Another woman is frying meatballs for my husband!
Whos that and why is she here? Amelia Whitfield shouted, dropping her satchel and poised to launch herself into the kitchen.
Its Eleanor! George Benson replied contentedly.
Impossible! Amelias face twisted. What is she doing in my kitchen?
Just as you can see, George wafted the scent of sizzling meatballs with a smile. Shes cooking them!
Youve had too much tea? Amelia snapped again. Youve invited a stranger into my home just to have her fry meatballs?
Yes, George nodded. Ive suddenly craved a proper meatball after that tea.
Eleanor peeked out from behind the stove.
Ah, finally! My own hostess appears. My husband cant even fry a single meatball for himself!
Cant you? Amelia stammered, bewildered. Of course I can!
I simply didnt notice your husband turned down my offer to cook for him, Eleanor chuckled. Perhaps I should tempt him again? Maybe hell finally say yes.
Yes, Ill tear you to pieces with my own hands! Amelia shrieked.
With those dainty fingers of yours, I feel no threat at all, Eleanor cooed. Your manicures fresh, your hands are all pampered!
You should be curling your own hair and playing the part of a lady then! Its clear youve never set foot in a proper house!
Yes, I Amelia choked on her anger. Just so you know
Come on, dear, the lady business is over. Here, have a meatballjust one, lest it wont fit into your business suit! Eleanor gestured toward the stove.
Enough of that! Amelia said, passing George. Ill deal with her now, then you can get ready.
Dont waste my meatballs! George called after her.
Amelia stormed into the kitchen, determined to hurl the insolent woman out. Eleanor was already seated at the table, pouring tea into delicate cups.
A soothing balm for you? Eleanor asked with a smile.
I Amelia hissed through clenched teeth.
Whatever you say, Eleanor shrugged, Ill have my tea.
Youre! Amelia spat a string of curses.
Take it off your tongue! Eleanor snapped upright. What have you driven George to, that he lets a stranger into his kitchen to fry meatballs?
You can starve a man only if hes promised a diet, not because hes already full of life, clean and loved.
Er Amelia mumbled uncertainly.
Its lucky I intercepted him, Eleanor said, otherwise hed be wandering the streets with a chemicallycurled hairdo, already ready to fry meatballs, make the bed, and everything else!
And you? Eleanor asked, perching on a stool.
Do I need to? Eleanor smirked, sipping tea. I have my own husband. Im just helping a regular customer of mine.
I saved him for you! He was about to wander the lane looking for someone to fry his meatballs!
Hes a decent man, if youd just take him by the hand hed be yours! Eleanor laughed.
Did we meet before? Amelia asked, suspicion flickering.
Your memory is sharp! Eleanor teased. I work at the butchers shop down the road. You and George buy meat from me all the time!
Exactly! Amelia brightened.
From the pocket, right? Eleanor parried. What have you done to George that you let a stranger into your kitchen for a meatball? Is that now normal?
—
Originally George and Amelia led a conventional British family. He earned a salary as a university lecturer, while Amelia was on maternity leave.
She spent eight years at home, raising three children, feeling satisfied that shed fulfilled the expected programme.
George was proud of their big, happy household. Hed been an only child and remembered the loneliness of his parents being at work.
Hed once dreamed, If only I had a brother or sister, wed have fun together.
In his own family he did everything he could to spare his children his own childhood woes.
Three kids and a stayathome mumthats what made their situation puzzling to neighbours: how could he, a modestpaid academic, support such a brood?
The secret was simple luck. On his eighteenth birthday his parents gave him a modest country house. No one knew why; it was just there.
George, however, was still studying at university and wanted to stay on as a lecturer, so the house meant little to him.
Two years later, just before he turned twenty, the house sat empty. He sold it for a tidy sum and handed the money to his friend Archie, who was launching a small tech startup.
Archie used the cash wisely, and the venture grew; George became a silent partner, never really having to understand the business.
Archie, you know the ropesjust keep the profits coming my way, George would say, smiling.
Initially the earnings were modest, but they swelled with the companys success. Surplus funds were tucked into a savings account, earmarked for big things like university fees, a flat, a car, or a wedding.
Thus the family lived comfortably. George taught, researched, and loved his academic life. Amelia tended the home, the children, and her husband. Their leisure was shared, funded by the steady income.
Life stayed smooth until the youngest son turned ten.
Georges routine stayed unchanged, but Amelia felt an ache. The endless devotion to the children now left a hollow space; the kids wanted independence and even asked not to be bothered.
A sense of emptiness pressed on her. She went through the motions, but nothing brought joy. Free time gnawed at her from the inside.
George, Im losing my mind. I love you, I love our family, but Im dissolving, she confessed one evening. Theres Amelia the wife, Amelia the mother, Amelia the housewifetheres no Amelia whos happy.
Its a serious statement, George replied. What do you propose?
She hesitated, then blurted, I want to start a business. We have savings earning a modest interest. If I use a portion, I could either grow it or lose it, but it wont ruin us.
George mulled it over.
My dear, Amelia said, smiling gently, if I succeed Ill be a businesswoman as well as a wife and mum. If I fail, at least Ill know it wasnt because I never tried.
Then do as you see fit, George agreed, unable to object.
Soon Amelia plunged into entrepreneurship, so absorbed that the family faded to the background. Only urgent reminders forced her to recall her roles as wife, mother, and homeowner.
George, though a scholar, could still manage a vacuum, wash dishes, and look after the children, albeit with a traditionally masculine slanthalfhearted cleaning, hidden trash, out of sight, out of mind.
The kids were largely selfsufficient, only needing help with homework or pocket money.
Cooking, however, was Georges weak spot. He could whip up simple, filling meals, but relied heavily on readymade frozen meatballs and nuggets.
The soul craves something homemade, not what I throw together from a freezer, he told a shop assistant one evening.
The shopkeeper asked, What can I get you?
Just some mince for meatballs. I cant make them myself, and buying frozen ones feels pointless if theyll just sit in the freezer.
A customer chimed in, Let me cook for you! Im a great cook!
The assistant retorted, Ive seen you for five years, you only buy dumplings. Do you even know how to handle meatballs?
She walked away, and the assistant said to George, Can you wait until seven? Im closing then, but I can pop in and fry you some meatballs. My husbands away, so I have time.
George, dreaming of homecooked meatballs he hadnt tasted in three years, agreed. He later helped Eleanor count the cash at the till around half past six, then together they bought bread, milk, and onions from the corner shop.
Soon the skillet sizzled as Eleanor fried meatballs for George, waiting for his own wife to return.
—
Mind your business, you, Eleanor said, wiping the counter. Your venture looks good, but you nearly lost your husband today, scooping him up from the street! At least the meatballs saved him.
Im not offended, Amelia replied.
Whats there to be offended about? Eleanor smirked. Today he fell for meatballs, tomorrow itll be pastries, then borscht. Youll be left all alone, but youve got the husband you deservedont waste him.
Thanks, Amelia whispered, subdued.
Amelia never reached fairytale heights in her enterprise, but she didnt burn out either. The profit was modest, enough to be grateful for.
Had she pressed on, ignoring the family, she might have climbed higher, but Eleanors warning forced her to reshuffle priorities.
If survival were at stake, the scramble would make sense, yet a balanced eighthour workday with two days off was enough for Amelias sense of worth.
And George never roamed the streets seeking another womans meatballs again.
