you from today?” asked Oliver, pouring boiling water into his second pot noodle.
“Mash and meatballs!” chirped Roman cheerfully.
“Oh, again?” Oliver feigned a smile.
“Again!”
“Last week, it was those awful meatballs! How much longer?”
“That’s exactly what I ask my wife, but she won’t even listen! Alright, dig in!”
***
Their new coworker, Simon, watched his new acquaintances with confusion, unable to fathom why Roman disliked home-cooked meals. Oliver decided to explain.
“Thing is, Roman misses all the terrible food—pot noodles, takeaways, kebabs, you know. Meanwhile, his wife packs him proper lunches every day so he eats healthy. That’s where I come in. Can’t let good food go to waste! He eats my pot noodles, and I polish off whatever his wife’s made for him.”
“So, does she cook that badly?” Simon asked, unwrapping his microwave sandwich.
“Nah, it’s actually decent. Just… not always in the mood for meatballs, stews, or beef bourguignon,” Oliver chuckled, popping open Roman’s lunchbox. “So, I help him out. A proper bromance.”
“Why not just tell her to stop cooking? She’d probably be relieved,” Simon remarked.
“Oh, he tried. She won’t hear of it!”
“And you’re happy to oblige.”
“Waste not, want not.”
“If I had a wife who packed my lunches, I’d never share!” Simon sighed dreamily, biting into his sandwich.
“What’s stopping you, then? Get married!”
“Haven’t found ‘the one’ yet.”
“You will! Just moved here, yeah? Plenty of lovely girls around.”
They finished lunch and returned to work—all employed by the same furniture company, though in different roles. Roman headed sales, Oliver worked in assembly, and Simon had recently joined as warehouse staff.
As if he’d glimpsed the future, Simon’s evening took an unexpected turn. That same night, he met a striking woman in her early thirties—maybe younger—struggling to reach a box of fancy pasta on a high supermarket shelf. Petite, just over five feet tall, but undeniably pretty.
“Need a hand?” Simon offered gallantly. At over six feet, he had no trouble reaching.
“I’d be ever so grateful!” The stranger smiled.
Her smile! Simon felt weightless, time blurring. He wanted to linger in that moment forever, but as she grabbed the pasta and moved on, he snapped back to reality and hurried after her.
“What’re you making?” he asked casually.
“Oh, trying lasagna for my husband. He’s tired of my meatballs,” she laughed.
“I’m Simon, by the way.”
“Natalie. And call me Nat.”
Suddenly, Simon remembered the lunchtime conversation—but spoke before thinking.
“You’re wasting effort, running around shops just to feed a man who might not even appreciate it.”
She frowned. “Why wouldn’t I spoil my husband?”
“Heard a funny story today. Makes you wonder.”
“What story?”
“Mate at work’s been swapping his wife’s homemade lunches for pot noodles with his best friend. Makes you question men, doesn’t it?”
“If my husband did that, he’d regret it!” Nat huffed indignantly.
“Roman’s wife would tear him apart if she knew.”
“Roman?” Her eyes sharpened. “Where do you work?”
Simon blinked. “Just moved here. Got a job at the furniture factory by the river.”
Nat froze. The pieces clicked. Her husband had been putting on weight lately. His name was Roman. He worked there too. Too many coincidences.
“That absolute wanker! So Oliver’s been eating my cooking while my husband lives off instant rubbish?” she seethed.
Simon paled. Of all the women in the city, he’d stumbled upon Roman’s wife.
“Oops.”
Abandoning her trolley, Nat stormed toward the exit, muttering, “Lasagna? He’ll get meatballs. And casseroles. And pie. Let’s see how he likes leftovers now!”
Simon chased her to the car park, stopping her before she could drive off.
“You shouldn’t drive angry. Let me buy you coffee first.”
She refused, but he insisted.
In the café, Nat nibbled a Victoria sponge, cooling down.
“That Oliver—cheeky sod! All this time, I’ve been cooking for him? How long’s this been going on?”
“No idea. Sorry for spilling secrets—please don’t get me sacked.”
“Oh, I won’t tell Roman. But he’ll pay.”
“Cheers. The meatballs smelled amazing today, by the way.”
“Exactly! I cook because I love it. Not for some bloke who doesn’t appreciate it.”
“Lucky him. I can barely fry an egg.”
Nat scoffed. “Anyone can cook if they try. Want lessons?”
Simon hesitated—then imagined her in his kitchen.
“Yes. Start with lasagna?”
“Easy. Have you got the right dishes?”
“I rent. All I’ve got is one pan and a few plates.”
“Does your oven work?”
“Think so.”
“Sorted!” Grinning, she finished his cake and stood.
***
Roman arrived home to a dark, silent flat. No sign of Nat. Just as he reached for his phone, the lock turned.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked. “It’s late.”
“Sorry, love. A friend needed help with lasagna. Went round hers.”
“Lasagna?” His stomach growled. His favourite. Even Oliver never got his hands on that.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Got some ham. Could do scrambled eggs?”
Roman grimaced. Now he craved lasagna.
“Fine.” He washed up sulkily.
Nat looked smug, though he didn’t notice. She’d had a lovely evening. First, she and Simon had splurged on kitchenware, then cooked together at his place.
(Not that anything happened—just lasagna lessons.)
Simon packed leftovers for lunch. Nat left promptly, but traffic delayed her.
Roman ate his eggs moodily, fell asleep on the sofa, and woke to no packed lunch. Nat was doing her makeup, indifferent.
“Did you make me anything?”
“Oops, forgot. Just eat in the canteen.”
Baffled, he left. No goodbye kiss. No fuss over their cat, Whiskers.
At lunch, Simon’s lasagna drew envious stares.
“Given up on sandwiches?” Oliver teased.
“Homemade,” Simon beamed.
“Taught by a friend,” Simon added.
“Cooking’s not man’s work,” Oliver scoffed.
“Disagree. If it means eating like this, I’ll learn.”
“You need a wife,” Roman muttered.
“Yeah, so I can eat pot noodles behind her back?” Simon joked.
Roman’s pot noodle tasted like ashes as he watched Simon devour lasagna. He texted Nat:
*Make lasagna tonight?*
*Can’t. Book club.*
For two weeks, Nat barely cooked. Eggs. Ready meals. Undersalted potatoes. Oversalted potatoes. Roman suffered.
Meanwhile, she taught Simon to cook properly. They met almost daily, growing close.
Then one evening, Nat brought her friend Marianne.
“Meet Marianne!” Nat winked.
Marianne batted her lashes. She’d heard about Simon—but not how handsome he was.
Simon played along.
“Thought you wanted to learn pilaf? Best teacher here.”
Nat excused herself quickly. She wasn’t cheating—just playing matchmaker.
Next day, Simon brought pilaf to work.
“I’m getting married,” he announced.
“What?!”
“Found ‘the one.’ Best pilaf I’ve ever had.”
“My lasagna’s better,” Roman mumbled, unpacking his lunch—Nat had finally relented.
Oliver eyed it hungrily. “Share?”
“Nope. Marry your own chef,” Roman smirked.
He’d missed Nat’s cooking too much to ever share again. She never confessed her scheme—not even at Simon and Marianne’s wedding.
“Taught him a lesson?” Simon whispered.
Nat grinned. “Don’t cross a woman.”
