I stopped speaking to my husband after his antics at my birthday party, and for the first time he was genuinely afraid
Well then! Lets raise a glass to the birthday girl! Forty-five and still ripe, though in our case, its more like those dried plums you buy in health food shops good for digestion at least! Johns booming voice carried through the whole function room of the cosy bistro, drowning out even the background music.
The guests at the long table fell silent. Someone let out a nervous chuckle, trying to smooth things over, while another buried her face in a lettuce leaf, pretending to hunt for a cherry tomato. Emily, sitting proudly at the head of the table in the elegant navy dress shed spent two weeks picking, felt her blood drain away. The smile shed glued to her face since the start of the evening twisted painfully.
John, delighted with his own wit, knocked back a shot of whisky and plunked himself down beside me, throwing his heavy, clammy arm over my shoulders.
Whats with the long faces? Ems got a sense of humour, she gets it! Right, love? He thudded me on the back like I was an old mate down the pub. At least shes thrifty, that one. That dress how old is it now? Three years? Looks brand new!
That was a lie. The dress was brand new, bought from the money Id earned translating documents here and there. But arguing with him now, in front of my friends, colleagues and family, would only turn the evening into farce. I gently lifted his hand away from my shoulder and sipped my water. Somewhere deep in my chest, beneath my ribs, a heavy ball of ice settled. Before, I might have batted it off, said, Just make sure you dont end up pickled yourself, dear, but tonight, something inside had finally snapped.
The evening stumbled on. John drank more, got louder, tried to drag my younger colleagues onto the dance floor, launched into loud rants about politics and how women have ruined the country. I accepted gifts, thanked people for the toasts, and checked that everyones glasses were full, all as if on autopilot, like a wind-up doll. In my head, there was only silence. A ringing, empty silence, drowning out Johns drunken shouts.
When we got home, John barely bothered with his shoes before heading for the bedroom.
Well, that was a cracking night, he grunted, pulling at his shirt. Only thing was your boss, Simon, he gave me some weird looks. Cant blame him must be jealous Ive got such a patient wife. Oi, Em! Get me some sparkling water, Im parched.
I stood in the hallway, staring at my reflection. My mascara had smudged, my eyes looked terribly tired. I slipped off my heels and put them neatly in the cupboard. I headed to the kitchen, not for his drink but for a glass of water for myself, stood at the window looking out over the quiet road, and drank it slowly. I found a duvet and a pillow in the cupboard and made up the sofa in the lounge.
Em, where are you? Water, please! came his shout from the bedroom.
I switched off the hall light, got under the blanket and pulled it over my head. Night came, but sleep refused to follow. I wasnt plotting revenge or a row. There was only a sharp, crystal clear realisation: that was the last time. Hed maxed out his limit. The account was closed.
The next morning began in silence, no familiar whirring of the coffee grinder. Normally Id be up half an hour before John: making him breakfast, ironing his shirt, packing his lunch. This time, John woke to the alarm and the hollow hush. The flat didnt smell of eggs or fresh coffee.
He shuffled into the kitchen, scratching his stomach. I was already dressed, reading something on my iPad at the table, an empty mug in front of me.
No breakfast? he yawned, opening the fridge. I thought there was some cottage cheese left. Was hoping for some pancakes.
I didnt look up. I turned the page on the screen, took a sip of cold tea, and read on.
Emily! Im talking to you! He turned, a chunk of Cheddar in one hand. Gone deaf, have you, after last night?
I stood, picked up my handbag, checked the keys, and headed for the door.
Oi! Where are you off to? What about my shirt? My blue ones still creased!
The front door slammed. John stood in the centre of the kitchen in his boxer shorts, clutching cheese, completely lost.
Fine, have it your way, he grunted, cutting a chunk off with a paring knife. Probably just her time of the month. Or sulking about my joke. Shell get over it. Drama is what womens best at.
That evening, when he got home, the flat was dark. Emily wasnt there. He found that odd she was always home before him. He called her rings, then voicemail. He microwaved leftover pasta, watched a binge of TV and went to bed, determined to give her a piece of his mind when she finally turned up.
She came in when he was already asleep. He didnt hear her make up the sofa. The following morning, the routine repeated. No breakfast, no good morning, no packed lunch. Just silence as she dressed and left.
By the third day, John was seriously annoyed.
Pack it in, will you?! he barked as he caught me in the hall, tying my shoelaces. I said something daft, who doesnt? Wed had a drink or two, nothing to get your knickers in a twist about. What are you now, the Queen? Sorry, alright? There, done with. Where are my black socks? Havent got a single pair in the drawer!
I looked at him, calm, almost clinical as if he were merely a mould stain on the wallpaper. Unpleasant, but not worth the energy. I turned away, took my umbrella and left.
By the end of the week, John noticed the flat changing. His shirts, which used to magically be clean and ironed, formed a mound on the armchair. The fridge was stocked with basics eggs, butter, veg but nothing homecooked. No casseroles, no stew, none of his favourite roast. The washing-up he left piled up, clinging to the sink.
He decided to stand his ground. I wont do the dishes, shell give in eventually when it gets manky enough. But each time, I simply washed my plate and fork, ate, washed them again, put them away. His dirty dishes grew into a small mountain.
Saturday, he tried a new approach. He bought a cake and a bunch of chrysanthemums.
Em, dont sulk, alright? He set the cake on the kitchen table, where I sat with my laptop. Lets have a brew together. I know youre in there.
I lifted my eyes from the screen, expressionless. I closed the laptop, stood and left the kitchen. A minute later, the sound of running water and the bathroom door clicking shut.
John hurled the flowers into the bin.
Fine, be that way! You think I need you? I lived on my own before, when you were still in school! Bloody drama queen!
He ordered a pizza, cracked open a beer, and sat through a football match on full blast. I came out of the bathroom in pyjamas, walked past him as though he was a lampshade, popped in my earplugs and lay on the sofa, back turned.
A month slipped by. John cycled through anger, attempts to provoke a row, bribery, and then hollow attempts at ignoring me in return. But you cant ignore someone who acts as if youre invisible. Its like playing tennis with a wall the ball always comes back, though the wall never cares.
He started to realise his life, practically, was falling apart. Ironing his own shirts left them with more creases than before. Takeaways cost a fortune and played havoc with his stomach. The flat gathered dust because I only cleaned my own spaces, and he stubbornly refused to lift a cloth.
But the true shock came on a Tuesday evening. John came home early, fuming after his boss had a go at him. He wanted to lash out, to have a good shout, but yelling into a vacuum just felt silly. He jumped on internet banking to pay the car loan almost-new, his pride and joy taken out two years earlier.
The screen flashed: Insufficient funds.
He blinked. How could that be? His wages had come in yesterday. He checked the transaction history and froze. Usually, he transferred his share to our joint account, covering bills, groceries, and the car loan; the rest was for fuel and his whims. I always topped up what was needed for the loan, shopping, cleaning stuff.
On the joint account were only his funds. Not a penny more. It wasnt enough for the monthly loan payment, not after hed splashed out on repairs and a few big nights at the pub, assuming Emll make up the difference.
He stormed into the lounge. I was reading on the sofa.
What the hell is this?! he bellowed, waving his phone in my face. Wheres the money? The loan payment goes out tomorrow!
I lowered my book.
Wheres your money, Em? Why havent you topped up the joint account?
Silence.
Gone mute, have you? This is serious! Ill get fined, my credit records on the line!
I sighed, set the book aside, and pulled a folder from the coffee table. I handed him a sheet of paper.
It was a petition. For divorce.
Johns eyes darted across the words. …ceasing to manage the household together…, …the marriage has ended….
You you cant be serious? His voice cracked, a ridiculous falsetto. Over a joke? Just because of a toast? Youre mad! Twenty years down the drain, for nothing?
I took my notebook, scribbled a few sentences, and turned it towards him.
*Its not about the joke. Its about you not respecting me, and not just recently. The flat is mine; I inherited it from my grandmother. The car was bought during our marriage, but the loan is in your name. Ill be splitting assets. You can keep the car, but youll be paying me back half whats been paid off. Im moving out to Mums cottage for now. You have a week to find somewhere to live.*
Johns face paled as the words hit home. Yes, the three-bedroom on the High Street, of course left to me before we tied the knot. Hed always simply considered it his. He was only registered as living there, never on the deeds.
What cottage? Where am I supposed to go? he blurted, slumping into the chair. Em, what are you on about? Where would I go? My salarys rubbish, you know that with the loan and child support for Tom from my first marriage Ill never afford rent.
I looked at him, calm and without triumph. There was only a deep weariness. I wrote again, quickly:
*Youre a grown man. Youll manage. You said at the party Im an old wreck. Why would you want to live with a wreck? Go and find yourself a young, energetic woman. I just want some peace.*
It was a joke! Just a joke! Everyone jokes like that! he cried out. Emmy, forgive me, please! Ill beg, I will Ill go down on my knees!
Down he slid, clutching my hand. I pulled away, stood up and began packing a suitcase in the bedroom jumpers, trousers, all neat stacks.
Thats when real fear seized him. Not the fear of losing me but the terror of losing his whole world. Whod make the meals? Remind him to call the doctor? Listen to rants about his manager? Whod patch holes in the budget when he spent too much?
He realised he was utterly, completely alone. Friends? Only good for a pint, no one would take him in. His mother? She lived in a cramped council flat across town surrounded by five cats, with a temper more frightful than Churchills.
He rushed to the bedroom. I was filling my suitcase.
Emily, dont do this, he begged, panicked. Please, lets talk. Lets try counselling its all the rage now. Ill stop drinking, I will Ill get help, start tomorrow, promise!
I didnt turn; the suitcase clicked shut like a gunshot.
Em, its late, where are you even going? Stay till morning, well talk it through. Were family, for goodness sake.
I looked him in the eye and for the first time in a month, there was something alive in my gaze. It was pity. Calm, humiliating pity the kind you might give an injured pigeon you cant help.
I tapped into my phone and showed him the screen:
*Family dont humiliate each other in public. Family dont wipe their boots on those who care for them. I endured your rudeness for ten years. Thought it was just your way. But its not. Its laziness. You just thought Id never leave. You were wrong. Step aside.*
I brushed past, wheeled my suitcase to the hallway.
Im not giving you the car! And youre not getting any money back! he shouted, flailing, desperate.
I paused at the door, threw on my coat. I turned, and for the first time in weeks, finally spoke aloud, my usual, slightly croaky voice sending shivers down his spine:
Youll pay, John. By court order, you will. Including legal fees. My solicitors good, very good and expensive. Remember that bonus you wanted for your new fishing rod? I saved it for him. Drop the keys in the letterbox when you move out. Youve got until Sunday.
The door closed, the latch clicked.
John stood in the darkness. The silence in the flat became suffocating, echoing. He could hear the fridge humming in the kitchen, and a leaking tap the one he promised to fix six months ago.
He went into the kitchen and sat at my usual spot. On the table was the divorce petition. He picked it up: stamped, signed, dated. It was real.
His phone beeped with a bank alert: Reminder car loan payment due tomorrow.
He buried his face in his hands. For the first time in his fifty years, John cried. Not out of heartbreak for lost love, but through self-pity and the dreadful realisation of the complete, irreversible disaster hed made with his own reckless words.
The next three days passed in a haze. John kept calling, but his number was blocked. He rang my mother, but Mrs. Miller, whod always been fond of him, just said coldly, You made your bed, John, now lie in it. Emilys not to be disturbed her blood pressures through the roof.
By Thursday, he began to pack. He discovered, rather shamefully, how little he owned a few clothes, rods and tackle, toolbox, his laptop. Everything that made the flat homely the curtains, vases, pictures, soft blankets, dinnerware had been my choice. Without me, the place was just a cold concrete shell.
Sorting socks, he found an old photo album. There we were by the sea, ten years earlier. I was laughing, arms round him. He looked proud. I used to look at him with adoration. When did that go? When did she stop being a woman and become just a function? Fetch this, iron that, be quiet.
Idiot, he said aloud to the empty room. What a fool I am.
On Sunday, he took down the last bag. He dropped the keys through the letterbox as told. Walking out the door, he glanced up at the windows of now just my flat. They were dark.
He got in his car and started the ignition. The petrol tank was almost empty; his card balance, next to nothing. Nowhere to go, except his mothers place. He pictured stepping into that smoky kitchenette, his mother wagging her finger at him: Told you she wasnt right for you didnt I say so?
He slammed the steering wheel. The jolt snapped him momentarily awake. He scrolled through his contacts. There wasnt a single soul he could ring for a chat, anyone whod listen without judgement or glee.
He slipped the car into gear and drove off, slowly. Ahead lay a long, solitary life learning to stick on a wash, iron a shirt, perhaps, one day, mirror his own tongue. But that wasnt the scariest thing. The real terror was knowing hed just destroyed the only place in the world hed been loved for no reason but himself.
Meanwhile, I sat on my mothers cottage veranda, wrapped in a soft blanket, sipping mint tea. My soul felt empty but peaceful. My phone was switched off. Ahead was uncertainty court, division of assets but I was certain of one thing: Id cope. The hardest part living with someone who made me feel alone was behind me. Out in the garden, the blackbird was singing, and the air smelled of lilac and freedom. For the first time in years, that scent wasnt drowned by stale beer. I took a deep breath, and for the first time in a month, genuinely smiled.
