I can’t stand late-night phone calls. Decent people don’t ring at such an hour unless something truly dreadful has happened. That’s why I always flinch when the phone goes off in the dead of night, bracing for bad news.
I was just drifting off when my husband’s mobile shattered the bedroom silence. He sighed and picked up.
“Unknown number,” he muttered, glancing back at me.
“Put it on silent. If it’s urgent, they’ll call back in the morning,” I grumbled, pulling the duvet over my head.
The phone kept ringing. I exhaled sharply and threw off the covers.
“For heaven’s sake, just answer it!” I snapped, knowing sleep was hopeless now.
He listened for a long while, then said he’d leave first thing in the morning.
“What?” I sat up, fully awake. “Where are you going?”
“Jim’s dead. Heart attack. His wife rang—asked me to come. I’ll take leave tomorrow and drive up. Blimey, Jim… Not even forty…” Mark got up and shuffled to the kitchen.
At dawn, I packed him a spare shirt and razor. I barely knew Jim, so I stayed behind.
Over coffee, I weighed my options: tidy the flat or wash the curtains? Weekends are never a break for women, are they? I decided against cooking—three days without proper meals might do me good. If I got peckish, I’d fry an egg. When Mark got back, I’d make something nice.
But my plans were dashed. No sooner had I freshened up than the doorbell rang. Assuming it was the neighbour, I swung the door open—only to find my mother-in-law, Margaret, looming on the threshold, her second husband, Simon, hovering behind.
“You don’t seem pleased. We were nearby and thought we’d pop in. But if you’re busy, we’ll be off,” she said, not budging an inch while scrutinising my face.
As if she’d ever given us warning before.
“Don’t be silly, come in,” I forced a smile, stepping aside.
“We won’t stay long, isn’t that right, Simon?” Margaret said, shrugging off her mink coat. Simon caught it mid-air before it hit the floor.
“Keep your shoes on—I haven’t cleaned today. Lovely to see you, Margaret. You look well,” I chirped, oozing false cheer.
“And where’s Marky? At work? It’s the weekend! He never rests. You ought to get a job too—then he wouldn’t have to slog on his days off.” Her tone wasn’t just reproachful—it was an outright accusation of my laziness.
“I do work—from home—” I started, but it was pointless. She’d never listen. The moment I explained remote jobs paid well, her selective deafness kicked in.
Margaret’s sharp eyes swept the room, spotting dust on the cabinet and Mark’s shirt draped over a chair—a laundry oversight.
“New curtains? Pretty, but the old ones were fine. You live beyond your means. New sofa too? What was wrong with the last one?” Without waiting, she plopped onto the couch, testing it. “A bit light, isn’t it?”
People say memory fades with age. Hers had only sharpened. Fancy recalling our curtains from months ago.
Leaving her to judge the sofa, I bolted to the kitchen, mentally inventorying the fridge. Tea alone wouldn’t cut it. She’d ring every friend tonight, complaining I’d starved her—and that poor Marky, her precious boy, got no proper meals. Not on my watch.
Fridge open—salad veg, good start. I yanked a steak from the freezer and microwaved it thawing, then whipped up a quick sponge cake.
Cake in the oven, steak sizzling, I diced veggies for salad. Soon, the flat smelled of baking. I half-expected her to bustle in—wishful thinking.
A shriek—indignant or delighted?—sent me racing to the lounge. Margaret stood by the china cabinet, clutching a vase from Royal Worcester.
“Antique! Is this how you spend my son’s hard-earned money?” She glared as if I were a cockroach.
I babbled an excuse—my gran’s gift two months back—then remembered the cake. I dashed back, rescuing it just in time. Thank God. Flipped the steak, covered the pan, then finished the salad.
Dinner served on the good china, I summoned them.
“We didn’t come to eat—just to visit,” Margaret said, settling in. Her gaze darted between the steak, salad, cake, back to the steak.
Simon speared a crispy slice. I’d laid out knives, but he was a straightforward bloke—etiquette be damned. He bit in, eyes closing in bliss. My heart soared—efforts rewarded. Then Margaret’s icy voice yanked me back.
“Simon! It’s Lent!”
He choked, face twisting as if chewing poison, not prime beef.
Horror struck—I’d forgotten Lent! Trembling, I braced for the fallout.
Feigning remorse, I rambled about Mark adoring my cooking, hence the steak always stocked. The local shop only had cod—hardly guest-worthy.
“If you’d called ahead, I’d have bought proper fish,” I bleated.
Simon, meanwhile, eyed another slice.
“Salad, Margaret?” I simpered, nudging the bowl her way. Thank heavens I’d skipped mayo—her pet hate.
She permitted a spoonful, nibbled a cucumber slice, and—miracle!—swallowed sans critique.
Buoyed, I missed Simon lunging for more meat until Margaret’s glare froze him. Defeated, he set down his fork, gaze lingering. Poor sod.
Mark’s dad had fled her iron will when he was eight. Years later, at a friend’s do, Margaret reunited with Simon, her first love—now widowed—and remarried.
I put the kettle on, sliced the gorgeous cake, and fetched Mum’s wedding-gift teacups. Margaret got the choicest slice.
“Last time I forgot the cinnamon, remember? Try it now—you’ll taste the difference,” I lied sweetly. Last time, she’d insisted it needed more.
“Really?” She eyed me, sceptical.
Seizing her distraction, Simon shoveled meat like a man starved.
The kettle whistled. I poured strong tea. Margaret scowled.
“Too hot? Shall I cool it?” I leapt for the water jug.
“Black tea’s unhealthy. Don’t you know?” she snipped, eyeing me like a simpleton.
“Even in Lent?” I blinked innocently.
Her glare could’ve frozen hell.
Simon raised another forkful, but Margaret intercepted.
“Enough, Simon. Your cholesterol’s bad enough. Give him cake. Hopefully it won’t give him heartburn.”
Simon mourned his steak as I slid him cake.
“Margaret, I’ll make green tea—”
“Trying to poison me? Bagged tea’s plastic rubbish. Sit! One cup won’t kill me… I hope.” She sipped straight-faced—to my shock.
They drank while I sat statue-still, terrified of another misstep. Finally, Margaret set down her empty cup, cheeks pinker, mood improved.
“Where’s Marky? He should be home by now.”
Why she baby-named a grown man baffled me. Mark hated it. Notice she never used my name?
“Didn’t I say? He’s gone to a funeral. His uni mate died. The widow rang last night—he’ll be back tomorrow.”
“Did you? Must’ve missed it. Shame,” she pursed her lips.
Whether she meant missing Mark or his friend’s timing, I couldn’t tell. We lapsed into silence.
“Well, we won’t keep you. Simon, time to go,” she announced, not moving.
Keep me? I’d rather scrub the windows and hallway than dance attendance—which she’d never notice.
“Nonsense! Always a pleasure,” I trilled, thrilled this impromptu “Surprise Mother-in-Law” show was ending.
Margaret rose, eyeing Simon like a drill sergeant. One look sufficed.
“When Marky’s back, tell him we called.” Her gaze flicked to the barely touched food.
“Mary!” Simon called from the hall, holding her coat ready.
She took ages dressing, then prolonged farewells at the door.
“And really—meat during Lent?” Her parting shot.
Since when was she devout? We air-kissed cheeks. Simon and I exchanged a knowing look.
Door shut, I collapsed on the new sofa. Man plans, God laughs.
I cleared up, sighing over the wasted steak—wishing Mark were here—scrubbed the dishes, then cleaned the flat. Peace until her next ambush.
Two days later, Mark returned. How I’d missed him!
“You look rough. Overworked?” he asked after funeral details.
“YepHe just grinned, kissed my forehead, and said, “Next time she turns up unannounced, we’re hiding in the shed until she leaves.”
