The Lidl Lothario

It begins in a restaurant. The sort with polished wooden tables, overpriced chips and menus that describe mashed potato as a velvety potato purée, as though giving it a French accent somehow justifies charging an extra four quid. Opposite me sits Mat. And he’s smiling. Not just smiling. Grinning. It catches me completely off guard. For a second, I wonder whether I’ve accidentally sat opposite the wrong husband. “What are you grinning about?” I ask. Seeing him smile has become such an unusual sight over the past few months that it almost looks out of place. Ever since being made redundant, his usual sparkle has dimmed. Three years of being chipped away at by a manager so spectacularly unpleasant that he’s earned the permanent nickname ‘Cunt Face’ will do that to a person. Not his actual name, obviously. His mother probably christened him something respectable. Honestly, ‘Cunt Face’ suits him far better. Mat has spent months wishing the man would quietly fall off the face of the Earth. So seeing him grin now feels almost miraculous. “My boss has just sent me a lovely message,” he beams. I blink. “Really?” He nods enthusiastically. “Cunt Face?” Another nod. “The same Cunt Face who spent the last three years driving you out of your own job?” His grin somehow widens. “Here… look.” He slides his phone across the table. I pick it up. Bloody hell. This isn’t a casual farewell message. It’s an entire presentation. Memory montages. Photographs. Animated transitions. A mournful soundtrack that sounds as though they’re scattering his ashes over the Lake District. Every slide is overflowing with praise. Reliable. Brilliant. Dedicated. An incredible colleague. A true asset to the company. Honestly, there are enough compliments in here to make you wonder whether Cunt Face accidentally sent the wrong presentation. I hand the phone back. “I wouldn’t believe a word of it.” His smile falters. “What do you mean?” “What do I mean?” I lean forward. “The bloke has treated you appallingly for three years.” “He made you dread going to work.” “He made you question yourself.” “He made you wonder whether you were actually any good.” “And now, because you’re leaving, suddenly you’re Employee of the Century?” I shake my head. “Honestly, it’s got fraud written all over it.” Mat stares back down at the phone. “But… he told me I’m the boss of spreadsheets.” Poor sod. That’s the thing about having your confidence systematically dismantled. Eventually, you stop looking for fairness and start looking for scraps. A compliment. A thank you. Just someone—anyone—to tell you that you weren’t the problem after all. The corporate world hadn’t just taken his job. Somewhere along the way, it had quietly convinced him that his value came attached to his employment contract. Watching him beam over a slideshow made by the very man who’d spent years making him miserable is strangely heartbreaking. It’s obvious to me. Painfully so. But when you’ve been starving for validation long enough, even breadcrumbs start to feel like a feast. So I let him have it. I haven’t seen him smile like this for months. He needs it. The validation. The acknowledgement. The reassurance that he wasn’t the problem all along. Just for a few minutes, I let him believe every word. It’s astonishing how one rotten experience can paint everything else with the same enormous black brush. Confidence evaporates. Self-belief doesn’t disappear all at once; it fades slowly, like warmth leaving a room before anyone realises it’s gone. It’ll take him time to recover. Not too much time, I hope. I’m currently the main breadwinner… …on a part-time postie’s wage. Hardly the financial equivalent of discovering oil in the back garden. Which would almost be manageable… if the universe hadn’t decided this was the perfect moment for our house to begin falling apart. The roof leaks. The pipes leak. The electrics have officially been upgraded from slightly concerning to potentially life-threatening. The walls are cracking. At this point, I’m fairly certain the house is just falling apart out of spite. We’d recently called a couple of roofers over to have a look. Give us what I optimistically described as a nice, humble quote. One of them climbed down the ladder, looked me dead in the eye… Whistled… and said, “Whole roof needs replacing.” “How much?” “About thirteen grand.” Jesus Christ. Why now? Somewhere, the universe is sipping wine and laughing itself senseless. So no… Cunt Face’s emotional slideshow doesn’t actually fix very much. If anything, it only highlights everything else that’s currently falling to pieces. We pay the bill and leave the restaurant. “I’d better get back to the job search,” Mat sighs. Just like that… the heaviness returns. The cloud rolls back in. I hug him, wish him luck, and wander into town. Not to shop. Window shopping is considerably cheaper. These days, I’m mostly admiring things I can’t afford with the same wistful expression you wear when you know you’re not going to buy anything… but look anyway. That’s when I bump into the roofer. At least… I think it’s the roofer. He’s wearing Lidl. Not clothes from Lidl. Lidl-branded. Head to toe. Bucket hat. T-shirt. Shorts. Bum bag. Sliders. If the middle aisle had gained sentience and decided to become a person, this would be him. I can’t help laughing. “Nice look.” He nods proudly. “Gucci.” He says it with the confidence of a man who genuinely believes he’s Milan Fashion Week’s biggest attraction. “I’m surprised you aren’t dripping in actual Gucci after quoting thirteen grand for those bloody roofs.” He laughs. Fair play. He takes that one well. We chat for a while. We’ve already agreed to have the work done because, frankly, I’d quite like the house to remain on the right side of waterproof. If another biblical downpour arrives before the roof’s repaired, I suspect we’ll be eating our dinner wearing life jackets. Conversation drifts. Away from roofs. Away from money. Away from sensible adult topics. Then… I realise he’s flirting. Not awkwardly either. The man has swagger. I’ve never been flirted with by someone dressed head-to-toe in Lidl before. This is entirely new territory. He’s kind. I don’t want to hurt his feelings. Besides… it’s only coffee. People have coffee all the time. People don’t usually end up accidentally having an affair because someone suggested a flat white. “I know somewhere that does amazing coffee,” I say. He hesitates. “I don’t drink coffee.” I stop walking. “I’m sorry… what?” “I don’t drink coffee,” he repeats, as casually as though he’s just told me he prefers brown sauce to ketchup. I stare at him. The entire purpose of this expedition has suddenly unravelled. “You… don’t drink coffee?” He shakes his head. “Never have.” “Well…” I say confidently, despite having absolutely no evidence to support what I’m about to claim, “you will after you’ve tried Dean’s Beans.” He frowns. “I don’t know if I like the sound of Dean’s Beans.” “It’s a coffee shop.” “I assumed it was.” “Best coffee in town.” “I’m still not convinced.” “You’ll understand when you’ve tried Dean’s Beans.” He gives me a deeply suspicious look. “I don’t think that sentence sounds as reassuring as you think it does.” “I promise,” I tell him. “Once you’ve had a mouthful of Dean’s Beans, you’ll never look back.” He winces. “That’s exactly what worries me.” Before I can defend the reputation of Dean’s Beans… …we’re suddenly holding hands. I genuinely have no recollection of agreeing to this level of affection. I suddenly become horribly aware that anyone could see us. I’m holding hands with a random man. A random man dressed entirely in Lidl. Who isn’t my husband. If anyone from work sees me now, I’m going to spend the next decade explaining that I didn’t leave my husband for another man… I left him for the middle aisle. “This way,” I whisper, steering him down a narrow alley. “Let’s go through the back.” His expression changes instantly. His eyes narrow. Hungry. Dangerously so. “You do look really fit,” he says, slowly looking me up and down. “Is that included in the quote,” I ask, “or is flirting an optional extra?” “Limited-time offer,” he says with a wink. I choose to ignore the comment and press on. “This way.” I point towards an open service door. He stops. “This doesn’t look like a coffee shop.” “Trust me.” I say it with far more confidence than the situation deserves. We walk inside. Apparently, the route to Dean’s Beans involves climbing a precarious rope ladder into complete darkness. Naturally. Cobwebs immediately attach themselves to my face. Dust fills the air. The hatch above us is barely larger than a cat flap. “Are you sure this is the right way?” he asks. “Absolutely.” I’m lying. Dream-me, however, possesses the unshakable confidence of someone who’s been here a hundred times before. We crawl through the tiny hatch on our hands and knees through an endless rabbit warren of narrow metal tunnels. Every few feet I bang my head against another pipe. Behind me comes another metallic clonk. Then another. Then a muttered swear word. “It’s a bit tight in here,” he says. “It’s a coffee shop, not Buckingham Palace.” He doesn’t look convinced. “Keep going,” I say. “We’re nearly there.” We aren’t. After what feels like an entire afternoon crawling through industrial ventilation, I finally reach a metal grille. I push. Nothing. I shove again. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” the roofer groans. “Don’t tell me we’re stuck.” “Have faith.” I place both hands against the grille and give it one enormous push. For a split second… Nothing happens. Then… CRACK. The grille bursts open. We don’t climb out. We fall. Straight through the ceiling. Taking an entire shelving display with us. Packets. Boxes. Cans. A shower of promotional offers. Everything explodes around us. I stagger to my feet, covered in dust, cobwebs and what I strongly suspect is instant mash, surrounded by the wreckage I’ve somehow created. Standing opposite me… microphone in hand… camera crew surrounding her… studio lights blazing… live audience cheering… is none other than Davina McCall. I blink. Look around. “What the fuck is this?” Davina beams. “Welcome… …to Britain’s newest hidden-camera prank show!” The audience erupts. I look at Davina. Then the audience. Then at the camera crew. Then back at the man in Lidl. “What?” Apparently… the entire thing has been one elaborate setup. The flirting. The hand-holding. The impossible coffee shop. The tunnels. Every increasingly ridiculous decision I’d made without questioning it for a second. Reality begins rearranging itself in my head. The audience is still laughing. Davina is laughing. Even the man in Lidl is laughing. Apparently I’m the only one who’d failed to realise I’d been starring in my own humiliation. Then something occurs to me. I point at Lidl Man. “So… when can you start work on my roof?” His smile widens. “Oh… About that….” With all the theatrical flair of a magician revealing his final trick, he starts peeling off Lidl. First the bucket hat. Then the Lidl T-shirt. Then the bum bag. Then the shorts. At this point I’m half expecting him to unzip his own skin and reveal an Aldi manager underneath. Instead… he’s wearing a plain black T-shirt with the production company’s logo. He shrugs. “I’m not even a roofer.” I stare at him. “…what?” “I’m an actor.” “So… the Lidl Lothario wasn’t real?” “The… what?” “That’s a shame,” I say. “You wore Lidl surprisingly well.” And so it turns out, he wasn’t flirting with me. He wasn’t trying to steal me away over a coffee from Dean’s Beans. The entire Lidl ensemble had been wardrobe. Even better… Mat’s emotional farewell presentation hadn’t happened either. Cunt Face never suddenly discovered a conscience. He hadn’t spent hours lovingly putting together an emotional slideshow celebrating Mat’s career. He’s still exactly what we’ve always known him to be. Still a Cunt Face. Oddly enough… That feels far more believable. The audience roars. The cameras keep rolling. And I’m left wondering whether the roof was ever leaking in the first place… …or whether my subconscious had simply decided that ruining my finances wasn’t quite enough… …so it threw in a fake affair, a celebrity ambush and a Lidl Lothario for good measure.