False teeth
Carla and Peter sat in silence, relaxing in their favourite armchairs, perfectly positioned by the big bay window overlooking the garden to catch the afternoon sun. Carla was flicking through her favourite fashion magazine, the latest issue having been delivered only that morning, while Peter was focused on his phone, silently cheering on the horse he'd put his pension money on, that small portion allocated to betting, run at Lingfield Racecourse.
"Mr and Mrs Barlow," a prim, modest looking woman of about forty-five approached the couple.
"Hmm…?" Carla barely glanced up at the home manager, preferring instead to study the latest trends in ankle boots.
"Arrgghh!" Peter exclaimed, tossing his phone onto the small table next to his armchair.
"Did your horse lose, baby?" Carla asked him, the sight of Peter crossing his arms sulkily affirming her suspicions. "Never mind," she patted his arm gently. "There's always another race. Believe you me, I should know after all these years."
"Ah-hem," the home manager cleared her throat.
"Oh, sorry, Angela," Carla finally looked up at the woman. "How can I help?"
"I was going to introduce you to a couple who have just moved in, but…" she looked around, searching for these as yet unknown newcomers. "Oh, there they are. Over here," she called out to the couple, both with pale grey hair, obviously blonde in their youth, the man tall and thin, the woman about Carla's size. "Yoo hoo!"
"You've got to be joking!" Carla cried out in disbelief. "You two are moving in here?"
"Do you know each other?" Angela asked nervously, sensing the tension in the room suddenly skyrocket.
"Just a bit," Leanne Tilsley sneered as she pointed at Peter. "I used to be married to him."
"And I used to be married to her," Nick Tilsley nodded at Carla.
"Why don't I leave you four to catch up," Angela stammered. "I think I…" She didn't bother finishing with her excuses before hurrying away.
"Wha a ew oon ere?" Peter mumbled.
"What?" Nick replied with furrowed brow.
"Ay ed, wha a ew oon ere?" Peter repeated his question, growing more irate by the second.
"Are you havin' a stroke or summat, Peter?" Leanne asked. "You're not making any sense. Not that you ever did."
"His teeth are at the denture clinic for repairs," Carla explained, ignoring Peter's indignant look for revealing this little tidbit of information to his arch nemesis. "He said 'what are you doing here?'"
"Like she said, we're moving in."
"Ay ear?"
Nick and Leanne both glanced at Carla, who interpreted for Peter. "Why here?"
"We could ask you two the same question. Si said you were in that place on the other side of town."
"ell air o!"
"Well, we're not."
"We can see that," Nick rolled his eyes.
"Oo o air, ot ear."
"You go there, not here," Carla said, turning to Peter. "You mean they should move to the other home?"
"Esh!"
"Why should we?" Leanne asked as she plonked herself down in the armchair opposite Carla and made herself comfortable. "This is the best home in town. No, we're staying put."
Nick followed Leanne's lead and sat down, spurred on by Peter's glares, determined to make a cosy foursome for the sole purpose of winding him up.
Beep beep. Beep beep.
Peter reached for his phone from where he'd tossed it earlier onto the table.
"Isth-sthi."
"Simon."
"What's he saying?"
"E aid–"
"Give it here, Peter," Carla said impatiently with outstretched hand. "Let me read it, yeah?"
Peter dutifully handed the phone to his wife, who read…
"Sorry dad. Tell mum I said hi."