And You Cook With No Love “Ollie, what’s this supposed to be?” Michael pushed his plate away with the look of a man convinced he’d just been served poison. “Meatballs and mash again. Do you even care what you’re doing in the kitchen?” Olga froze, fork in hand. On her feet all day, reports piling up, then the shop, then the stove—and this was the gratitude? “What am I supposed to think about?” she gently rested her fork on the plate’s rim. “It’s dinner, Misha. A perfectly normal dinner.” “Normal?” he scoffed. “Can’t remember the last time I ate something decent. Something with heart, you know? I come home and want to feel the care. I want to know my wife loves me—and that should show in the food!” Olga slowly leaned back. A hot, prickling anger bubbled in her chest. “Are you being serious right now?” she whispered. Michael, apparently, missed the warning. “Completely. I want a proper stew, like my mum’s. I want homemade pie. I want the house to smell of food—not just bland potatoes!” “Right. That’s enough.” Olga raised a hand. “You’re not in a restaurant, darling. And I’m no chef in a tall hat.” Michael scowled and edged his chair back: “I just want to eat properly. Is that too much to ask?” “And I’d just like a family where both people pitch in!” Olga shot up, her chair squeaking. “Both, Michael. Not just me!” “I work! I earn the money!” His voice rose in time with hers. “And what do you think I do? Sit around watching soaps all day? I work, full-time. Then I come home and cook, and clean, and do laundry. Alone.” Michael opened his mouth, but Olga didn’t let him get a word in: “The shelf,” she jabbed a finger toward the hallway, “remember the shelf you said you’d put up?” “What shelf?” “The one that’s been gathering dust on the floor for a month. One month, Michael!” He grimaced: “I haven’t got the right tools…” “Yes, you do.” “I’ve just been busy, not had a second—” “And I must have time to burn, right?” Olga laughed, bitterly. “Clearly I just lounge about, don’t I?” Michael folded his arms and stared into the distance: “You twist everything.” “Me? I cook for you every flipping night, after work, shattered. And all you talk about is how I don’t put my heart into the meatballs.” Silence fell. Michael stared at the wall, his jaw working. “You know what—” he shoved his chair back “—I’m not hungry.” “Is that right.” “Yeah, that’s right.” He got up and went to the bedroom. Olga stared after him, not sure if she wanted to laugh or cry at the absurdity of it all. A minute later, she took her phone: “Tanya, are you home? Can I come round?” Her friend said something and Olga exhaled—her first real breath all evening. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just… just need to get out of here.” She grabbed her coat, not glancing toward the bedroom, and closed the door softly. It wasn’t that she didn’t want to slam it—she just didn’t have it in her. …Tanya poured the tea silently, nudged a jar of biscuits her way, and sat opposite, chin in hand. No interruptions, no ‘oh you poor thing’—she just listened, as Olga let it pour out: the meatballs, the shelf still gathering dust, the evenings where there was nothing left to say. “Ollie,” Tanya moved her mug, “Do you really want to keep putting up with this?” Olga shrugged. The honest answer caught in her chest, too tangled to pull free. Home was quiet. Michael was either asleep or pretending. Olga lay on the very edge of the bed, turned to the wall, tracing shadows until morning. Love? She tried to remember the last time she’d been glad when he came home. When she’d missed him. It had all become habit—like morning coffee, or the walk to the Tube. Automatic, baked into the day. Days slid by in silence. Michael only spoke if he really had to: “Yeah.” “No.” “Fine.” Olga didn’t try to melt the ice. She had neither the energy nor the urge. At week’s end, she noticed Michael glancing at her: loaded, waiting. ‘Go on, make the first move, apologise.’ Olga acted like she didn’t see. Apologise for what? Wanting a proper husband, not just a taker? Friday night, Michael came in with a pizza box and a bottle of wine. “Pizza,” he declared, setting everything out. “Your favourite—mushroom.” Olga glanced up. “See?” he poured the wine. “I’m trying. For us.” His tone, half pride, half reproach. Olga took her glass in silence. “And you can’t even say sorry,” Michael leaned back. “A week of this. I’m making an effort, but you—” “Wait,” she put the glass down. “Sorry? For what?” “For everything!” he threw his arms out, “You never support me, just nag the whole time. I come home, and you’ve always got that face—” “What face?” “That face! Always disappointed, like I do everything wrong!” Olga felt the old wave rising. “The shelf,” she said quietly. “What?” “The shelf. Still on the floor.” He flinched. “You and your shelf! I’m talking about our relationship, and you—” “Exactly, Michael. That shelf *is* our relationship. I ask, you ignore me. For a month. Then you talk to me about support?” He shot up, nearly knocking over his chair. “You know what? Enough. I’m done.” “Michael—” “No. That’s it. I’m leaving.” Olga watched him pack, and something inside her snapped—but it didn’t hurt, not like she’d thought. Just empty. …A week later, the divorce papers arrived. …Three months passed, strangely quickly and slowly at once. Olga learned a new rhythm. That evening she was singing along to music, pottering about, when the sound of scratching broke through. A persistent little knock. She turned down the volume and checked the peephole—froze. Michael. Shuffling outside, a bag in hand. Olga opened the door but stood blocking the way. “What are you doing here?” “Ollie…” He tried to step forward, but she didn’t budge. “Let me in, I need to talk.” “Say it here.” Michael sighed, rubbing his hair—she knew that move by heart. “I’ve been thinking… I decided to forgive you. To come back.” Olga was silent for a second. Then she burst out laughing, loud and clear, head thrown back. Michael winced. “Forgive me? *You’re* forgiving *me*?” “Well, yes. I know you were upset, said things you didn’t—” “Michael,” Olga interrupted, still smiling, “keep your forgiveness. I don’t need it. Might come in handy for you, though.” His face fell—clearly hoping for tears or gratitude, not this. Then his eyes darted past her into the hallway. “What’s that?” he nodded downward. “Whose trainers are those?” Olga didn’t look back. She knew: Alex’s size-12s, by the shoe rack. “None of your business.” “What do you mean, none? We’re still married, for all you know!” “Tomorrow’s the court hearing, Michael. One more signature, and that’s that. We’ll both be free.” “So what, you’ve already moved someone in? Into our flat?” “My flat.” “Oh, what’s the difference!” nearly shouting now, “We’re not even officially—” “Olga?” came a calm voice from the kitchen, “Lunch is ready. Need help with your guest?” Alex appeared, relaxed, in a t-shirt and tea towel over his shoulder. Gave Michael a neutral look, as if he were a lamp or a chair. Olga shook her head: “No, I’ve got this.” Alex nodded, retreating to the kitchen. Michael stared at his back, then turned to Olga, his face blotchy red. “That was quick. Three months and already a new bloke. What’s he got that I don’t?” Olga studied the stranger she’d shared five years with. A stranger—through and through. “He loves me,” she said simply. “Shows me, every day. With actions. Not just talk about love in meatballs.” Michael opened his mouth—but Olga was already closing the door. The lock clicked. Warm, irresistible smells drifted in from the kitchen…

And you cook without any heart

Claire, what is this? Michael pushed his plate away, looking as though shed served him poison. Meat pies again. And potatoes. When youre cooking, do you even think about anything?

Claire froze, fork in hand. Shed been on her feet all day; report after report, then the grocer, then the cooker and this was the thanks she got.

What am I supposed to think about? She set her fork carefully at the plates edge. Its supper, Michael. A normal, everyday meal.

A normal meal? he snorted. I cant even remember the last time I ate something proper. Something with heart, you know? I want to come home and feel my wifes put some care into it. Like she loves me, and I can taste that in the food.

Claire leaned back in her chair, something prickly and fierce welling up in her chest.

Are you serious right now? her voice was quiet, though Michael clearly missed the caution in her tone.

Dead serious. I want stew the way my mother made it. I want pies. I want the house to smell of real food, not just potatoes!

Alright, thats enough, said Claire, lifting a hand. Youre not at a restaurant, darling. And Im not a chef in a tall white hat.

Michael frowned, pushing himself farther from the table.

I just want a decent meal. Is that really so much to ask?

And I just want a marriage where both people make an effort! Claire stood abruptly, her chair scraping the floor. Both of us, Michael! Not just me!

I work! he shot back, his voice rising. Im out there earning the money, in case youve forgotten!

And what do you think Im doing? Claire put her hands on her hips. Sitting on my laurels? I work too. Full time. Then I come home and cook, clean, do laundry. Alone.

Michael opened his mouth, but Claire cut him off.

The shelf, she jabbed a finger toward the corridor. Do you remember the shelf? The one you promised to put up?

What shelf?

The one thats been lying by the wall gathering dust for a month. A whole month, Michael!

He grimaced.

I dont have the proper tools

You do!

Ive just been run ragged, I havent had time

And Ive more time than I know what to do with? Claire laughed, tired and bitter. Because clearly, all I do is lounge about watching telly!

Michael folded his arms and stared off into the distance.

You always twist things.

Me? Claire shook her head. I make supper for you every single day. After work, exhausted. And you sit there lecturing me about heart and love in meat pies.

Silence hung between them. Michael stared at the wall, his jaw working furiously.

You know what, he shoved his chair back abruptly, Im not hungry.

Is that so.

It is.

He got up and trudged into the lounge. Claire watched his back, torn between laughter and tears at the utter absurdity.

After a minute, she grabbed her phone.

Emma, are you home? Can I pop round?

Her friend said something, and Claire let out a real sigh, the first of the evening.

Yes, Im fine. I just… I just need to get out of here.

She slipped on her jacket without so much as a glance towards the room where Michael sulked. The door closed softly behind her not out of restraint, but because she simply hadnt the strength to slam it.

Emma poured out the tea in silence, nudged the biscuit tin in Claires direction, then sat opposite, chin resting in hand. She didnt interrupt, didnt gasp or cluck in sympathy. She just listened, while Claire finally let spill months of built-up frustration about the meat pies with no soul, about the shelf still gathering dust, about how she came home every night and realised there was nothing left to talk about. Or want to.

Claire, Emma set the teacup aside, do you even want to keep going? To stand this any longer?

Claire shrugged. The honest answer was stuck somewhere between her ribs, impossible to pull out.

She came home late. Michael was already in bed or pretending. Claire lay on the very edge of the bed, facing the wall. She watched the shadows shift along the old wallpaper, unable to sleep.

Love? She tried to remember the last time shed been glad to hear Michael come home. The last time shed waited for him. Missed him. It must have been a long time ago. What remained was only habit like morning tea, like the walk to the Tube. Something automatic, fitted into the daily script.

The days that followed dragged by in silence. Michael barely spoke, except when needed. Yes. No. Hmm. Claire didnt bother breaking the frost. She had neither the strength nor the desire.

By the end of the week, she noticed Michael watching her. Expectant, significant glances. Waiting for her, perhaps, to be the first to apologise. Claire feigned obliviousness. What was there to be sorry for? Being tired? Wanting a real husband, not just a lodger?

Friday evening, Michael arrived clutching a flat box and a bottle of wine.

Pizza, he announced, setting everything out. Your favourite. Mushroom.

Claire glanced up from her phone.

See, he sat across from her, pouring out the wine, Im making an effort. For you. For us.

There was pride there, but a whiff of reproach, too. In silence, Claire picked up her glass.

And you cant even say sorry, Michael leaned back heavily. A week youve barely spoken. I reach out, and you…

Hold on, Claire set her glass down. Sorry? For what?

For everything! he threw out his arms. You dont support me. Youre always at me. I come home, and all I see is your face…

What face?

That face! Always put out! Always on at me for something!

Claire felt the same old wave rising up that heat from a week ago.

The shelf, she said quietly.

What?

The shelf. Still on the floor.

Michael flinched.

That again! Im talking about our marriage, and youre obsessed with a shelf!

Because, Michael, the shelf is our marriage. I ask you ignore. For a month. Then talk to me about support.

He stood up sharply, almost knocking his chair to the floor.

You know what? Enough. Im done.

Michael

No. Thats it. Im leaving.

Claire watched him storm into the bedroom, stuff a bag clumsily with clothes, no tears, no sense of loss only emptiness.

A week later, the divorce papers arrived.

Three months passed in a blur, fast and slow all at once. Claire found her way into a new sort of life.

That evening, she was tidying in the flat, humming along to the wireless, when she heard another sound a quiet, persistent scratching. Someone was at the door.

Claire turned down the music and listened. Another gentle knock, then again.

She checked the spyhole and paused.

Michael. He fidgeted there, awkward, shifting from foot to foot with a carrier bag in hand.

She opened the door, but blocked the entrance.

What do you want?

Claire He tried to inch forward, but she didnt move. Let me in, we need to talk.

Fine. Say what you came to say, here.

Michael sighed, running a hand through his hair a gesture she knew by heart.

Ive been thinking… he faltered, searching for words. Ive decided to forgive you. And come back.

Claire was silent for a moment. Then she laughed a loud, hearty laugh, head thrown back. Michael flinched.

Forgive? Me?

Well, yes. I get it, you lost your temper, said too much…

Michael, Claire interrupted, still smiling, I dont need your forgiveness. Keep it. You might need it yet.

His face fell, as though hed expected tears, hugs, gratitude. His gaze crept over her shoulder into the hallway, then stopped.

And whose are those? he nodded toward the floor. Shoes!

Claire didnt turn. She knew. Trainers, mens, size 11, by the sideboard.

None of your concern.

What do you mean? His voice grew sharp and desperate. Were still married, you know!

Until tomorrow, Claire folded her arms. Final hearing. The decree absolute. After that, were both free.

So youve already had someone round? In our flat?

My flat.

What difference does that make? His voice rose to a shout. Were still officially…

From further down the hall came a calm, gentle voice: Claire, lunch is ready. Do you want any help with your caller?

Alex appeared round the corner unbothered, in a faded t-shirt with a tea towel over his shoulder. He looked at Michael without malice or much interest, as one might at an old bit of furniture.

Claire shook her head.

I can manage, thanks.

Alex nodded and vanished into the kitchen. Michael stared after him, then turned back to Claire. He was mottled red with anger.

So thats it. Three months and youre already with someone else. Whats he got that I havent?

Claire took a long look at the man shed spent five years of her life beside. A stranger. Truly.

He loves me, she said simply. And shows it. Every day. By what he does. Not by droning on about heart and soul in a shepherds pie.

Michael started to say something but Claire had already shut the door. The lock clicked into place.

From the kitchen drifted the unmistakably rich, mouth-watering aroma of something new.