"The Right Recipe" by Diane Simmons

I decline the slice of cake Michael offers. I do this every week, but he always tries to bully me into eating one. John, as usual, grabs the largest piece and they both giggle. I hate those giggles – the Sunday afternoons lost.

John and I have only lived together for two months, but he obviously relishes Michael’s non-stop invitations.

I thought I’d be enough.

‘I’m getting tickets for Glastonbury. Do you want some?’ Michael asks.

I’d planned on Florence, but John doesn’t hesitate, looks thrilled to be asked, seems to follow Michael’s lead no matter what.

I can bake too, know exactly what I need to put in the cake I take round to Michael’s. It’s good to be friendly to neighbours, John says.

And it seems only polite, if Michael’s so keen on cakes stuffed with drugs, for me to oblige, to provide the hit of all hits.

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