Some years ago, my husband and I bought a charming summer cottage in the English countryside. The place needed considerable tending, and we took it upon ourselves to restore it by hand repainting walls, repairing creaky floorboards, and taming the unruly garden. It became our weekend haven, a place where we escaped nearly every Saturday, or at the very least, every other week.
We never planned to plant an extensive vegetable patch; instead, we arranged a modest bed for cucumbers, tomatoes, herbs, onions, courgettes, and peppers. Just enough to enjoy a bit of fresh produce, and not too much to be a chore.
The property had its own small delights, inherited when we bought it: thickets of raspberries and clusters of currants, as well as beds of wild strawberries that seemed to multiply each year. Id gather bowls of fruit and often bring them back to London to share with colleagues at work. Everyone always looked forward to those treats.
That spring, a woman named Emily arrived, having transferred into our department. She seemed friendly enoughalways courteous and eager to make conversation. One day, I had some extra strawberries, and I shared some with her, as I did with many of my colleagues.
Emily was effusive in her praise, marvelling at their flavour and fragrance. She was quite insistent on hearing every detailwhere my cottage was, what it looked like, how I managed to grow such lovely strawberries. Naturally, I enjoyed her interest and was happy to tell the story.
A few days later, Emily approached me, asking rather boldly if she might borrow the keys to our cottage. Her daughter, she explained, had young children and would benefit from taking them to the country for a couple of weeks, away from Londons bustle. She assured me we wouldnt be there, and since her daughter was on maternity leave, it seemed the perfect solution.
Of course, I declined. Emily took offence, but to her credit, she didnt press the issue.
Yet not a fortnight later, Margaretwho worked in the same department as Emilypulled me aside to ask for directions to our cottage. Somewhat bewildered, I asked her what for.
She responded, quite nonchalantly, that Emily had invited her, along with several others from our office, to celebrate her birthday at our cottage. Each was simply to find their own way there.
I was utterly astonished.
When I found Emily next, I confronted her directly.
Whats all this about? I asked, trying to keep my composure.
She gave me an innocent smile. Oh, its just my birthday. I thought we could spend the day at your lovely cottage. It wont do any harm, surely? One afternoon, thats all. You dont mind, do you?
But I did mind, very much. All that hard workthe carefully trimmed lawns, the flowerbeds, the bushes, and the house itselffelt too precious to be treated so carelessly.
Besides, she hadnt even invited me. She never once asked for my permission.
I refused her, quite firmly, and she was offended. So be it.
Ive always taken joy in sharing our cottages bounty with others at work, but never before had anyone presumed to such impudence as Emily. Reflecting on it now, I still marvel at her cheek.
