“Man Up, Will You?”
“Bloody neighbours at it again—three in the morning! Can’t you hear them?” Emily shoved James awake. “Go sort them out!”
“Em, I’ve got an early haul tomorrow,” James mumbled, rubbing his eyes. “They’ll quiet down. Just sleep.”
He’d barely settled back under the covers when she jabbed him with her elbow.
“Man up, will you?” she hissed. “Sort it out! I’ve got brunch with the girls tomorrow, and you know how Sophie brags about her filler and nose job. Am I supposed to turn up looking like death warmed over? She’s pushing thirty and still not a wrinkle in sight!”
“Her husband’s a plastic surgeon, love, not a lorry driver,” James sighed. “You’re gorgeous as you are. Besides, you practically live at the salon.”
Emily only got angrier. She sat up, glaring.
“Are you taking the mick? A few facials a week is hardly extravagant! I want lips like hers—and a new nose! And when are you buying me that mink coat, eh?”
“I just cleared the mortgage on your flat from before we married, and there’s still the car loan. We agreed—car first, coat later. Why the drama?”
“You bought your mum a down jacket!” Emily snapped.
“She was skint after her meds, and her pension’s pennies. It wasn’t even expensive!”
He reached for her, but she wrenched away.
“You can’t afford a coat, can’t pay for surgery—fine! At least make sure I get some sleep. Go shut those little brats up!”
James knew there’d be no peace. Guilt gnawing at him, he pulled on a tracksuit.
…Five years ago, none of his mates would’ve believed he’d marry Emily, the posh girl from school who’d never given him the time of day. He’d fancied her since Year 9, but she’d only dated richer, prettier lads. Even after college, when he landed a decent job, she’d ignored him at the reunion, bragging she’d marry some loaded bloke. James swallowed the hurt.
Then, out of the blue, she rang. He was over the moon.
“You look good,” she’d said over coffee. “Why didn’t I notice before?”
That dinner led to breakfast at her flat. Two days later, she dumped her wealthy boyfriend for him.
“Something’s off,” his mum, Margaret, had warned. “After all those years of her looking down on you? Pauline from downstairs still fancies you—sweet girl, works hard. But no, you’re blind for this one.”
“Mum, the heart wants what it wants.”
“Suit yourself. But mark my words—Emily’ll show her true colours.”
She wasn’t wrong. 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.
“You were already pregnant when we met!” he roared.
“I didn’t know! I was scared to tell you!” she lied.
“So your ex dumped you, and you needed some mug to take his kid? Mum was right!”
“Oh, your mum acts like I owe her a fortune!”
“She sees you for what you are! Leave her out of it!”
Humiliated, James stood frozen. Emily, terrified of being ditched, panicked. She couldn’t bear the thought of her friends laughing at her. So she faked cramps, screaming in fake agony until James rushed her to hospital.
There, she paid to terminate the pregnancy, then claimed it was a miscarriage.
“I’m sorry,” James whispered later, clasping a gold bracelet on her wrist. “Let’s start over.”
“Fine,” she said, eyeing the gift. “But I’ll need a car. Can’t rely on taxis when I’m carrying your child.”
James smiled at the thought of a baby. “Alright. You’ll get your car.”
He quit his job to drive lorries, taking extra shifts to fund her whims. Now, bleary-eyed, he trudged upstairs.
“Lads, keep it down, yeah? We’ve not slept in days,” he said to the rowdy teens smoking on the landing.
“Or what, grandad?” the ringleader sneered. “Do one.”
“Where are your parents?”
“On holiday. Piss off.”
“Turn the music off, or I’ll call the cops.”
One lad lunged, kneeing James in the gut. He doubled over, gasping. When no retaliation came, the boy hit him again. James staggered back, turning to leave—but hands yanked him inside, dragged him to the balcony, and shoved him off.
“Enjoy the flight, old man.”
He landed in a hydrangea bush.
Finally, silence. Emily smirked and drifted off. Someone knocked later, but she couldn’t be bothered. “James, get it,” she mumbled, rolling over.
At noon, pensioners glared as she left. “Cold-hearted cow,” one muttered. “Her husband’s in hospital, and she’s off gallivanting.”
Emily scoffed and met her fellow unemployed, kept-women friends.
“We rang you loads!” Sophie huffed.
“Airplane mode,” Emily giggled. She hadn’t spared James a thought—he always made breakfast quietly before work.
Then she saw ten missed calls from Margaret. “What does SHE want?”
Three hours later, tipsy and gossip-sated, she finally rang back.
“James is in ICU,” Margaret said flatly. “The neighbours beat him. Where were you?”
Emily hung up, panicked. No more car payments. No coat. And now a crippled husband. “Talk about bad luck.”
She visited three days later, once he was conscious. He smiled—crushing Margaret, who bit her tongue.
“Will you come tomorrow?” he asked weakly.
“Sure,” Emily muttered, avoiding Margaret’s glare as she fled.
She never returned.
With his mum’s care and an op funded by mates, James was walking again in two months, enduring brutal physio with Pauline—the girl who’d loved him years ago, now his rehab doctor.
“You’ve saved him,” Margaret wept. “I’ll never forget this.”
“It’s my job,” Pauline said gently.
“You stayed nights, got him walking—”
“I didn’t mind. No one’s waiting at home for me.”
…Divorce papers arrived during a session. A note in Emily’s scrawl read:
*Sorry, but I can’t live with a cripple. I’ve met someone else. My solicitor will handle the rest. The flat’s sold. Don’t contact me.*
Oddly, James felt nothing—just hollow calm. He signed and handed them back.
“Any message?” the solicitor asked.
James glanced at Pauline. “Tell her not to worry. I’ll be right by the wedding. Man up, will I?”
