So, mate, you wont believe the saga I endured. Picture this: Andys family rocked up and stayed for weeks, until I finally gave them a bill for the food.
So, wheres the cheese? The hard one I bought especially for the salad? I asked, moving jars of pickled gherkins and the last carton of milk about on the fridge shelf, looking confused.
Andy, my husband, sat at the kitchen table, trying to shrink into his jumper and gazing out the window at the relentless grey drizzle. Classic British autumn, right? He looked guilty and muttered, Well, Emma made sandwiches for the kids after their walk They got peckish, you know. He sounded so quiet, as if a raised voice would shatter our flat.
I closed the fridge door slowly. The cold air faded, but inside I was furious. I took a deep breath, counting to ten a habit I developed over the last three weeks, though it was starting to fail me by now.
Andy, that cheese cost fifteen quid, I said calmly, but my voice was flat. I was planning a special dinner to celebrate finishing my work project. Now its gone, just like the ham yesterday. Or the salmon the day before. Its like money down the drain, do you get that?
Andy grimaced as though he had toothache, embarrassed and uncomfortable, but this sense of family responsibility, drilled into him since childhood, always eclipsed common sense.
Theyre guests, love. You know theyre doing up their place. Dust, mess, impossible to live there. Lets just hold out a bit longer, theyll be out soon.
Hed been saying soon for twenty-two days now. It all started innocently enough: Emma, Andys sister, rang me up with this sob story about how the builders had wrecked their floor and bust a pipe, so living at their flat was impossible for a few days. She begged me to let them crash just for three or four days, until it dried and the new floor went in. I said yes I mean, familys family, you help them in tough times.
But three days turned into a week, then two, and now we were well into November and there was no end in sight. Our three-bed flat, once a haven of peace, had become utter chaos. Emma and her husband Tony lived in the living room; their two boys, ten and eleven, slept on an air mattress but hung about everywhere.
Evenings were like torture. All I wanted after work was a hot shower and peace, but instead I came home to what felt like Kings Cross station. The telly was always booming Tony liked immersive news, apparently. The bathroom was constantly occupied, the boys soaking for ages with gallons of posh shower gel, leaving puddles on the floor, which Id step in, socks and all.
Food was the worst. Andy and I did alright, made decent money, and we liked a good meal proper meat, fresh veg, nice dairy. We planned our budget, saved for holidays and had almost paid off our mortgage. But the familys arrival blew the budget to bits.
Emma, who loved a good meal but never cooked, always said, Oh, Lucy, Im exhausted from the renovations, nerves are shot. Youre already cooking, whats an extra ladle of soup?
Only that extra ladle became a five-litre pot of stew, vanished in one night. Tony, a cabbie with days off and an appetite thatd put an army to shame, ate like a champion. The boys, growing lads, cleared everything without even asking who it was for.
I took off my blazer, hung it on a chair, and massaged my temples.
Andy, I checked the bank app today we spent as much in three weeks as we usually do in two months. Im not joking. They havent bought a single thing not even bread.
Theyre spending money on the house Tony said the prices went up.
So are we, I snapped. And I didnt volunteer to feed four adults and two kids by myself. Has Emma ever brought groceries? Bought a pack of biscuits for tea?
At that moment, Emma shuffled in wearing my dressing gown. Hers was too hot, mine was comfy and silky, apparently. There was a jam stain on the collar, but I said nothing and gritted my teeth.
Oh, Lucy, youre back! Weve been waiting. Im starving. Tonys asking whats for dinner he smelled the burgers, said you were defrosting mince.
I gave her a steady stare. Something inside me snapped. That filter keeping me polite fizzled out.
There arent any burgers, I answered calmly.
What do you mean, no burgers? Emma blinked, mug in hand. So whats for dinner? We cant just sit hungry! The boys need their routine!
I put the mince back in the freezer. Dinner tonight is plain buckwheat.
Plain? No meat? No sauce? Tony wont eat that, hes a man, he needs meat.
Well, then Tony can go to Tesco, buy some meat, cook it, and eat. The Tescos next door.
Emma scoffed, slammed her mug down and pursed her lips.
Seriously, Lucy, why are you being so difficult? Tired from work, sure but why take it out on family? Andy, say something!
Andy looked trapped, as if hed rather sink through the floor to the neighbour downstairs.
Lucy, come on Maybe we could just have the frozen dumplings?
Had them, yesterday. Your nephews polished them off in an eating contest.
That evening was tense. I made buckwheat, set out butter and salt. Tony poked at his plate, muttered about prison rations, and left to finish his show. Emma fed sugar-laden porridge to the boys and left too, calling over her shoulder, Hopefully tomorrow youll cook something proper.
I didnt sleep that night. I lay in the dark, listening to Tonys snores and Andys soft breathing, thinking how kindness gets punished and boundaries must be defended. If I didnt make a stand, theyd never leave. The renovation was just an excuse Tony hadnt checked their flat once in three weeks. They were comfy: free rent, free meals, all conveniences.
Next morning, I got up before everyone. Didnt make breakfast; just brewed myself some coffee, drank it in peace, and went to work. Before leaving, Id packed up all our good food in a cooler and took it to my mum who lived nearby.
The day zipped by, but I had a plan brewing. That evening, I came home carrying a folder, not groceries.
I was greeted by a fuming Emma in the hallway, hands on hips.
Can you believe it, Lucy, we woke up and the fridge is empty! Not even eggs! The boys had to chew dry cereal. Its outrageous.
Tony peered out from the lounge, scratching his belly in an oversized vest.
Lucy, youre slacking. Weve been starving all day. Did you stop by the shops?
I calmly took off my shoes, walked into the kitchen, plastered the folder down and said, Everyone to the kitchen. We need a chat.
Oh, finally! Tony rubbed his hands. Menu talk. I could go for steak, or at least roast chicken.
When all were gathered around the table (the kids sent off with tablets), I opened the folder.
Right then, I started, the same voice I use with tough clients, Youve been here twenty-three days. In that time, you havent bought food, paid bills, or helped clean.
Oh, here we go! Emma rolled her eyes. Counting bits and bobs now? Were family!
Because youre family, I tolerated this for three weeks, I said, showing them a spreadsheet. I did a little audit. This columns our usual monthly food spend. This? The last three weeks. Its up more than four times.
Tony squinted at the table.
Whats this paperwork? Saved all the receipts, did you? Lucy, thats petty. Andy, how do you live with her?
Andy blushed but kept quiet. I didnt let him interrupt.
Its not petty, Tony, its accounting. This includes meat, fish, cheese, yoghurts, fruit and veg, household goods you go through like water. Plus electric and water meters dont lie.
So whats your point? Emmas voice was shrill.
My point, I said, laying out a bank details sheet, is that the free hotel is now closed. Heres your bill for your stay and food. The amounts at the bottom.
Emma snatched the sheet, scanned it, and gasped. The paper dropped from her hands.
Youre mad! Five hundred quid?! For food?! Were we dining at The Savoy?!
More or less, I nodded. You ate only fillet, pricey ham and salmon, and I did all the cooking and kept the cleaning out. Consider it a family discount.
Im not paying! Tony exploded, springing up. This is extortion! Andy, your wife is robbing your sister!
Andy looked around at angry faces, then at my calm, tired one. He remembered how I cried in the bathroom last night, the empty wallet before payday.
What would you have me say? Andy answered quietly.
That shes lost it! Emma shrieked. Were guests! Where do people charge guests?!
Guests come for tea with a cake, and leave by evening, or visit by invitation for a couple of days, Andy suddenly said, firmer than Ive ever heard him. Youve been living here a month, on our tab, and still complain about plain buckwheat.
The kitchen went silent. Emma stared at Andy like hed sprouted a second head.
You youre kicking us out? she whispered dramatically.
Im not, I cut in. But the terms have changed. If you want to stay, we share grocery bills and utilities, and take turns cooking. One day me, one day Emma. Fair. And this bill, I tapped the sheet, needs settling by the end of the week.
Forget it! Tony kicked the chair. Pack up, Emma. We dont need these relatives. Shove your ham where the sun dont shine!
Where can we go? The flats being renovated! Emma hollered.
To my mums! Tony barked. Better cramped than mooched! Ill never set foot here again!
Packing took an hour the most chaotic one ever. Emma made a scene slamming doors, Tony swore (quietly, but everyone heard), the boys moaned as they got dragged away from their cartoons.
I sat in the kitchen, sipping cold tea, not interfering. I knew if I helped or tried to explain myself, things would spiral back. Andy carried bags to the hall, quiet and withdrawn.
When the front door finally shut with Emma shouting, Youll never see me here again!, blessed silence wrapped our flat.
Andy came back, sat opposite me, and covered his face.
God, Im so ashamed, he groaned. Mumll ring and curse us
Let her call, I said, reaching over and squeezing his hand. Andy, we didnt do anything wrong. We protected our home. You saw it theyd moved in for good.
He sighed. I know Its just family.
Family should respect each other. This was freeloading. Oh, and I rang your mum today, by the way.
Andy looked surprised. Why?
To check how she was. And found out theres no renovation at Emmas.
What? No renovation?
Nope. They rented their flat to builders working here for two months. Decided to make some cash while sponging off nice brother. Your mum assumed we knew.
Andys face went pale, then flushed red. His eyes widened with the realisation.
Rented? So they made money from rent, stayed at ours, ate our food and
And complained about plain buckwheat, I finished. Still feel ashamed?
Andy was silent for a minute, then finally stood up, checked the fridge, saw the empty shelves, and let out a nervous laugh.
No. Not ashamed. Lucy, Im sorry. I was being an idiot.
You were, I agreed, getting up. But you learned. Thats important. Shall we nip to Tesco? Buy cheese. And wine.
And meat, Andy decided. Just for us two.
A week later, Emma rang. Not me, of course Andy. I heard the chat as Andy had the phone on speaker while washing up.
Andy, you know we overreacted, she cooed. Mums is cramped, boys cant do homework, Tony cant sleep We thought, maybe we could come back? Well even buy groceries. Potatoes and a bag of pasta.
Andy turned off the tap, dried his hands, and glanced at me. I shook my head, smiling. Andy said firmly, No, Emma. Mums is fine. Were doing some renovations ourselves, moral ones. No space here.
He hung up, and for the first time in a month looked totally at ease at home. The bill we gave them was never paid, of course, but the peace and calm in our flat was worth far more than five hundred quid. A life lesson for both of us: sometimes, to save your sanity, youve got to shut the door on family.
