“What am I saving you from today, then?” asked Oliver, stirring his second pot of instant noodles.
“Mashed potatoes and meatballs!” replied Robert cheerfully.
“Oh, not again?” his friend groaned with a forced smile.
“Again!”
“They were awful last week! How many times can you stomach them?”
“Believe me, I ask my wife the same thing, but she won’t listen! Alright, dig in!”
***
Steven, their new colleague, watched them with confusion, unsure why Robert had such a distaste for home-cooked meals. Oliver decided to explain.
“See, Rob here misses all the rubbish food—instant noodles, pizza, kebabs, that sort of thing. But his wife packs him a proper lunch every day to keep him healthy. So I help out. Can’t let good food go to waste, can we? He eats my Pot Noodle, and I polish off his wife’s cooking.”
“Is she that bad at cooking?” Steven asked, pulling his microwaved sandwich from the toaster bag.
“Nah, it’s decent enough,” Oliver chuckled, opening Robert’s lunchbox. “But who fancies meatballs, spaghetti bolognese, or beef Wellington every single day? Bloke needs a break.”
“Why not just tell his wife to stop bothering?” Steven suggested. “She’d probably be relieved.”
“Tried that. She won’t hear a word of it.”
“And you’re happy to play along?”
“Waste not, want not!”
“If I had a wife who made me packed lunches, I’d never hand them over,” Steven sighed, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“So get married, then! What’s stopping you?”
“Haven’t met the right one yet.”
“You will,” Oliver clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re new in town, yeah? Plenty of lovely girls about.”
The lads finished lunch and returned to work. They all worked at the same furniture company, though in different roles—Robert was head of sales, Oliver in assembly, and Steven, the newest hire, handled warehouse duties.
Steven’s words from earlier turned out to be prophetic. That very evening, he bumped into a striking woman in her early thirties at the supermarket. She was struggling to reach a box of artisan pasta on the top shelf—petite, standing just over five feet, but undeniably pretty.
“Need a hand?” Steven offered politely. At six feet, he had no trouble reaching.
“You’re a lifesaver!” she beamed, flashing him a smile that left him momentarily dazed.
Her laugh, the way her eyes crinkled—suddenly, time seemed irrelevant. He wanted to stay in that moment forever, but after grabbing the pasta, she moved on, scanning the aisles for more ingredients.
Shaking himself out of it, Steven hurried after her.
“What’re you making?” he asked casually.
“Lasagne! Thought I’d treat my husband. He’s sick of my meatballs, apparently,” she laughed.
“I’m Steven, by the way.”
“I’m Emily—and you can drop the formalities.”
He’d completely forgotten about lunchtime’s conversation—until it all clicked.
“Bit of a shame, isn’t it?” he teased. “Going to all this effort when he might not appreciate it?”
She raised an eyebrow. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Heard a funny story today. Makes you wonder, y’know? Bloke at work trades his wife’s homemade lunches for Pot Noodles. Hard to figure men out sometimes.”
Emily’s smile faltered. “If I ever found out my husband did that, he’d regret it.”
“Suppose Robert’s wife would say the same.”
“Robert?” She froze. “Where do you work?”
“Just moved here. Got a job as a stockman at the furniture place over in Greenwich.”
Emily’s expression darkened as the pieces fell into place. Her husband had been putting on weight lately. His name was Robert. He worked at the same company. Too many coincidences.
“That absolute rat!” she seethed. “So it’s Oliver eating my cooking while my husband lives off instant rubbish?”
Steven winced. He’d stepped in it now. How was he supposed to know this gorgeous woman was his coworker’s wife?
“Whoops,” he muttered sheepishly.
Emily abandoned her trolley and stormed towards the exit, muttering under her breath, “Lasagne? Ha! He’ll get meatballs and microwaved peas from now on!”
Steven chased after her, catching up near her car.
“You shouldn’t drive when you’re this mad,” he insisted. “Let me buy you a coffee. Calm down first.”
She glared but eventually relented.
Inside the café, Steven ordered coffee and slices of Victoria sponge. To his relief, it worked—Emily nibbled her cake, simmering down slightly.
“That lousy Oliver,” she fumed. “How long has this been going on?”
“No idea. Sorry for spilling the beans—please don’t get me sacked.”
“I won’t say a word. But he’ll pay for this.”
“Cheers. Job market’s rough.”
“Tell me about it,” she huffed. “I spend hours cooking, and for what? Some ungrateful bloke hands it off!”
“Those meatballs did smell amazing,” Steven admitted. “I’d never share them.”
“Worst part? I love cooking. It’s not even a chore for me—just wish it was appreciated.”
“Lucky him. I can barely fry an egg.”
Emily rolled her eyes. “Anyone can cook if they bother learning.” She eyed him thoughtfully. “Want me to teach you?”
Steven should’ve said no. But the idea of her in his kitchen was too tempting.
“Yeah. Maybe start with that lasagne?”
“Easy. Got the right dishes?”
“Er—no. Just a saucepan and a frying pan.”
“Oven work?”
“Think so? It’s electric.”
“That’ll do.” Grinning, she finished the last of his cake and stood.
***
Robert returned home to a dark, silent flat. As he pulled out his phone to call Emily, the lock turned.
“Where’ve you been?”
“Sorry, love. Coworker needed help with a lasagne recipe. Lost track of time.”
“Lasagne?” His stomach growled. One of his favourites—the few meals he never traded at work.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Got some ham. Fancy scrambled eggs?”
He pulled a face. Now he really wanted lasagne.
“Fine. I’ll wash up.”
Emily looked far too pleased, but he didn’t think much of it.
Dinner was a quiet affair. Robert ate grudgingly before dozing off in front of the telly. Emily, still cross, didn’t wake him.
The next morning, Robert sipped his coffee, waiting for his usual packed lunch. But Emily just applied her mascara, humming.
“Did you make me anything?”
“Oh! Forgot. You don’t take scrambled eggs, do you? Canteen today, love.”
Baffled, Robert left empty-handed.
***
At lunch, Steven proudly unveiled a container of lasagne.
“Upgraded from sandwiches?” Oliver teased.
“Made it myself. Friend taught me.”
“Blimey. Didn’t peg you for a chef.”
Robert eyed the dish enviously. “Wish I had that.”
“Wife finally cracked?” Oliver grinned.
“Dunno. Just got Pot Noodle today.”
Steven smirked. “Miss her cooking now, don’t you?”
Robert texted Emily later: *Fancy lasagne tonight?*
*Can’t. Book club.*
He frowned. Normally, she’d drop everything.
Dinner was scrambled eggs again. And the next night. And the next.
Two weeks passed. Emily stuck to basics—eggs, frozen pies, under-seasoned chips. Meanwhile, she and Steven had cooking sessions, their friendship growing.
One evening, she brought her friend Marianne along.
“Meet Marianne—single, brilliant cook,” Emily announced.
Marianne batted her lashes. Steven blinked—this was unexpected.
Five minutes later, Emily made an excuse and left.
She had no plans to cheat. But Marianne deserved a good man, and Steven? Well.
***
Next lunch, Steven unveiled fragrant pilaf.
“Getting married,” he declared.
“What? To who?”
“Marianne. Best cook I’ve ever met.”
Robert, halfway through a proper lunch Emily had finally made, smirked. “My lasagne’s better.”
Oliver eyed the dish longingly. “Share?”
“Not a chance. Stick to your Pot Noodles—or get hitched like Steven.”
At Steven and Marianne’s wedding, Emily pulled him aside.
“Taught him a lesson, did you?” he whispered.
She grinned. “Hell hath no fury.”
