We dont eat this stuff! In our village, its pig food! thundered the mother-in-law, hurling her plate. A moment later, I shoved the lot of them out the front door.
Martha wiped her hands on the tea towel and surveyed the table: aubergine rolls, homemade meatballs, salad, a jug of squash. All exactly as it should be, unless you count the fact that she felt like a cat being stroked the wrong way. Today, his mother was coming.
Mum, why are you making so much food? piped up Oliver, standing in the doorway all elbows and knees, a twelve-year-old who looked at the world like a weathered accountant. Theyre not moving in for a fortnight, are they?
Its his mother, Oliver. Pamela Thompson. Her first visit to our home. Martha nearly winced as she said it.
So what? Grahams been living here for six months. What difference does it make?
Martha said nothing. Oliver had a point, but she couldnt say so aloud. Graham had shown up after her divorce tall, practical, drilled a shelf, fixed the tap, stayed for supper, and then didnt stop staying. Six months now, and still Oliver looked at him the way a cat eyes the hoover.
The bell rang at seven. Martha opened the door. On the doorstep stood Pamela Thompson herself, imposing and brash, hair the shade of a warning sign and lipstick to match.
Next to Pamela hovered Chloe, Grahams sister, squeezed into skinny jeans, glued to her phone, empty-handed as a magicians hat.
Come in, make yourselves comfortable, Martha forced a smile.
Pamela peeled off her coat and promptly began a grand tour of the hallway, inspecting walls, furniture, and corners. Martha froze mid-breath. Graham lurked by the shoe rack, staring at his shoelaces.
Not much of a flat, is it? sniffed Pamela, peering into the lounge. Bit of dust on the windowsill, too. Not exactly Mary Berry, are you?
Martha swallowed. Chloe tittered and texted away.
Please, everyone, lets sit down, Martha said, desperate.
Pamela took command of the table. She surveyed the spread, lips pursed tighter than a Victorian corset. Martha poured squash, handed out plates. Graham reached for a meatball.
Whats this? Pamela prodded the aubergine rolls with her fork like a scientist examining pond slime.
Aubergine with cheese and garlic. Do give them a try.
We dont eat this! In our village, this is pig food! Pamela boomed, flinging her plate at the table. The rolls scattered, one landing with a greasy plop on the tablecloth. Chloe recoiled, filming it all for her fans. Graham chewed his meatball, unbothered.
Martha stood, jug in hand, as a hush fell.
Graham, say something, please, she whispered.
Mum, enough, Graham muttered, eyes glued to the bread basket.
Enough what? Im just being honest, Pamela leaned back, inspecting Martha as if she were past its sell-by date. Martha, youre not a bad-looking woman, just a bitfluffed out, arent you? Time catches up, you know. Graham needs someone younger. Sleeker. Sorry, love, youre not exactly fresh out the bakery.
Inside, something snapped. Martha set the jug down, sat, and stared at the offending aubergine.
Graham?
Mum, for heavens sake, he grunted, reaching for another slice of bread.
Im just telling it like it is, Pamela waved her hand as if swatting away the last of Marthas dignity.
Martha got up and slipped into the kitchen to cool off near the hob, gripping the worktop and listening.
Mum, give it a rest, Graham said, but as if he were reading out instructions.
Im just doing my motherly duty. Why tie yourself to a divorced woman with a kid? That boy gives you the evil eye not even yours. Youve had your warm winter here rent-free, time to find a proper place come spring. Settle in, save up, but move on.
Martha froze. The kettle boiled, but she didnt hear it over her own pulse.
Alright, Mum, Graham scoffed. At least the cars parked right outside and my warehouse is five minutes away. Suits me. Ill winter here, save some cash, see where it goes. Shes smitten anyway, cant get rid of me.
Thats my clever lad. Just dont get daft. Keep your distance, Pamela smirked.
Graham, youre a savage! Chloe giggled, still filming.
Switch. Something inside Martha switched. She marched out, grabbed Grahams sports bag from the wardrobe, and plonked it on the table with a mighty thud.
Pack your things!
Graham looked up, mouth half-full. Whats got into you?
You heard me. Hotels closed. Out you go.
Martha, dont be daft. We were only talking
I heard every word! You said its convenient, that youll winter here? Not anymore you wont. Tonight, the good life ends.
Pamela leapt up, chair tumbling. Were guests!
Guests dont insult the hostesss cooking. Guests dont ask for the youth club. And guests dont make plans to take advantage til spring, Martha flung open the front door. Coats on. Now.
Youre absolutely barking! shrieked Pamela, wrestling into her coat. Youll end up a loony old spinster with that attitude!
Chloe hovered in the corridor, camera poised. Graham stuffed chargers, razor, socks into his bag, mumbling threats about regret and comeuppance.
Martha! Graham called as he hoisted his bag. She turned. Whos paying me for the tap I fixed, eh? Ive got the receipt, you know!
Consider it payment for six months B&B. Push your luck, Ill charge you for gas and electric too.
Call the council officer, then! Graham fumbled with his phone.
Go ahead. Let them know youve been here half a year without being on the lease.
He spat, spun on his heel, and stomped out. Pamela, already clattering down the stairs, yelled back, No ones ever going to want you! Nobody!
Martha locked the door, double-bolted it, and listened, feeling something she hadnt felt in ages: peace.
A minute later, Oliver emerged from his room, peering at her as if to check she was still standing.
We stay or go?
Were staying.
For good?
For good.
He stepped up and hugged her tight, forehead nestled on her shoulder. Martha stroked his stubborn hair.
Mum, are there any meatballs left?
Half a pan.
Good. Because that Graham ate enough for three.
They went into the kitchen. Martha reheated the meatballs, Oliver sat down, and suddenly giggleda clear, relieved sound.
Whats so funny? she grinned.
I just remembered. He tried giving me computer lessons the other day. Couldnt even open the web browser! Oliver shook his head. Mum, were you really in love with him?
Martha thought. What had she really felt when Graham arrived? Love, or sheer terror of being alone?
Im not sure. Maybe I just wantedsomeone. Anyone.
But youre not alone. Theres two of us.
Martha looked at her son his face grown up, eyes no longer belonging to a child. He was right.
Youre smart, you know that?
Got it from you, Oliver said, as he reached for another meatball.
Martha glanced out the window. Evening gloom, street lights flickering. Somewhere out there, Graham was trudging along with his duffel, eyeing up his next winter nest. And she didnt care one jot.
Mum, can we go to the pictures tomorrow? New robot films out.
Deal.
They sat together, eating meatballs and drinking squash. Martha decided shed take down that wonky shelf tomorrow, toss out his razor, and rid the place of every trace of those six wasted months.
But not tonight. Tonight, she just sat in her kitchen, in her home, with her boy, feeling something drift backsomething she hadnt had in ages.
Oliver cleared his plate, yawned, and headed to his room. On the threshold, he looked back:
Mum, next time someone moves in for ages, check with me first, alright? I always spot a wrong un.
Deal.
Left alone, Martha did a slow, contented tour of her flatthe one place that was truly hers. No more strangers snoring, no odd socks under the sofa, no secret agendas. For the first time in six months, she could breathe.
She remembered Pamelas last shoutYoull end up a lonely spinster!and grinned. Being alone wasnt frightening; it was being used that was.
She turned off the light. Tomorrow would be a new day. No Graham, no Pamela, no make-believe company. Just Martha and Oliver. And that was exactly right.
