“Man or Muppet?”
“It’s past three in the morning, and those lads upstairs are at it again! I can’t take it anymore!” Emily shoved her peacefully sleeping husband, James. “Do you hear that racket? Go sort them out!”
“Em, I’ve got an early haul tomorrow,” James mumbled, half-asleep. “They’ll quiet down soon. Just go back to sleep.”
Just as he settled back into the pillows, Emily jabbed him sharply with her elbow.
“Are you a man or what?” she hissed. “Go tell them to shut it! I’ve got brunch with the girls tomorrow. Bloody Hannah’s coming, and she’ll bang on about her lip fillers and nose job like she always does. And what’ll I look like? A sleep-deprived mess? She’s pushing thirty and hasn’t got a single wrinkle!”
“Well, her bloke’s a plastic surgeon, not an HGV driver, Em,” James tried to soothe her. “You’re gorgeous without any of that duck-face nonsense. And you’re always at the salon—practically live there.”
Emily only got angrier. She sat up and glared at him.
“Are you taking the mickey? A couple of facials a week is hardly luxurious! I want lips like hers! And a new nose! And when are you buying me that bloody mink coat, eh?”
“I just cleared the mortgage on that flat you bought before we married, and we’re still paying off your Audi. We agreed—car first, then coat. Why’re you kicking up such a fuss now?”
“You bought your mum a new parka!” Emily snapped.
“She’d spent all her savings on meds, and her pension’s rubbish. That coat didn’t even cost much.”
James reached to hug her, but she bristled with rage.
“You can’t afford a coat, can’t pay for my procedures, but you can at least let me sleep! Go deal with those yobs!”
Resigned, James pulled on his tracksuit, guilt gnawing at him.
…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 always gone for richer, better-looking lads. Even after college, when he landed a decent job, she barely glanced at him at the reunion, too busy bragging about her wealthy fiancé. James swallowed his pride and moved on.
Then, out of nowhere, Emily called. “Fancy a coffee?”
James was over the moon. She’d never paid him attention before.
That coffee turned into breakfast at her flat. Two days later, she dumped Mr. Moneybags for him.
“Something’s fishy,” his mum, Margaret, warned. “After all these years of her treating you like dirt, why now? That sweet girl Polly from down the road still fancies you—why not give her a chance?”
“Mum, you can’t choose who you love.”
“Suit yourself. But mark my words—Emily’ll show her true colours soon enough.”
Margaret saw right through her. 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 used me to palm off someone else’s kid!” he roared.
“I didn’t know! I was scared to tell you!”
“Liar! He ditched you, and you needed a mug to foot the bill. Mum was right!”
“Oh, your mum’s always looked at me like I owe her a million quid!”
“She sees you for what you are! Don’t drag her into this!”
Humiliated, James stood there, wanting the ground to swallow him whole. Emily, terrified of being left a laughingstock, faked a miscarriage, pocketing the truth.
She played the victim, and James, racked with guilt, bought her a gold bracelet. “Let’s start fresh.”
“Fine,” Emily purred, eyeing the gift. “But I’ll need a car. Can’t be waiting for taxis when I’m carrying your child.”
James smiled—the thought of a baby warmed his heart. “You’ll get your car.”
He quit his job and became a long-haul lorry driver, working overtime to fund her whims. Now, bleary-eyed, he trudged upstairs.
“Lads, turn it down, yeah? We’ve got work tomorrow,” James said to the rowdy teens smoking on the landing.
“Or what, grandad?” sneered the ringleader.
“Where are your parents?”
“Spain. Piss off.”
James sighed. “Turn the music off, or I’m calling the police.”
One lad lunged, kicking James in the gut. He doubled over, gasping. When he tried to retreat, they dragged him inside, shoved him onto the balcony, and hurled him off.
“Fly, grandad,” were the last words he heard before crashing into the hydrangeas below.
Finally, silence. Emily smirked and dozed off.
The next day, the neighbours glared as she strutted past. “Heartless cow,” one muttered.
At brunch, her friends complained. “We called loads! Where were you?”
“Put my phone on aeroplane mode. Sorry, girls!” She giggled, oblivious.
Three missed calls from Margaret. Emily ignored them.
Hours later, reluctantly, she called back.
“James is in ICU,” Margaret said flatly.
“What? A crash?”
“No. Your neighbours beat him half to death. Where were you?”
Emily hung up, panic rising. No car, no coat, now a crippled husband. Bloody hell.
She visited three days later, when James woke. He smiled weakly. “Come back tomorrow?”
“Yeah,” she muttered, avoiding Margaret’s glare.
She never returned.
With Polly’s help—his childhood sweetheart, now a physio—James learned to walk again.
Months later, divorce papers arrived. Emily’s scribbled note read: “Can’t live with a cripple. Found someone else. Sold the flat. Don’t contact me.”
Oddly, James felt nothing. No anger, just emptiness. He signed the papers and handed them back.
“Any message for Emily?” the solicitor asked.
James glanced at Polly. “Tell her not to worry. I’ll heal by the wedding. Man or what?”
