Catherine imagined she’d taken a husband… As she paid for the shopping at Harrods, Simon lingered aside. While she struggled the purchases into carrier bags, he drifted out entirely. Exiting, Catherine approached Simon, who was blowing smoke rings into the Peckham air.
“Simon, hold the bags,” she requested, offering two heavy carriers crammed with goods.
Simon looked at her as if demanded to commit felony. “Can’t you manage?” he asked, baffled.
Catherine froze, lost for words. ‘Can’t you manage?’ What could that mean? A gentleman offers physical help. It felt perverse, a woman lumbered under weight while her partner flits light-footed beside her.
“Simon, they’re heavy,” she countered.
“And?” Simon resisted.
He saw her rising anger, yet refused the bags on principle. He strode ahead, knowing she couldn’t keep pace. *’Hold the bags’? As if I’m a packhorse! Some henpecked fool? I’m a husband! I choose my burdens! Let her carry them—won’t break her!* His mood today was plain: train the wife.
“Simon! Where are you going? Take the bags!” Catherine called after him, voice near tears.
The bags *were* heavy. Simon knew; he’d piled most goods into the trolley. The flat wasn’t far, five minutes walk. Laden, the distance stretched into a surreal marathon.
Catherine trudged homeward, stifling sobs. She hoped this was Simon’s jest, that he’d return. No. She watched his figure shrink into the smog-blurred street. She longed to drop the bags, yet trudged on through a leaden haze.
Reaching the estate, she slumped onto a bench, strength gone. Tears threatened – but weeping outdoors felt shameful. Yet swallowing this humiliation was impossible: he’d not just hurt her, he’d demeaned her. So attentive before the wedding… He understood. He’d chosen this slight.
“Hello, Catherine dear!” A neighbour’s voice broke her thoughts.
“Mrs. Papadopoulos,” Catherine replied.
Mrs. Papadopoulos, Maria Evangelos, lived one floor down. She’d been friends with Catherine’s gran before she passed. Catherine, knowing her since childhood, saw her as another grandmother. Since Gran died, first struggles met, Maria always helped. No one else – Catherine’s mother lived in Leeds with new husband and children; her father was forgotten. Gran had been her only anchor. Now, Mrs. Papadopoulos.
Catherine saw only one use for the shopping. “Come, Mrs. P., I’ll see you to your door,” she said, heaving the impossible weight again.
Inside Maria’s flat, Catherine left the bags. “This is for you.” Seeing tinned pilchards, smoked mackerel, peaches in syrup, and other luxuries she adored but couldn’t afford on her pension, Mrs. Papadopoulos grew moist-eyed. Catherine felt a sting of guilt for not pampering her neighbour more. They kissed cheeks farewell.
Catherine climbed to her own flat. Simon emerged from the kitchen, chewing.
“The bags?” he asked, airily casual.
“Which bags?” Catherine matched his tone. “The ones you helped me carry?”
“Oh, don’t be absurd! Bit cross, are we?” he attempted levity.
“No,” Catherine answered, unnervingly calm. “I just drew conclusions.”
Simon grew wary. He’d expected yelling, tears, fury. This icy stillness unnerved him more.
“What conclusions?”
“I haven’t got a husband.” She sighed. “I thought I’d married a man… turns out I wed a fool.”
“Uncalled for!” Simon feigned deep offence.
“What’s unclear?” Catherine stared him down. “I want my husband to be a man. Clearly, you want your wife to be one too.” She paused. “Then you need someone else.”
Simon’s face flushed crimson, fists clenched. Catherine didn’t see; she was already in the bedroom, pulling his clothes from drawers. Simon protested violently. He refused to leave. How could a trivial spat shatter their life?
“All was fine! Sod the bags! So what?” he ranted as she haphazardly stuffed garments into a holdall.
“Your bag,” Catherine said, deathly quiet, ignoring him, “you’ll carry yourself.”
Catherine knew this was merely the first tolling bell. Swallow this, and the training would only intensify. She silenced further pleas by shutting the door firmly behind him.
I Thought I Found My Forever…
