“Man Up, Will You?”
“Those bloody neighbors upstairs are at it again! It’s three in the morning!” Emily shoved James, who was peacefully asleep. “Can’t you hear them shouting? Go and sort it out!”
“Em, I was sleeping. I’ve got a haul tomorrow,” James mumbled, half-awake. “They’ll quiet down soon. Just go back to sleep.”
Just as he settled back into the warmth of the duvet, Emily jabbed him sharply in the ribs with her elbow.
“Man up, will you?” she hissed. “Go and shut them up! I’ve got brunch with the girls tomorrow. Typical—Melanie’s coming, and you know she’ll bang on about her ‘new lips’ and ‘nose job.’ And what’ll I look like? A zombie with bags under my eyes? She’s pushing thirty and hasn’t got a single wrinkle!”
“Her husband’s a plastic surgeon, not a lorry driver, Em,” James tried to soothe her. “You’re gorgeous without duck lips. Besides, you practically live at the beauty salon as it is.”
Emily only got angrier. She sat up, glaring at him.
“Are you taking the mick? A couple of facials a week is hardly luxury! I want lips like hers—and a new nose! And what about that mink coat? When are you buying me one, eh?”
“I just paid off the mortgage on your flat—the one you bought before we married. Still paying off your car too. We agreed: car first, then the coat. What’s got into you?”
“You bought your mum a bloody puffer jacket!” Emily snapped.
“She’d spent all her money on meds, and her pension’s rubbish. That jacket wasn’t even expensive.”
James tried to pull her into a hug, but she was seething.
“You can’t afford a coat, can’t pay for my procedures—fine! At least make sure I get some sleep. Go and shut those little brats up!”
James knew there’d be no peace until he obeyed. Guilt gnawed at him as he pulled on his tracksuit.
…Five years ago, none of James’s mates would’ve believed he’d marry his snobby school crush, Emily. He’d fancied her since Year 9, but she’d only gone for richer, better-looking blokes. Even after he’d finished college and landed a decent job, she’d barely glanced at him at the reunion, bragging she was marrying some posh bloke. James swallowed his pride and moved on.
Then, out of the blue, Emily rang him. “You’re looking well—why didn’t I notice before? Fancy a bite?”
Over coffee and cakes, hope flickered in James’s chest.
That coffee led to breakfast at her flat. Two days later, she dumped her rich boyfriend for him.
“Something’s off,” his mum, Margaret, warned. “You chased her for years, and she treated you like dirt. What’s changed? Polly from down the road still fancies you—sweet girl, works hard—but you’ve never given her a second glance.”
“Mum, you can’t help who you love.”
“Suit yourself. But mark my words—Emily’ll show her true colours soon enough.”
Margaret was right. Two months after the wedding, Emily announced she was pregnant. But the dates didn’t add up. James found out when he peeked at her maternity notes—she’d been pregnant before their first date.
“You were already carrying his kid!” James roared, red with fury.
“I didn’t know! The dates were wrong!” Emily lied. “I was scared to tell you!”
“So your ex dumped you, and you needed some mug to raise his kid! Mum was right!”
“Oh, your mum’s always looking at me like I owe her a million quid!”
“She looks at you exactly how you deserve! And leave Mum out of this!”
Humiliation burned through James. Emily, terrified of being ditched so soon, panicked. She couldn’t bear the thought of her friends laughing at her. So she faked a crisis.
“Ow! It hurts!” She clutched her stomach, shrieking.
James forgot his anger. “What’s wrong? Where does it hurt?”
“My stomach! It’s all your fault—I can’t stress like this!” She writhed, terrifying him.
He rushed her to hospital, then lingered outside until a janitor shooed him away.
Emily secretly paid for an abortion, then told James she’d miscarried.
“Forgive me, darling,” James said, clasping a gold bracelet onto her wrist. “Let’s start fresh.”
She admired the bracelet, then hooked him again. “Once I’m out, we need to talk about a car. Can’t keep waiting for taxis when I’m carrying your baby.”
James smiled at the thought. “Alright. You’ll get your car.”
He quit his job to earn more, becoming a long-haul trucker. He took extra shifts to feed Emily’s greed. Now, sleep-deprived, he trudged up to the third floor.
“Lads, turn the music down and keep it quiet, yeah? We haven’t slept in days,” James said to the rowdy teens smoking on the landing.
“Or what, grandad?” a lanky one sneered.
“Mind your tone. Where are your parents?”
“On holiday. Piss off.”
“Turn it off, or I’m calling the police.”
One lad lunged, kicking James square in the gut. He doubled over, gasping. When he didn’t fight back, they dragged him inside, through the flat, and shoved him off the balcony.
“Fly, grandad,” were the last words he heard before crashing into the hydrangeas below.
The music stopped. Emily, blissfully smiling, drifted off. She didn’t work—sleep was her luxury. Someone knocked, but she ignored it.
“James, get that, will you?” she mumbled, rolling over.
The next day, the old ladies outside glared as she passed.
“Cold-hearted wench,” one muttered. “Her husband’s in hospital, and she’s swanning about like nothing’s wrong.”
Emily scoffed, calling them “mad old bats,” and headed to brunch with her fellow unemployed trophy wives.
“You weren’t picking up!” Melanie whined.
“Oh, I had my phone on aeroplane mode—forgot to turn it back on,” Emily giggled.
She didn’t spare James a thought. He always made breakfast quietly before slipping off to work.
Then she saw ten missed calls from Margaret. “What does she want?” she grumbled. “I’ll call later.”
After brunch and gossip, Emily finally rang back.
“Margaret? You called?”
“James is in intensive care,” came the flat reply.
“What? Did he crash?”
“No. Your neighbours beat him half to death. And you slept through it? The doctors say he might never walk again!”
Emily hung up, fear prickling her spine. “There goes my coat,” she thought. “And the car’s not paid off. Now a crippled husband. Just my luck.”
She visited three days later, figuring a coma patient wouldn’t notice. When James woke and smiled, her indifference crushed Margaret, who stayed silent for his sake.
“Will you come tomorrow?” James asked weakly.
“Maybe,” Emily muttered, avoiding Margaret’s glare as she fled.
She never returned.
With his mum’s care and an op funded by mates and colleagues, James eventually took his first steps.
“Come on, don’t give up,” urged Polly, the girl who’d loved him since school—now a physio. “It hurts, but you’ve got to push through.”
Polly stayed by his side throughout rehab.
“Thank you, love,” Margaret wept. “I owe you everything.”
“Don’t be silly. It’s my job.”
“You stayed nights, even on your days off. How can I not cry?”
Polly smiled. “I’ve got no one waiting at home.”
…The divorce papers arrived mid-session. Emily’s scrawled note read:
*”Sorry, but I can’t live with a cripple. I’ve met someone else—I think I love him. Sold the flat. Don’t contact me. Sign these and give them to my solicitor.”*
Oddly, James felt nothing—no pain, just hollow emptiness. He signed and handed them over.
“Any message for Emily?” the solicitor asked.
James glanced at Polly.
“Tell her not to worry. I’ll be fine by the wedding.” He grinned. “Man up, will you?”
