“And what am I rescuing you from today?” asked Oliver, stirring his second pot of instant noodles.
“Mashed potatoes and meatballs!” replied Robert cheerfully.
“Again?” Oliver feigned a smile.
“Again!”
“Last week it was those wretched meatballs! How much longer?”
“I ask my wife the same thing, but she won’t listen! Alright, dig in!”
***
Stephen, their new colleague, blinked at the pair, baffled as to why Robert disliked home-cooked meals. Oliver decided to explain.
“The thing is, Robert misses all the junk food—instant noodles, pizza, pasties, and the like—but his wife keeps packing him proper meals so he eats well. I’m saving him. Waste not, want not! He gets my instant noodles, and I get his wife’s cooking.”
“Is her cooking that bad?” asked Stephen, unwrapping his microwave sandwich.
“No, it’s fine, actually. Just tiresome having meatballs, minestrone, and beef bourguignon every day!” Oliver grinned, cracking open his friend’s lunchbox. “So I help him out, as mates do.”
“Why not just tell her to stop cooking? She’d probably be relieved!” Stephen pointed out.
“Robert tried. She won’t hear of it!”
“And you’re happy to oblige?”
“Why let good food go to waste?”
“If I had a wife who packed my lunches, I’d never share!” Stephen sighed dreamily, biting into his sandwich.
“What’s stopping you, then? Get married!”
“Haven’t met the right girl yet.”
“You will!” Oliver clapped him on the shoulder. “You’re new in town, aren’t you? Plenty of lovely lasses here!”
The lads finished lunch and returned to work. They all labored at the same furniture company, though in different roles. Robert managed sales, Oliver worked in assembly, and Stephen had recently joined as a warehouse hand.
As if reading the future, Stephen’s words proved prophetic. That very evening, he met a striking woman in her early thirties—perhaps younger—at the supermarket. She stood on tiptoe, straining to reach a box of artisanal pasta from the top shelf. Petite, just over five feet, but undeniably pretty.
“Need a hand?” Stephen offered gallantly.
“Oh, I’d be ever so grateful!” The stranger smiled.
That smile! It left Stephen dizzy, as though time dissolved. He wanted to linger in that moment, but as she plucked the pasta from his grasp, she moved on, searching for other ingredients.
Recovering, Stephen hurried after her.
“What’s on the menu?” he asked casually.
“Lasagna for my husband! He’s grown tired of my meatballs,” she said brightly.
“I’m Stephen, by the way. And you?”
“Annie. And ‘you’ is fine.”
Stephen had forgotten all about the lunchtime chat, but now it flooded back.
“Isn’t it a bother, running errands like this?” he teased.
“Not at all! What’s wrong with spoiling your man?”
“Heard an odd story today—bloke trades his wife’s lunches for instant noodles. Makes you wonder, doesn’t it?”
Her eyes narrowed. “What story?”
“A mate of mine gives his homemade meals to his best friend and eats rubbish instead. What’s a woman to make of that?”
“If I found out my husband did that, he’d regret it!” Annie huffed, offended on behalf of wives everywhere.
“Robert’ll get an earful if his wife ever learns!” Stephen agreed.
“Robert?” She froze. “Where do you work?”
“Just moved here, actually. Got a job at the furniture factory on the Southbank.”
Annie’s expression darkened. The pieces fell into place—her husband’s recent weight gain, his name, his workplace. This was no coincidence.
“That scoundrel! So Oliver’s been eating my cooking while my Robert lives on instant noodles!”
Stephen winced. He’d stepped in it now. How was he to know this lovely stranger was Robert’s wife?
“Oops,” he said weakly.
Annie abandoned her trolley, storming toward the exit, muttering, “Lasagna? He’ll get meatballs, cutlets, and spaghetti until he chokes!”
Stephen chased after her, catching up as she unlocked her car.
“You’re in no state to drive,” he said firmly. “Let me buy you a coffee. Calm down first.”
“No!” she snapped—but he insisted.
In the end, Annie relented. They sat in the supermarket café, sipping coffee and sharing cakes. Surprisingly, it worked.
Between bites, she fumed. “That Oliver! The cheek! How long’s this been going on?”
“No idea. Sorry for spilling the beans—please don’t give me away. Robert’s my boss; he’ll sack me!”
“He won’t. I’ll think of a better revenge.”
“Cheers. Jobs aren’t easy to come by.”
“I know—I looked for ages. And after all that effort—rushing to the shops, slaving over the stove for hours—and he throws it away? My cooking’s excellent!”
“Smelled divine today,” Stephen admitted guiltily. “I wouldn’t share.”
“The worst part? I adore cooking. It’s no trouble—a labor of love! But for another woman’s husband? Never.”
“Lucky bloke. I can barely fry an egg!”
“That’s rubbish. Anyone can learn!” Annie swiped his last cakebite. “Want lessons?”
Stephen should’ve refused, but the image of her in his kitchen was too tempting.
“Absolutely. Start with lasagna? Or is that too hard?”
“Easy, if you’ve got the right tools.”
“Let’s buy what you need. My flat’s bare—just a saucepan, frying pan, and a few plates.”
“Oven work?”
“Electric one. Will that do?”
“Perfect!” Annie beamed, standing.
***
Robert returned home to a dark, silent flat. He searched the rooms, but no Annie. Just as he reached for his phone, the lock clicked.
“Where’ve you been?” he asked. “Do you know the time?”
“Sorry, love. A work friend begged for lasagna lessons. Popped round to hers.”
“Lasagna?” His stomach growled. One of his favorites—the rare dish he never traded to Oliver.
“What’s for dinner?”
“Got some boiled ham. I’ll fry eggs. You like those, yeah?”
Robert grimaced. Now he craved lasagna.
“Fine. I’ll wash up.”
Annie looked smug, but he didn’t dwell on it. She’d had a grand evening with Stephen—first splurging on cookware, then instructing him in his kitchen.
(Not that anything untoward happened. Strictly culinary.)
He followed her directions, earning a delicious shared meal. Leftovers went into a container for work.
She’d rushed home, hitting traffic, and arrived slightly late.
Robert, after his ham and eggs, dozed off watching telly. Normally, Annie woke him when she went to bed—but not tonight. Still cross.
Next morning, Robert sipped coffee and grabbed a chocolate muffin. Usually, Annie handed him a lunchbox—but today, she sat applying makeup, indifferent.
“Did you pack me anything?”
“Oh! Forgot, darling. Usually, there’s leftovers, but you wouldn’t take eggs, would you? Try the canteen.”
“Fine.” He shrugged, unused to this version of his wife—normally fussing over him, plucking cat hairs from his jacket (courtesy of their tabby, Whiskers).
Annie didn’t even kiss him goodbye.
At lunch, Stephen’s lasagna raised no red flags.
“Ditching sandwiches?” Oliver teased.
“Feasting like a king today.”
“Bought it?” Robert’s mouth watered at the aroma.
“Made it. Friend taught me.”
“You’re socializing? Good lad!” Oliver cheered. “Though cooking’s woman’s work!”
“Disagree. If it means eating like this, I’ll learn.”
“Get married!” Robert said.
“So I can trade home-cooked meals for noodles, like you?” Stephen teased.
Robert’s instant noodles tasted especially bland watching Stephen devour lasagna. He texted Annie:
*Craving lasagna. Make it?*
*No promises. Late shift.*
Robert sulked. Normally, she jumped at his requests.
That night, Annie arrived half an hour late—radiant, not tired.
“Where’ve you been? I’m starving!”
“Fry eggs and ham.”
“Again?”
“Pasta’s gone. Or I could boil some dumplings. Oh—none left. Eggs it is!”
“What about potatoes and salad?”
“Too much effort. Stop whinging.”
Robert ate begrudgingly. He missed proper meals.
The following week, Robert finally caved and brought Annie flowers, begging her to cook again—while Stephen and Marya, now engaged, invited the whole office to their wedding, where Oliver, still single, wistfully eyed Robert’s heaping plate of homemade lasagna.
