The Break That Saved My Life
“Victoria! What on earth are you wearing?” Nicholas’s voice rattled the London terraced house. “Where do you think you’re going in that get-up?”
“I’m going to the theatre, if you don’t mind!” Victoria adjusted her new blouse, bought cheaply in the sales, before the mirror. “I arranged it with Margaret weeks ago. We’ve been wanting to see this play.”
“The theatre?!” he scoffed. “Look at the state of this place! Dishes piled sky-high, my shirts not ironed! And you prance about for the theatre!” Nicholas grabbed her arm, twisting her towards him. “Change immediately and see to the housework!”
Victoria wrenched her arm free, leaving red marks where his fingers had gripped her wrist.
“Nicholas, we talked about this yesterday! I stayed home all day, finished everything. Just one evening for myself, is that too much?”
“Yourself?!” His laugh was scornful. “Who pays the bills? Who clothes you? Who puts the roof over your head? I come home knackered from work, wanting a proper meal, not this sandwich rubbish!”
Silently, Victoria went to the kitchen, fetching things from the fridge. Her hands trembled; inside, everything felt knotted tight. That morning, she’d been so excited about the evening, even setting her hair, polishing her shoes. And now…
“Exactly!” Nicholas grunted, satisfied, turning the telly up loud. “And be quick about it! I’m starving!”
As the pan heated, Victoria stole glances out the window. In the square, a woman her age walked a terrier, laughing into her mobile. How carefree and happy she looked! Unburdened…
“Victoria! Asleep on your feet?!” he bellowed from the sitting room.
“Nearly done!” she called back, hastily flipping the burgers.
Nicholas loomed in the doorway, leaning against the frame. “Listen, Thompson’s coming round tomorrow evening for a business chat. So no gallivanting off to your silly friends. Be home quietly, make tea when we need it.”
“But tomorrow’s Saturday,” Victoria ventured timidly. “The girls and I were going to Betty’s…”
“What ’girls’? You’re forty-three, Victoria, get a grip! Time to grow up. Home and family – that’s your place. Not cakes and gossip with friends.”
Victoria set his plate down, sitting opposite him. She felt no hunger, only a lump in her throat. “Nicholas… why are you like this with me? It wasn’t always… We used to go to concerts, the pictures… You brought me roses…”
“Used to!” he waved dismissively. “Used to you were younger, prettier. Look at you now? Gone plump, gone grey, dress like an old woman. I’m ashamed to be seen with you!”
The words stung sharper than a slap. Victoria stood, starting to clear the table. Tears pricked, but she held them back. She wouldn’t give him that satisfaction.
“Oh, don’t start blubbing!” Nicholas scowled. “Can’t abide womanish tears. Sort yourself out, why don’t you? Join a gym. Go on a diet. You’ve let yourself go.”
When he settled to watch telly, Victoria got her mobile, typing to Margaret: ‘Can’t make it tonight. Sorry. Need a raincheck.’
Margaret replied instantly: ‘Vic, what happened *now*? That’s the third time this month! This isn’t right!’
‘Just urgent things popped up,’ Victoria typed, then deleted it. Sent simply: ‘All good.’
Margaret persisted: ‘Come round. Right now. I mean it.’
‘Can’t. Nicholas is home.’
‘Vic, we’ve been mates twenty years. I see what’s happening. Stop putting up with it!’
Victoria tucked her mobile deep in the bureau drawer. Maggie didn’t understand – divorced, living alone, giving easy advice. But what about the house? The mortgage she and Nicholas shared? Where would she go? What would she do?
The next day, after Nicholas left for work, Victoria visited Aunt Clara up in York. The seventy-year-old welcomed her with open arms.
“Darling Victoria! How lovely you look!” Aunt Clara hugged her niece tightly. “Come through, just baked a Victoria sponge.”
Over tea, Aunt Clara studied her niece closely. “You look peaky, love. Lost weight. Is everything tickety-boo?”
“Fine, Aunt Clara,” Victoria forced a smile. “Just work weariness.”
“Work…” Aunt Clara murmured. “And home? How’s Nicholas?”
“He’s well. Works hard, does his best for us.”
Aunt Clara was quiet, then sighed deeply. “Listen, darling, I’ve been married all my life. Thirty-eight years with your Uncle Peter. And I’ll tell you true: we had highs and lows. But never – hear me – never did he let himself belittle me or forbid me from living.”
“Aunt Clara, what are you saying?”
“I’m saying a woman must stay a woman, no matter what. If a man can’t see that, he’s not worth tuppence. Mark my words.”
On the train home, Victoria thought about Aunt Clara’s words. Stopping at Waterstones, she picked up a novel she’d longed to read. Then put it back – home chores waited, and Nicholas disliked her reading.
That evening, Thompson arrived – an unpleasant, florid-faced man. He and Nicholas sat in the lounge, drinking whisky, loudly discussing business. Victoria quietly washed dishes in the sink, trying not to intrude.
“Your wife’s solid gold, Nick!” drifted through the door. “Silent, keeps to her place, knows her job. Mine would have barged in moaning thrice by now!”
“Oh aye, trained properly,” Nicholas’s smug voice replied. “Key is setting boundaries early. Avoid grief later.”
“Too right! Women should know their place. All this equality nonsense now.”
Victoria froze, plate in hand. He *bragged* about ‘training’ her? Took pride in it?
After Thompson left, Nicholas was in good spirits. “Well? Glad? Thompson praised you. Said you’re a proper wife. See? My guidance pays off.”
*Guidance*. As if she were a naughty child, not a grown woman.
“Nicholas… do you love me?” Victoria asked suddenly.
“What’s got into you?” He looked startled. “‘Course I do. Why else would I put up with you?”
“Put up… You used to say you couldn’t live without me.”
“That was then. We’re not children playing at love now. Life’s bills, duties, responsibilities. *That’s* real love, not silly romantic fluff.”
That night, Victoria lay awake long after Nicholas slept. Staring at the ceiling, listening to him breathe. When they married ten years ago, she’d been so happy! Imagined shared joys ahead.
Then, slowly, things changed. First, no more flowers. No asking about her job. Then criticism – her looks, friends, hobbies. She yielded, consented, believing it for peace. Now…
Morning brought fresh grievances. “Victoria! Can’t you make proper coffee? Tastes like dishwater!”
“Sorry, I’ll make a stronger pot.”
“And get my white shirt ready. Important meeting.”
“The white one’s wet, still drying. The blue looks smart…”
“*I’ll* decide what looks smart!” he barked. “I said white! Dry it properly!”
Obediently, Victoria rigged up the haird
She saw Nikolai once more years later, sitting hunched on a bench near a betting shop in Chester, his face etched with lines deeper than time alone could carve, and felt only a serene distance, acknowledging his presence as one might note a sad footnote in a long-closed chapter, before turning her gaze back to her own bookshop’s cheerful window display and the unfettered life that continued unfurling before her.
