And whats all this, then? Whose size eleven boots are clogging up my hall? Evelyn stopped dead on the doorstep, not even managing to set the weighty shopping bags down before the scene overwhelmed her.
Harsh, sour tobacco and the dregs of last nights lager assaulted her nose, bitterly out of place in the flat, which usually smelled of lemon polish, baking, and lavender softener. The air belonged to someone elsesomeone unwelcome. Evelyn slowly shifted her gaze from the dirty, mismatched boots to the pegs by the coat stand. Draped unceremoniously atop her cream mac was a battered, peeling faux leather jacket shed never seen before.
From the kitchen, her husband, Peter, peered out. He bore the look of a child caught red-handed, eyes darting, mouth set, as if bracing for a storm. He wiped his hands rapidly on the tea towel, trying to block the kitchen doorway with his body.
Evie, youre home early! Didnt hear you come in, he spluttered, cheeks colouring. Dont be cross. Its just, well… we have a guest.
A guest? Its seven on a Tuesday. Whys our guest been having a smoke in the house? You know I cant stand the smell. Evelyn set the bags down, hanging her eyes on Peter, careful as she unbuttoned her coat.
Peter shuffled, clearly miserable.
Its Stuart. My mate from schoolremember the stories from when I was at Sandhurst? Hes landed on hard times. Passing through London, not a penny to his name. Didnt think it right to turn him out…
At that, the old army chum shuffled in from the kitchen. Evelyn nearly recoiled. Stuart, a burly, tall man with a ruddy, blotchy face and a bulbous nose, wore bagged-out trackies and a yellowed vest through which an extraordinary amount of chest hair was visible. In one grimy hand he clutched a half-eaten cheese and pickle sandwichthe last of the farmhouse cheddar shed saved for her weekday breakfasts.
Well, the lady of the house is in! Stuart belted out, swallowing noisily. Evening, Evelyn… sorry, your surname escapes me. Petes talked loads about you. Says you do a mean shepherds pie. We were just dying of hunger, had to help ourselves.
Annoyance simmered behind Evelyns ribs. She quietly kicked off her boots, washed her hands, and only then returned to find the men standing about like guilty schoolboys.
Peter, a word, please. In the bedroom. Now.
Inside, she shut the door firmly and hissed, Whats the meaning of this? Who is he really? Why is he traipsing about in rags through my house, and whys he pilfering all our food?
Evie, please dont start Peter pleaded in low tones, gripping her hand. His missus threw him out, took the flat and even his old Ford Escort. Hes literally on the street, babe. Came here hoping to find work. No cash for a B&B. I couldnt just abandon an old mate, could I?
And how long is this old mate cluttering up my spare room?
Only a couple of days a week at the very most, till he gets a job and finds his feet. Youre an angel, love. That spare rooms unused since Sophie got married.
Evelyn exhaled. Peters bleeding heart had been the cause of many kitchen-table rescue missionsfor distant relations, desperate colleagues, and once, even a homeless cocker spaniel. But an unknown, shapeless man reeking of stale lager and cigs?
One week, Peter. Seven days. And not a single cigarette in heretheres a balcony, isnt there? And tell him to put on actual clothes. Im not living at Benidorm beach.
Youre gold, Evie! Ill sort everything, youll see.
Had Evelyn known what that week would become, shed have turfed Stuart and Peter both out on the spot.
That first night was oddly peaceful, except for Stuarts devouring half a weeks worth of homemade pork pies. He ate with astonishing noise, wiped his hands on his trousers, and launched into endless anecdotes about the army canteen, while Peter howled with laughter. Evelyn forced herself to sit upright at the table, picking her salad and counting the minutes until she could retreat.
Tell you what, Pete, Stuart boomed, eyes lidded, belly patted, youve landed well here. Spacious flat, missus cooks grand. Not like my exthe old hag always after my wallet. Here, this is like a holiday camp!
We muddle along Peter said, pouring tea dutifully.
Evelyn, how about knocking up some sausage rolls? Or cheese and onion, mind. I cant stand shop pastries, theyre like rubber.
Mr. Taylor, Im chief accountant at a major firm Evelyn replied, level. I leave at eight every morning and get back at seven at night. I dont have time for pies on demand.
Oh, come off it, Stuart grunted, womens lot, isnt it? Keep us men fed and watered. The rest is just a bit of work to keep you busy. Home is what matters.
Evelyn noted this silently on her mental Reasons He Must Leave list.
Three days passed. Stuart seemed allergic to job seeking. All day while the owners were at work, he sprawled on the sitting room sofa, watching daytime telly. On returning, Evelyn found stacks of dishes, crumbs mashed into the carpet, and a pungent whiff of smoke in the loothe balcony apparently too far for him.
Peter, he smokes in the bathroom! The towels smell horrendous! Evelyn hissed in the kitchen.
Ill speak with him, darling, honestly. Poor blokes just stressed.
On Thursday, Evelyn came home early, head throbbing. Unlocking the door, laughter and glass clinks met her. In the lounge, by the coffee table, sat Stuartthis time joined by someone new, a scruffy man in a cap and a half-guzzled bottle of gin, along with Evelyns pickled onions reserved for Christmas Day.
Spotting her, Stuart grinned.
Evelyn! Ran into me old mate Marty down the shop. Small world, innit? Come join us, were having a right natter!
Her headache roared.
Mr. Taylor, she said softly but so icily the man in the cap shot upright any guests out of here by the time I count to sixty. And clear that mess off my table.
As his pal scurried off, Stuart puffed up.
Why so cross, Evie? Just having a quiet drink with me mate. Not allowed a bit of company now?
This is my house. Not a pub, not a doss house. You were supposed to find work. Hows that going?
Im looking, Im looking he growled, necking the gin it takes time, what with Brexit and all. Ive got standards, you know.
What standards, exactly? Eating other peoples lunches?
Dont you startPeters my mate, not you! A woman should know her place when men are talking!
Evelyn reeled at the audacity. She retreated to the bedroom and locked the door. When Peter returned, she launched a spectacular row.
Either he goes tomorrow, or Ill do something I regret! Hes bringing strangers, mouthing off, drinking our anniversary gin!
Peter looked utterly battered.
Be patient, love. Ive found him a few job ads. Hell go to interviews tomorrow, promise. I cant just throw him out, not in this weather.
And I suppose you think its fine that he insults me and sponges from us? Wheres his conscience?
Hes suffered, Evelyn. He needs our understanding.
Understanding cost the household another weeks worth of steak and chicken, and his weeks grace seeped into two. Stuart never attended interviewsalways pleading a dodgy knee, the buses too slow, or the wages too insulting.
Instead, he instructed Peter on how to be a man.
Honestly Pete, youre henpecked! Letting your wife rule the roost. Bet she makes you call when you want to go for a pint. Not right! You want to be the manslam your fist, lay down the law.
Its fine, Stuart, we manage Peter muttered, cringing.
Fineso boring! Should see what I put up with. Still, you need to keep your woman on a tight lead, or shell have you in a collar soon.
Evelyn heard every word, shivering in a cooling bath, determined to vanish entirely.
The final straw came on Sunday.
Shed spent half the day scrubbing, hoovering, shining taps, all to clear the sticky messes Stuart somehow amassed daily. Shed cooked a roastbeef in red wine saucea complicated recipe for Peters sake.
When all was ready, she called them in.
Stuart took Peters seat at the head of the table. Without so much as a glance, he heaped his plate with the best bitscaramelised, perfectly tenderand shovelled it in, chewing greedily.
Well, then, crack on, love he snorted meats all right, bit bland though. Heap more salt in next time, and couldve gone heavier on the pepper!
Evelyn froze, fork in hand. Shed spent hours slow-roasting that beef.
Dont like it? Then dont eat it, she said coldly.
Oh, were touchy tonight! Stuart barked a laugh, prodding Peter in the ribs. Go on, Pete, tell her! Cant learn if she cant take a bit of criticism, eh?
Peter stared into his plate. Its lovely, Evie. She cooks beautifully.
Nah, its fine. My mumd have had you crying with delight. This is just passable. By the way, Pete, were you still going to lend me £100? Need beer money and a travelcard. Absolutely skint here.
With precision, Evelyn set her fork down. The metallic clang cracked the silence.
Peter her voice was almost gentle, but steely are you giving him money? Out of our pocket?
Peter flushed crimson.
Only a bit, love… so hes not starving. Hell pay back once hes sorted.
He wont sort anything she declared because he doesnt have to! Warm, fed and cost-freehes got all he wants. Why work when theres a soft touch and a silent housekeeper?
Stuart stopped chewing, face mottling dark red.
Whore you calling a fool? he barked. Have some respect, woman! Im your guest!
Guests get invited, and know their limits, Evelyn retorted, rising from the chair. Parasites dont. You are a parasite, Stuart Taylorand I wont have it.
Pete! Stuart thundered Your wifes insulting me! Are you going to stand for that? Are you a man or a jellyfish? Tell her!
Terror shone in Peters eyes: a terror of conflict, of losing both his friend and his wife, locked into an impossible vice.
Evie, please dont be so harsh… Stuarts my mate…
Is he? A mate who undermines your marriage, sponges off you and turns you against your own family? Thats no friend, Peter. Thats a leech. Im done.
She strode to the spare roomnow festooned with Stuarts mess. Flung open the wardrobe, pulled down his crumpled shirts, baggy jumpers, worn jeans, all dumped in a heap.
What are you playing at?! Stuart blustered, lumbering after her, with Peter trailing shamefaced behind.
Packing your things, said Evelyn, cramming them in an old duffel bag. Youve got ten minutes to be gone.
Peter, mate! Make her stop! Its your flat too! You get a say!
Peter hovered, mute.
Evie, lets discuss this… he sputtered.
No discussion she snapped, shoving clothes into the bag Either he goes, or you both do. If your loyaltys to him, so be it. I wont keep you.
A tense hush, broken only by Stuarts huffing.
I… I cant put him out, Evie, Peter murmured, head sagging hes my friend. Hell be lost out there.
So youve chosen Evelyn replied.
From the bedroom, she rolled Peters suitcase into the hall, thrown together with methodical precision.
Evie, love, what are you Peter tried to intercede.
Dont touch me! she jerked away. You want to stick by him? Fineset up your bachelor pad together somewhere else. Drink, moan, badmouth women at leisure. You wont do it on my flooring.
She banged the suitcase shut, placed it by the door. Stuarts duffel joined it with a thud.
Out.
Youll regret this, Evelyn! Were off! Dont come crawling back when youre lonely! Who needs you at your age? Peter threatened, blustering as he zipped his jacket.
Better to be alone than shackled to a traitor and a bloodsucker, she replied.
Stuart already hovered on the landing, seething.
Dont lower yourself, Pete. Plenty of birds out there. But real mates? Only one in a lifetime.
With a final, wounded glance, Peter toted his suitcase and left. Evelyn closed the door behind them, bolts sliding, chain rattling.
Her legs crumpled, and she slid down with her back braced to the wood. Breathing hard, she heard the lift grumbledown, then silence. Gone. Her husband of twenty-five years and his old mate of two weeks.
Hot, angry tears spilled from Evelyns eyes. How could he choose that oaf over her, over everything theyd built? Was mateship really worth burning a marriage?
Yet beneath the ache, a peculiar relief set in. Like lancing an infectionsharp, but cleansing.
She wiped her eyes, went to the kitchen. There sat a half-eaten roast, left cold by Stuarts careless hand. Without hesitation, she tipped it into the bin, followed by the bottle of gin and the onions reserved for Christmas.
She flung the windows open. Crisp night air streamed in, driving out the last sour trace of smoke and stale lager.
The week passed in a strange, muffled trance. She went to work, came home, made supper for one. For three days, her phone lay silent. On Thursday, Peter finally rang.
Evie, hello his voice croaked, pitiful. How are you?
Surviving, she replied, voice flat.
Evie… we should talk. This bedsits a nightmaredamp, neighbours drinking, cockroaches, you wouldnt believe. Stuart snores like a freight trainnever sleeps. I miss home, Evie. Can I come back? Just me. I told him I wont carry him anymore.
Evelyn stared out at the twinkling street. Snow was falling, feathering the city in white.
Evie? Please. I love you. I want to come home. To you, to your apple crumble, to proper order…
She remembered how hed watched while Stuart insulted her, stood silent, made his choice.
No, Peter she answered quietly. You left with him. Not after him. And I dont take back a traitor. Go on, share your pints and woes. Youve got mates for life.
She pressed end and blocked the number.
The flat was silent. Evelyn made herself tea, cut a slab of the cabbage pie shed baked yesterdayfor herself alone. She curled up in her armchair and turned on her detective show. At fifty-two, she still had a whole life ahead. A peaceful, dignified life, unburdened by parasites or fools, and without anyone telling her how to cook her beef.
Loneliness no longer frightened her. It felt dear, like a reward finally claimed.
